Captive Bride.

Katharine Ashe.

CHAPTER ONE.

"No, Lord Cheriot, I will not marry you."

The gentleman's emerald gaze, fixed on Beatrice Sinclaire clipping roses with steady hands, was not wide with surprise. Neither was it awash in pain, shadowed with hopelessness, or taut with longing. Nor were the eyes that followed her movements skeptically sharp, calculatingly narrowed, or enigmatically hooded. Instead, the gentleman appeared perfectly at ease.

Anticipating this odiously measured response, of course, had shaped Bea's reply in the first place.

The ribbons on her straw hat fluttered in the late autumn breeze. She tilted up her chin toward her suitor. "But I thank you for the offer."

His smile stretched wide across a handsome face made all the more appealing by the expression.

"You say that every time. Exactly the same words. Heaven knows I have invented at least a half dozen- no, I'll merit, a dozen different ways to beg your hand. But you haven't bothered a bit to spice up your response with variety." The baron's merry gaze shifted to a bob of rusted blooms at his elbow. "You've missed a few here, Bea."

"If you please, my lord, I prefer you to address me as propriety demands."

"Oh, if you insist, peagoose." His eyes sparkled. "Miss Sinclaire, that is."

"Thank you, Lord Cheriot." The clippers opened and closed in even efficiency between Bea's fingers. Brown-edged and limp-petaled, spent roses dropped to the carpet of green at her feet.

"Thank you, Lord Cheriot," the tall, impossibly broad-shouldered gentleman echoed as he wandered to a wrought-iron bench settled amidst shrubs thinned of their gold, pink, and white treasures. Lifting the tails of Weston's best bottle green superfine coat with unself-conscious grace, he reclined upon the incommodious seat as though it were covered in down-filled cushions. His long legs stretched out in an attitude of insouciant serenity. "If I were a man to be driven mad, Miss Beatrice Sinclaire, you surely would have accomplished the thing by now. In spades."

"Then I am glad you are not so predisposed. I do enjoy your company, and I don't believe inmates of Bedlam are permitted visitors."

"I should think a fellow's wife ought to be allowed to visit him once in a while," came the quick rejoinder. "You know, I won't let up asking. And when you have finally accepted me, I will insist that you call me Tip. Or perhaps I would like my given name better from you. A fellow ought to have a say in that sort of thing." He paused. "And I will call you Bea whether you like it or not."

"You're sounding rather boorish, you know."

Tip snorted a laugh. A wavy, dark brown lock tumbled forward over his eyes.

"No wonder you won't marry me. Never mind the Lord Cheriot-ing you are so fond of. Why, to hear the way you speak to me, a stranger would think I was your brother."

Firming her smile, Bea allowed her fingers to slow and her gaze to slip sideways beneath her hat brim. His attention was settled upon her, his brows high, quizzing.

She swallowed a sigh.

If only he were her brother. If he were Thomas, he would not insist on asking for her hand in marriage, a habit Tip had formed early in their friendship just after Bea's sister, Georgianna, broke his heart by marrying her childhood beau. And if Tip were her brother, instead of teasing her ceaselessly as he did every time he came to Yorkshire, he would busy himself haring off on some wild escapade, spending his allowance inappropriately, and making trouble for the family. Most especially, if he were her brother she would not have harbored for seven interminable years the consuming wish that he would once look at her and see her, rather than a poor reflection of her lovely, brilliant sister.

Alas, Lord Peter Cheriot was not related to Bea in any manner, despite his repeated proposals of marriage. But Bea had lived a lifetime of loving too well those who did not love her well enough in return. She simply could not bear for Tip to settle for her while ever after longing for a woman he could not have.

Nearby, the shrubbery rustled and the butler stepped through a gap in the hedge.

"Miss Beatrice," he said in a wobbly, harried tone. "I have been searching for you all about the place."

"Really, Perkins?" Familiar tension ticked Bea's stomach. Her mother must be especially tetchy for Perkins to fret so greatly that he would come all the way to the garden and speak to her so forthrightly.

Tip slouched back into the bench as the old servant approached.

"This just arrived, miss. It is from Master Thomas. In Wales." He nodded knowingly.

"Wales?" Bea reached for the letter. "Thank you."

Perkins disappeared, this time through the rose trellis, a man relieved of a heavy burden.

"Thought your twin was on a repairing lease in Scotland, not Wales," Tip commented as Bea pried open the wax seal. "What scrape has he gotten himself into now?"

"I hardly know," she murmured, chancing another look at her companion. Lord Cheriot seemed to be absently studying the roses hanging over his shoulder. Then the words scribbled across the page seized her attention.

A handful of silent moments later, moments marked with Bea's churning emotions, she again met Tip's gaze.

He swallowed, a visibly hard movement of his throat above his elegantly knotted cravat.

