Marrying the Rebellious Miss

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘The wait was worth it. While I was there, I learned an invaluable piece of news.’ Preston’s voice dropped, low to match hers. Neither of them wanted to be overheard. ‘A week ago, Malvern Alton was there for a special licence as well.’

  ‘Oh, dear Lord.’ Bea sat down hard on the sofa, letting the shock settle. She didn’t need to be a genius to know who Alton wanted the licence for.

  ‘I don’t need to explain the implications to you.’

  ‘No. You don’t need to explain.’ Beatrice understood the danger to her had just escalated. With a special licence in hand, all Alton had to do was scoop her up and carry her away to some vicar willing to perform the ceremony. She’d not been eager to come to Worth House, but Preston had insisted it was safer than being alone at the Penrose town house. It seemed he’d been right. ‘He is more desperate than we thought.’

  ‘Quite desperate.’ Preston sat down beside her. ‘He has enormous debt, the kind of debt only a rich dowry will satisfy and he has to satisfy that debt by mid-June.’

  Bea sat quietly, taking in Preston’s news, letting her mind mull it over, looking for the silver lining. ‘Then we only have to be engaged until June.’ She tried for a smile. Surely Preston would be glad to know there was a ‘deadline’ to his engagement and it would leave him plenty of time to prepare for departure.

  ‘Were you only looking for information at the Doctors’ Commons? Why did you need the licence?’ Bea queried, her eye drawn once again to the paper as he folded it up and put it in his pocket. Not of all her questions were answered.

  ‘It’s the emergency contingency.’ Preston met her gaze. ‘In case we can’t cry off.’

  It took Bea a moment to understand. ‘In case we can’t? What does that mean?’

  ‘In case betrothal papers aren’t enough to keep you safe. In case Alton is more desperate and potentially more deranged than we think.’ Preston’s face grew grim. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, but perhaps you should know. He beat a girl to near unconsciousness at the brothel because she refused to let him use a crop on her. If he’s not deranged, at the very least he’s a sick bastard.’

  ‘But you don’t want to marry me.’ Bea began to mount her protest. ‘I don’t want to marry you.’ Not quite true. She simply didn’t want to ruin him.

  Preston chuckled. ‘You do know how to handle a man’s ego, Bea. I don’t think this is about want, or even about last night. I think this is about doing what it takes to keep you safe. He is coming for you and we may reach a point where the only protection you have against him is to put yourself beyond his reach with marriage. That way, if he did manage to force you, any marriage he had performed would be illegal.’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I don’t think we’re there yet. We’ve only just arrived and we haven’t even made our engagement public.’ Bea rose, wanting some distance from him, wanting to feel as if she had some control here. ‘The Calvert ball is tomorrow night. We should attend if we want to be seen. It’s the biggest gathering of the week. The Bristows’ is the largest one next week. If Alton’s on our heels, we can’t start the charade too soon, it seems.’

  All things considered, Bea thought the conversation was going moderately well. They hadn’t talked about last night once. They had enough of a mess on their hands without bringing that into the mix, too.

  * * *

  What a perfect, hellish mess. Malvern Alton watched the parade of sleek carriages line up at the kerb in front of the Bristow town house from across the road, beautiful women in silks and jewels disembarking with the help of well-heeled gentlemen dressed in dark evening clothes. His eyes took in each of them, scanning the colourful crowd until he found what he was looking for. There she was! In the deep royal-blue gown with the whiter-than-snow lace wrap at her shoulders.

  Beatrice Penrose stepped down from a luxurious black-lacquered town coach with the Latin words semper luceat—always shine—painted on the door in scrolling letters above a regal coat of arms.

  The effect of the blue and white was stunning even at a distance. Something expensive and sparkling in the dark depths of her hair caught the streetlight. Had she been that beautiful when he’d known her? He didn’t think so. She’d always been daring, but even this was far bolder an act than he’d expected from her. She, an unwed mother with no decent reputation to her name, was literally waltzing all over London in fancy gowns, in the best of homes, while he; a legitimate son of a nobleman, was reduced to lurking in the shadows when it should have been he who was received. Stupid, stupid London. What would they think, what would they do if those silly matrons knew the whore Beatrice Penrose really was?

