Love in the Afternoon (24 page)

"There's so much to learn, I've only scratched the surface. I've filled books with sketches of animals and plants, and I keep finding new ones to study." A wistful sigh escaped her. "There is talk of a natural history society to be established in London. I wish I could be part of it."

"Why can't you?"

"I'm sure they won't admit ladies," Beatrix said. "None of those groups do. It will be a room full of whiskered old men smoking pipes and sharing entomological notes. Which is a pity, because I daresay I could talk about insects as well as any of them."

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A slow smile crossed his face. "I for one am glad you have neither pipe nor whiskers," he said. "However, it seems a pity that anyone who likes animals and insects as well as you shouldn't be allowed to discuss them.

Perhaps we could persuade them to make an exception for you."

Beatrix glanced at him in surprise. "You would do that? You wouldn't mind the idea of a woman pursuing such unorthodox interests?"

"Of course I wouldn't. There would be no point in marrying a woman with unorthodox interests and then trying to make her ordinary, would there?"

Her eyes turned round. "Are you going to propose to me now?"

Christopher turned her to face him, his fingers stroking the underside of her chin, coaxing her face upward. "There are some things I want to discuss first."

Beatrix looked at him expectantly.

His expression sobered. Taking her hand in his, he began to walk with her along a grassy path. "First . . . we won't be able to share a bed."

She blinked. Hesitantly she asked, "We're going to be platonic?"

He stumbled a little. "No. God, no. What I meant was, we will have relations, but we will not sleep together."

"But . . . I think I would like sleeping with you."

His hand tightened on hers. "My nightmares would keep you awake."

"I wouldn't mind that."

"I might accidently strangle you in my sleep."

"Oh. Well, I would mind that." Beatrix frowned in concentration as they walked slowly. "May I make a request in turn?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Could you leave off drinking strong liquor, and only have wine from now on? I know that you use spirits as a medicine to treat your other problems, but it's possible that it actually makes them worse, and--"

"There's no need to talk me into it, love. I've already resolved to do that."

"Oh." She smiled at him, pleased.

"There's only one other thing I'll ask of you," Christopher said. "No more dangerous activities, such as climbing trees or training half-wild horses, or removing feral animals from traps, and so forth."

Beatrix glanced at him in mute protest, resisting the prospect of any curtailment on her freedom.

Christopher understood. "I won't be unreasonable," he said quietly.

"But I'd rather not have to worry about you being injured."

"People are injured all the time. Women's skirts catch fire, or people 154

are thrown down by vehicles thundering along the road, or they trip and fall--"

"Precisely my point. Life is dangerous enough without your tempting fate."

It occurred to Beatrix that her family had placed far fewer restrictions on her than a husband would. She had to remind herself that marriage would have compensations as well.

". . . I have to go to Riverton soon," Christopher was saying. "I have much to learn about running an estate, not to mention the timber market.

According to the estate manager, the production of Riverton timber is inconsistent. And a new railway station is being built in the region, which is to our benefit only if good roads are laid out. I have to take part in the planning, or I'll have no right to complain later." He stopped and turned Beatrix to face him. "I know how close you are to your family. Could you bear to live away from them? We'll keep Phelan House, but our main

residence would be at Riverton."

It was a striking thought, living away from her family. They had been her entire world. Especially Amelia, her one great constant. The idea touched a note of anxiety in Beatrix, but also excitement. A new home--new people, new places to explore . . . and Christopher. Most of all, Christopher.

"I believe I could," Beatrix said. "I would miss them. But most of the time I'm left to my own devices here. My siblings are occupied with their families and their lives, which is as it should be. As long as I could travel to see them when I wished, I think I would be happy."

Christopher fondled her cheek, his knuckles sliding delicately against the side of her throat. There was understanding in his eyes, and sympathy, and something else that caused her skin to flush.

"Whatever your happiness requires," he said, "you'll have it." Easing her closer, he kissed her forehead, working down to the tip of her nose.