"You've got the damnedest eyes, Bea," he said in a strange voice. "Very pretty, I meana* Have always admired . . . Miss Sinclaire?" He rose with a jerk from the bench and moved forward. "Bea? What is it? You have that look your sister used to get whena*"

Bea's knees wobbled and she reached out for support. Her palm caught on a thorn. She gasped and grabbed it to her waist, and her whole body wavered toward the bush. Tip grasped her shoulders.

"Here now, my girl." His light grip steadied her.

Bea gulped in a breath. The shallow scratch on her skin would surely stain her favorite lemon muslin. But she had accomplished what she wished by wearing the fetching gown. He had offered for her again. However much she knew he did not mean it sincerely, she liked to hear the words. His voice was so lovely and deep, his smile breathtaking.

He hovered close, his hands wrapped around her arms. Bea's heart beat in quick little flutters like the wings of hummingbirds that darted about her garden. She drew out of his hold and straightened her back, hiding the letter in the folds of her skirt.

"Dear me," she said. "I daresay I have been standing too long concentrating on my task. I will catch my breath and then go in for a cup of tea. Will you join me, my lord?" She made to turn away.

A firm hand impeded her.

"Oh, no you don't, missy. I saw your face. And I never even imagined you were capable of swooning."

"I didn't swoon. I became momentarily dizzy due to the sun."

Tip frowned. It didn't in the least mar his easy good looks. It would be a great deal easier to withstand her feelings for him if he weren't so dreadfully handsome. And kind. And solicitous. And . . . him.

"What is it this time?" he said. "Is he in the suds again and calling for your pin money to square him with the sharps? Lord, the fellow will never learn."

"No, Tip, it isn't like that. Thomas is not in debt again. Well, he is, of course, or he would be in London now instead of Wales. But that is not why he has written."

His mouth turned up in the slightest grin and his hand slid from her shoulder to the letter tucked in the flimsy yellow fabric of her skirt. Bea gripped the paper tight. His gaze met hers. A mere breath separated them. Tip's dark green eyes looked oddly intense.

With a little breath of panic, she released the letter.

He settled back upon his heels and read the missive through. "It's nonsense."

Bea snatched away the foolscap.

"It is not nonsense. Thomas is in trouble, and I must help him. And if you tell Mama what he wrote, I will never speak to you again, Peter Cheriot." She tugged her hem out of the rosebush, arranging the gown around her legs. Tip stepped back, watching without comment. But he looked far too sure of himself. Bea's eyes narrowed. "Don't doubt me."

"Oh, I don't. I won't tell Lady Harriet. But you aren't going alone. If you imagine I would let you, you aren't the sensible girl I have known you to be these past seven years."

"My father is in town. I will write to him today and beg his assistance."

"Ah, I see. Then, let us go forthwith to the parlor and I shall dip the pen into the ink for you, ma'am," he said with a lifted brow. Bea held her tongue and he quirked a knowing grin. "I didn't think so."

Of course he knew perfectly well she would not enlist the aid of her father. Mr. Alfred Sinclaire disliked only one thing more than his wife's constant complaints and criticisms: his son's wastrel ways.

"This is not your business, sir," she insisted, "and I will thank you to stay out of it." She grabbed the basket of gardening tools and took a step forward.

His hand enclosed hers wrapped around the handle. Heart in her throat, Bea didn't chance looking up. He spoke close beneath her hat brim, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that escaped her braid.

"Yes, thank you, Lord Cheriot," he said calmly. "I would be delighted for you to accompany me to Wales to help rescue my scapegrace brother from the castle in which the idiot believes he is being held captive."

She opened her mouth to chastise him for his impertinence, but he continued.

"I am in fact so enormously grateful, my lord," his voice was low, "that when the job is done I will be more than happy to consent to becoming your bride." His hand shifted, and he pulled the basket from her grasp.

He moved toward the house. For a moment, Bea watched him go, his shoulders disappearing beneath the trellis thick with foliage.

Pulse tripping, she started after him.

She caught up with him just shy of the house. "You cannot do this. Gwynedd is a five-day ride away, and you despise carriages."

"I will ride alongside." He did not look back at her.

Bea absolutely did not wish to stare at his wide back and muse upon how a man could look so wonderfully virile whilst carrying a basketful of flowers. But she couldn't seem to prevent herself.

"You will be missed here," she said in as steady a voice as she could manage. "Lord and Lady Marke have been looking forward to your visit. Little Avery has not ceased singing your praises since the last time you came to York. And Mama expects you to play whist with her before you leave the county. She says I play too poorly to bother."

"Marke and his family will go along perfectly well without me. They know I only hole up with them because they are closer to Hart House than the posting inn." He swung the servant's entrance open, dropped the basket on the ground, and gestured her toward the door.