  He raised the opera glasses to his eyes, watching her head tilt as she laughed up at her escort. Who had made her laugh? Made her face light up like that? Alton’s magnified gaze shifted upwards to take in the man’s face and locked on its target. Of course. The man from the Penrose drawing room that day in Little Westbury. Preston Worth. The little strumpet dared quite a lot to reach for a man like him.

  Alton swallowed back his anger. He’d heard the rumours as soon as he’d arrived in town. They were what had prompted his stalking. Worth intended to marry her. It was floating discreetly around London, but he’d heard it in several places now. He hadn’t believed it. It was ridiculous in the extreme that even someone of Beatrice’s bold character would think to marry such a public figure after her behaviour. Unwed mothers lived in shame and deprivation, not much higher on the social scale than the whores. They weren’t out angling for one of London’s prime bachelors. Then again, Beatrice was a stranger to the notion of restraint.

  That brought a twisted smile to his lips. He lowered the glasses, watching her and Worth join the crowd inside the mansion. He wouldn’t mind tasting a piece of that boldness again, maybe in making her pay for her infidelity. A crop across that pale, luscious backside was definitely in order. The more he thought about it, the more he believed he was in the right. His demands were not unreasonable. He’d come back to her. He was willing to make an honest woman of her and the whelp so that he could claim his inheritance—an inheritance that would provide for her, would go to the little brat.

  She should be on her hands and knees in gratitude. Instead, she was snubbing him for Preston Worth. Alton shifted his posture, rubbing himself, feeling his arousal take shape beneath his trousers. The bitch had been hot for him and what he had to offer once. He could make her feel that way again. Starting tonight.

  There was something he needed from her and he couldn’t leave without it. He’d get it, just as soon as he solved the problem of getting into a ball he’d not been invited to. Actually, it wasn’t the getting-in part that was tricky. Folks crashed balls all the time. One only had to wait until the receiving line was through and there was no chance of being announced. The trick for him was getting out without being recognised. If word got back to Madam Rose he was out socialising, she’d be asking for more than the token of payment she was asking for now as a show of goodwill that he’d pay in June.

  If he remembered correctly, there was a gate behind the hedges in the garden just off the alley. He’d ask himself how it had come to this—covertly crashing parties he should be invited to—but he knew the answer. One stubborn woman was the cause of this. Slinking was certainly beneath him, but until he had Beatrice beneath him, it would have to do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  How had it come to this? This place where it was hard to remember it was a fantasy and nothing more? Beatrice took a breathless turn at the top of the ballroom, Preston’s hand firm at her waist, flawlessly leading them through the crush of dancers, his hazel eyes looking down at her in a merry, sparkling dance of their own. Times like this made it hard to remember he was to leave for Greece, hard to remember she didn’t want to marry him.

  Every night reminded her of the possibilities. The dangerous ‘what if�
�� game would start. What if she and Preston were together without the pretence of an engagement? What if this was a real courtship? She’d never had one before and even this charade was intoxicating.

  When they flew like this, when he escorted her into an entertainment, his hand light but steady at her back in the receiving line, when he took her into supper after the midnight waltz, it was hard to remember the pretence existed at all. It was harder still to remember the pretence when they walked in a lantern-lit garden, or when Preston stole a kiss. In those moments, she was all too happy to surrender under the guise that the charade demanded it.

  Yet always on the periphery, the guilt subtly hovered. She didn’t deserve this. Her friends and her family had been so good in protecting her. Preston most of all. It was greedy of her to want more, to even think of taking away his dreams, dreams that had existed before her.

  ‘Do you need some punch?’ Preston asked, bringing them to a halt, the music ending. ‘You look flushed. Would you rather have champagne?’