"Beatrix. Now I have something to ask you." His lips found the curve of her smiling mouth. "My love . . . I would choose the small sum of hours I've spent with you over a lifetime spent with another woman. You never needed to write that note, asking me to find you. I've wanted to find you my entire life. I don't think there's a man alive who could be all the things you deserve in a husband . . . but I beg you to let me try. Will you marry me?"

Beatrix pulled his head down to hers, and brought her lips close to his ear. "Yes, yes, yes," she whispered, and for no reason at all other than she wanted to, she caught the edge of his ear lightly with her teeth.

Startled by the love nip, Christopher looked down at her. Beatrix's

breath quickened as she saw the promises of retribution and pleasure in his 155

eyes. He pressed a hard kiss against her lips.

"What kind of wedding would you like?" he asked, and stole another kiss before she could reply.

"The kind that turns you into my husband." She touched the firm line of his mouth with her fingers. "What kind would you like?"

He smiled ruefully. "A fast one."

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Christopher supposed he should take it as a bad sign that within a

fortnight he had become entirely comfortable around his future in-laws.

Whereas he had once avoided them for their peculiarities, he now sought out their company, spending nearly every evening at Ramsay House.

The Hathaways squabbled, laughed, and genuinely seemed to like

each other, which made them different from any other family of

Christopher's experience. They were interested in everything, new ideas, inventions, and discoveries. No doubt the family's intellectual bent was a result of the influence of their late father, Edward.

Christopher sensed that the happy, often chaotic household was doing him good, whereas the clamor of London had not. Somehow the Hathaways, with all their rough edges, were smoothing the broken places of his soul. He liked all of them, especially Cam, who acted as the leader of the family, or the tribe, as he referred to them. Cam was a soothing presence, calm and tolerant, occasionally herding the Hathaways along when necessary.

Leo wasn't quite so approachable. Although he was charming and

irreverent, the sharp edges of his humor reminded Christopher

uncomfortably of his own past, when he had often made quips at other people's expense. For example, that remark he had once made about Beatrix belonging in the stables. Which he still didn't remember saying, except that unfortunately it sounded exactly like something he would have said. He hadn't fully understood the power of words then.

The past two years had taught him differently.

In the case of Leo, however, Beatrix assured Christopher that in spite of his sharp tongue, Leo was a caring and loyal brother. "You'll come to like him very well," she said. "But it's no surprise that you feel more comfortable around Cam--you're both foxes."

"Foxes?" Christopher had repeated, amused.

"Yes. I can always tell what kind of animal a person would be. Foxes are hunters, but they don't rely on brute strength. They're subtle and clever.

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Fond of outwitting others. And although they sometimes travel far, they always like to come back to a snug, safe home."

"I suppose Leo is a lion," Christopher said dryly.

"Oh, yes. Dramatic, demonstrative, and he hates being ignored. And sometimes he'll take a swipe at you. But beneath the sharp claws and the growls, he's still a cat."

"What animal are you?"

"A ferret. We can't help collecting things. When we're awake, we're very busy, but we also like to be still for long periods." She grinned at him.

"And ferrets are very affectionate."

Christopher had always imagined that his household would be run

with order and precision by a proper wife who would oversee every detail.

Instead it seemed there was going to be a wife who strode about in breeches while animals roamed, waddled, crept, or hopped through every room.

He was fascinated by Beatrix's competence at things women were not

usually competent at. She knew how to use a hammer or a plane tool. She rode better than any woman he had ever seen, and possibly better than any man. She had an original mind, an intelligence woven of recall and intuition.

But the more Christopher learned about Beatrix, the more he perceived the vein of insecurity that ran deep in her. A sense of otherness that often inclined her toward solitude. He thought that perhaps it had something to do with her parents' untimely deaths, especially her mother's, which Beatrix had felt as an abandonment. And perhaps it was partly a result of the Hathaways'

having been pushed into a social position they had never been prepared for.