Bea faced him, clasping her unsteady hands at her waist. "What about Mama?" More importantly, what about the sennight it would take to reach Thomas, days of agonizing intimacy on the road, at inns and in private parlors? What about the lack of any other company to save her from being alone with him, so easy to achieve in town before Mama had moved to Yorkshire permanently, even possible here, but certainly not on such a journey? What about her poor heart, so wretchedly determined to withstand his nonchalant attentions? It wouldn't stand a chance in such close quarters. "She will be enormously unhappy if you leave so soon after arriving."

He stepped toward her and reached for her chin, tilting it up. His fingertips were warm, sending tiny jolts of forbidden pleasure into Bea's belly. Steeling herself for the tingling thrill that went through her every time she met his gaze, she turned hers upward. As always, his eyes were alight.

"As your mother's happiness is not my primary concern," he said quietly, "that argument, my girl, is not particularly effective."

"She depends on you when you are here."

He seemed intent upon studying her face one feature at a time. "She depends on you. Too heavily. I only endeavor to amuse her to take some of the burden off your shoulders."

Bea spoke across the lump in her throat. "You are very good to her. You always have been, since Papa sent her into rustication. She despises it here."

Tip did not respond, but his brow compressed. His fingers slid away and he gestured for her to precede him into the house. "Ready to brave the dragon?"

Bea wrung her hands. "You simply cannot come. Thomas will be livid to discover I have involved you."

"I don't care a jot for your twin's sensibilities. And I can and indeed will escort you to Wales. Would you like me to inform Lady Harriet, or would you prefer to do that task yourself?"

"I will, of course." Bea's palms went clammy.

"It's not as though you haven't saved his hide plenty of times already." He followed her through the entryway toward the parlor.

"I've never before gone anywhere to help him," she murmured.

"You've only spent every penny of your pin money and played peace broker between him and your parents at every other turn. But this time I will be there to lend you moral support." He smiled, his eyes glimmering.

Bea nearly groaned aloud.

The footman opened the door. The gold parlor, decorated in the latest stare with Egyptian silks and claw-footed furniture, glowed with sunshine. Lady Harriet, opulent in sea-blue organza, reclined on a yellow satin divan. With limpid cerulean eyes so unlike Bea's dull brown eyes, she stared out the French windows onto the terrace as though longing to go into the bright day.

Bea stifled her irritation. Mama never went outside unless moving from the front door to the carriage. She was merely putting on a show for her husband's aunts.

Bea went to the two elderly ladies sitting opposite Lady Harriet, a contrast of cool and cozy nobility. Icy-eyed, pinch-faced, silver-haired Lady Marstowe shared little in common with her pleasantly rounded, cockeyed, smiling sister-in-law, Miss Julia Dews. But they were excellent traveling companions and came from their brother's house in London to Hart House each October without fail. Bea welcomed the relief. When the great-aunts were in residence, Mama insulted her much less often.

"Dear me, Beatrice, must you drag in all that dirt? What a horrid mess you are," Lady Harriet said languidly. "Good morning, Lord Cheriot. How do my neighbors, Lord and Lady Marke, go along?"

"Very well, to my knowledge, ma'am. My ladies." He greeted the great-aunts with a bow, casting Aunt Julia an especially lovely smile.

Bea kissed her mother on one pale cheek. Her face powder made Bea's nose itch.

She sucked in a breath of courage. "Mama, Thomas has written to me. He is in Wales and requests my assistance with a matter of great delicacy."

"Wales!" Lady Harriet's wan hand fluttered over her breast. "Whatever did he go there for? The Welsh are all so tiny, and wretchedly dark."

Bea could have sworn Tip chuckled. Lady Harriet didn't seem to notice.

"I would like to go," Bea said, tucking her hands into her skirt.

"Go? Why, of course you may not go. What would I do without you? I daresay I would be obliged to speak to that wretched Perkins. He does not care for me above half. And that dreadful Mrs. Hobbs never listens when I tell her how I want lilies, not chrysanthemums, in my dressing chamber."

"Mama," Bea said quietly, "lilies are not in season and you told the gardener you wished to grow only gardenias in the hothouse this year, so he has done that. Perhaps you might have those cut for your dressing chamber?"

"Gardenias," her mother groaned. "How wretchedly common. You should not have allowed him to do that. Next year you must be more forthright with him, Beatrice."

"Yes, Mama."

"No, you cannot go. You will be obliged to take along your maid, and the two of you are the only ones who know how I like my hair arranged." She draped a hand over her brow.

Bea's insides quailed, but she forged ahead. "I cannot ask Papa for assistance with this matter, Mama, and Kievan is in Ireland with Georgie and the new baby, of course. Lord Cheriot has graciously offered to escort me to Wales." Please let her mother forbid it.

"What a dear, dear man you are," Lady Harriet extended her hand for Tip. He bowed over it, and she smiled. "The responsible, caring brother my Beatrice never had to support her, I daresay."