  ‘Champagne.’ She laughed. He knew all of her weaknesses. Aside from her girlfriends, did anyone know her so well? Would anyone know her so well ever again when this was over? ‘I’ll meet you in the garden. I hear the Bristows have a spectacular fountain imported from Italy.’ She watched him go, broad shoulders parting the crowd with ease. A little trill of desire ran through her. She knew what those shoulders looked like bare. What all of him looked like bare. It was an image she’d not been able to expel. Would she ever be able to? When would she stop undressing him with her eyes every time they were together? Would she ever stop wishing it could be different; that there could be another time like the night in the inn? That she could be different? That she could be better for him?

  In the garden, the cool air fanned her cheeks. She moved away from the crowds, letting her feet stroll aimlessly. She was being greedy again with her wants; wanting more than she could have. She should be thankful the ruse was going well. It had been a week and there’d been no sign of Alton. That was all to the good. It meant the engagement had taken, that London believed them madly in love and that Alton could not make society believe otherwise. It also meant Preston wouldn’t have to use the special licence.

  She should be glad. Because she knew, as Preston did not, he would come to hate her for trapping him in a marriage done only to avoid a crisis, a marriage that forced him to give up his dreams.

  Bea had reached the hedges at the back of the property when she heard the whisper of her name. Once. Twice. She should have run. Instead, she stopped long enough to cock her head, long enough to think about the oddness of a bush whispering her name, long enough for a hand to whip out in the dark and grip her wrist, holding her fast.

  ‘Hush, Beatrice, it’s me.’ A body materialised, stepping out of the hedges. Malvern Alton stood before her, brushing greenery off his dark evening clothes with his free hand.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Beatrice hissed, tugging futilely at her arm, wanting it back.

  ‘I wanted to see you.’ He made a face. ‘You’re not the easiest person to see, Beatrice. The last time I tried, your self-appointed bodyguard threw me out of your home.’

  ‘He’s not my bodyguard.’

  ‘What he is then, Beatrice? I hear rumour that he fancies himself your fiancé.’ He was daring her to deny it, testing the truth of it. If he’d heard the rumours, then Dimitri and Liam had done their jobs well laying the gossip.

  ‘We are to be married. It’s not been announced officially.’ Beatrice answered, pulling once more. ‘He won’t be pleased to find you here with me.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He sounded almost boyish, like the charming man she’d been swept away by once. But she’d learned not to trust that charm. ‘I don’t mean to stay long, it’s just that I’m in a deuced awful situation. I need some money.’

  Beatrice stiffened. ‘I haven’t any.’

  ‘Anything of value would do and I will scamper back through those hedges and be gone. Perhaps that sparkly piece in your hair? It would fetch a good price.’ He sounded less boyish now. The threat plain. He would leave in exchange for something of worth that could be pawned for cash.

  ‘And if I don’t comply?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Worth would like what he saw when he came out.’ His eyes glinted. ‘But you might, Bea. You used to like what I could do for you up against a wall. A fence is probably just as good. Have you tried Mr Worth out on a wall yet? Is he as able?’

  She could feel the shame burning in her cheeks. What he had done to her and passed off as lovemaking was nowhere near what she and Preston had done together. His face was close to hers in a sneer that wiped all traces of boyish handsomeness away. Her wrist started to hurt. ‘Don’t be ashamed, Bea. You might as well screw the scion of the house of Worth. It’s not like you’re ever going to be a virgin again. He can never be first. Does that bother him, I wonder? That baby can never be his. That will bother him, I promise you. There’s no man on this planet who wants to wake up and look someone else’s bastard in the eye at breakfast every morning.’

  Bea brought her free hand up ready to strike hard, but he was too fast. He had both her hands now, her back up hard against the fence, the rough brick snagging the delicate fabric of her gown. His body pressed to hers as his hips made a lewd gyration. Fear flashed through her. He wouldn’t dare take her here would he? ‘This is rape!’ she ground out, shoving against him. But he was strong. She remembered that now, how she’d once revelled in that strength, the feel of his muscle beneath her hands.