Being in the upper classes wasn't merely following a set of rules, it was a way of thinking, of carrying oneself and interacting with the world, that had to be instilled since birth. Beatrix would never acquire the sophistication of the young women who had been raised in the aristocracy.

That was one of the things he loved most about her.

The day after he had proposed to Beatrix, Christopher had reluctantly gone to talk to Prudence. He was prepared to apologize, knowing that he had not been fair in his dealings with her. However, any trace of remorse he might have felt for having deceived Prudence vanished as soon as he saw that Prudence felt no remorse for having deceived him.

It had not been a pleasant scene, to say the least. A plum-colored flush of rage had swept across her face, and she had stormed and shrieked as if she were unhinged.

"You can't throw me over for that dark-haired gargoyle and her

freakish family! You'll be a laughingstock. Half of them are Gypsies, and the other half are lunatics--they have few connections and no manners, they're 158

filthy peasants and you'll regret this to the end of your days. Beatrix is a rude, uncivilized girl who will probably give birth to a litter."

As she had paused to take a breath, Christopher had replied quietly,

"Unfortunately, not everyone can be as refined as the Mercers."

The shot had gone completely over Prudence's head, of course, and

she had continued to scream like a fishwife.

And an image had appeared in Christopher's head . . . not the usual

ones of the war, but a peaceful one . . . Beatrix's face, calm and intent, as she had tended a wounded bird the previous day. She had wrapped the broken wing of a small sparrow against its body, and then showed Rye how to feed the bird. As Christopher had watched the proceedings, he had been struck by the mixture of delicacy and strength in Beatrix's hands.

Bringing his attention back to the ranting woman before him,

Christopher pitied the man who eventually became Prudence's husband.

Prudence's mother had come into the parlor then, alarmed by the

uproar, and she had tried to soothe her. Christopher had taken his leave soon after, regretting every minute he had ever wasted in Prudence Mercer's company.

A week and a half later, all of Stony Cross had been startled by the news that Prudence had eloped with one of her longtime suitors, a member of the local gentry.

The morning of the elopement, a letter had been delivered to Ramsay

House, addressed to Beatrix. It was from Prudence. The letter was blotched and angrily scrawled, filled with accusations and dire predictions, and more than a few misspellings. Troubled and guilt-ridden, Beatrix had shown it to Christopher.

His mouth twisted as he tore it in half and gave it back to Beatrix.

"Well," he said conversationally, "she's finally written a letter to someone."

Beatrix tried to look reproving, but a reluctant laugh escaped her.

"Don't make jest of the situation. I feel so awfully guilty."

"Why? Prudence doesn't."

"She blames me for taking you away from her."

"I was never hers in the first place. And this isn't some game of pass-the-parcel."

That made her grin. "If you're the parcel," she said, giving him a suggestive glance, "I would like to unwrap you."

Christopher shook his head as she leaned forward to kiss him. "Don't start that, or we'll never get this done." Putting a board in place, he looked at her expectantly. "Start hammering."

They were in the hayloft, where she had taken him to help repair a

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nest box that she had constructed herself. Christopher watched, entertained, while Beatrix sank a neat row of nails into the end of the board. He had never expected that a woman's proficiency with tools would be so charming.

And he couldn't help but enjoy the way her breeches tightened over her bottom every time she leaned over.

With an effort, he tried to discipline his body, push back the urgent rise of desire, as he'd had to do so often lately. Beatrix offered more temptation than he could bear. Whenever he kissed her, she responded with an innocent sensuality that drove him to the limits of his self-control.

Before he had been called to war, Christopher had never had any

difficulty in finding lovers. Sex had been a casual pleasure, something he had enjoyed without guilt or inhibitions. But after prolonged abstinence, he was concerned about the first time he made love to Beatrix. He did not want to hurt or frighten her.