  He silenced her with a bruising kiss that punished her mouth, forced her head to the wall. ‘Why don’t you scream and we’ll find out?’ he leered in victory, knowing full well she couldn’t scream. Screaming was what he wanted. He wanted everyone to come running into the dark corner of the garden and find them together—the nobleman’s son and the well-born Penrose girl. They’d be married by the end of the week to silence the gossip. Exactly what he wanted. Exactly what Preston had feared. Only the darkness protected her from that discovery now.

  ‘Preston will kill you.’ Bea struggled wholeheartedly, but she was pinned to the wall by a body that outweighed her, her hands useless.

  ‘Why don’t you scream and find that out, too? Or, you can give me what I want—your hair piece.’ He laughed cruelly. ‘I didn’t come for your body tonight, unless you insist. It’s up to you.’

  What choice did she have? She couldn’t fight him and she didn’t want Preston fighting him. Beatrice nodded her concession, felt him transfer her wrists into one hand, his other hand in her hair, tugging the elegant diamond-set piece free none so gently. ‘You might want to go to the retiring room before you return to the ball and tidy your hair. You look like you might have been up to some mischief in the garden.’ He grinned and stepped away. ‘Until next time, Beatrice.’ He made her a deep, mocking bow, his words leaving her shaking. ‘I’ll be watching you. And the estimable Mr Worth. It’s hard to marry a dead man.’

  Her body wanted to collapse on the ground, but her mind knew better. She could not give in to fear. Fear would require explanations. She certainly could not let Preston find her here. She was certain it was what Alton would want—Preston charging out into the darkness only to be taken unawares. She’d not missed Alton’s threat that she was not the only one in danger. With Preston gone, there’d be no one to protect her and Alton was desperate enough to do it.

  Beatrice pushed herself to action. She had to get to the retiring room and hide the damage; fixing her hair would be easy. Fixing the rest of her might be a little more difficult. If her hand didn’t stop shaking, fixing her hair might be just as difficult.

  Bea kept to the perimeter of the garden, groping her way in the dark to the servants’ entrance near the kitchen. There was a back stair to follow up after that which put her into the upper hall near the ladies’ room. The rest was
easy and thankfully the retiring room was empty. Bea found a stool and sat down in front of the mirror. She looked up slowly, expecting to see a face that looked as ravaged as she felt.

  Her hair was loose, messy, her skin pale, but that was all. After all that, shouldn’t she look worse? She should be glad she didn’t. She took a deep breath and began to work on her hair. She dropped the first pin and the second. She had to get herself under control. If not for her, then for Preston. She wasn’t the only one who needed protecting.

  ‘There you are!’ May sailed into the room. ‘We’ve been looking all over for you. Preston couldn’t find you.’ May paused, taking in her face in the mirror. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Bea found a smile, somewhere. ‘I just needed to fix my hair.’

  ‘Where’s your tiara?’ May was far too astute.

  ‘It fell out, in the garden maybe. It was too dark to find it.’

  May picked up the hairbrush and some pins. ‘Let me. Your hands are shaking, Bea. Now, you can either tell me what really happened, or I’ll get Preston and you can tell him.’

  That galvanised her. Bea gripped May’s hand. ‘Preston is not to know!’

  May’s hazel eyes went hard with knowledge. ‘Alton was here, wasn’t he? He threatened you?’

  ‘Preston cannot know,’ Beatrice repeated. ‘You have to swear on the honour of the Left Behind Girls Club you will not tell him. I’m fine and it’s over now.’ The first was a weak truth. The last was an outright lie. Alton was stalking her, waiting to catch her alone again. The next time he might take more than a tiara, and there would be a next time. It had been one thing to hear Preston outline the evolution of a desperate man’s actions. It was another to be the victim of those actions. These horrible things were happening to her. The only defence she had was to stay close to Preston, it would protect them both and if the price was the further fuelling of the magical fantasy, so be it. There were only a couple weeks left. She summoned her mantra. She was Beatrice Penrose. She would survive this, too.