"You don't appear happy about it." The dowager frowned. "Perhaps you haven't as many brains as I thought."

The trouble did not at all reside in Bea's brain.

"I am happy, Aunt Grace. It is only that Aunt Julia has fallen ill, and now Mama and Papa . . ."

"Harriet always knows precisely when she is least wanted." The dowager's lips pinched.

Bea went to the door. "Will you send Peg to fetch me when Aunt Julia wakes?"

Lady Marstowe nodded, perusing Bea's hair and gown. "You will do. And in any case it does not matter how you appear to them. You have only one person to please now."

Bea's belly twisted with tingles. She descended the spiral stair with a firm step, drawing in fortifying breaths until she reached the open parlor door. Her mother's voice trailed out to her. She paused in the corridor.

"Good heavens, doesn't anyone in this horrid place know how to make a reasonable tisane? I should have brought my chef along, after all," Lady Harriet sighed. "You there, Claude, is that your name? Go tell that Cook person this beverage simply will not do."

"You should be thankful you've got that at least, Harriet," Bea's father said in a stern tone. "I have never heard of such a thing-an old woman and a girl barely out of the schoolroom setting up house together in a castle in the middle of nowhere. How did my son get mixed up in this business?"

A footstep sounded behind Bea.

"Will you go in, or do you imagine they will come out here to meet you?" Tip's voice washed over her like honey, smoothing out the kinks in her stomach with warmth.

She looked over her shoulder. He grinned. He wore a dark cutaway coat, waistcoat, and pristine white shirt and cravat. He had shaved, and he looked as breathtakingly handsome now as he had hours earlier in his bed with a shadow of whiskers and no clothing whatsoever. Bea's throat tightened.

"I'm hoping that if I wait here long enough they will simply disappear."

"Come now. It cannot be all that horrid." He touched the small of her back, sending delectable awareness through her exhausted body, and pressed her forward.

She took a deep breath and let the sensation of his hand make her smile.

Within the parlor, Lady Harriet held her habitual position, reclining upon a sofa, swathed in exquisite fabrics of gentian, azure, and cobalt to reflect her eyes and complement the gold in her shining hair. She enhanced the color of her coiffure with chamomile leaves and lemon juice, and Bea herself had ordered the gown and shawl in York according to her mother's exact specifications.

Bea's father stood at the window, his back to his estranged wife. At sixty years of age, Alfred Sinclaire was a robust, handsome man, with an almost military bearing about him. But Bea detected an extra rigidity to his stance now.

Thomas was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Mama. Papa." She curtseyed. Tip no longer touched her, but his presence behind gave a tangible memory of how lovely life could be sometimes, if not entirely at this moment. Bea moved toward her father.

"Afternoon, Cheriot." He nodded to Tip.

"How do you do, sir?"

"Beatrice." Her father took her hand and allowed her to kiss him on the cheek as she had since she was a girl. "It's been too many months since I last saw you. You look well. A little peaked, though. Have you been sleeping?"

"Papa," Bea said, warmth crawling into her cheeks, "you sound like my mother."

"And where is your kiss for me, Beatrice?" Lady Harriet cooed from the other side of the chamber. She and her husband were as far apart from each other as they could be in the space.

Bea obeyed her mother's summons. "What brings you here, Mama?"

"The carriage was horrid, not nearly as well sprung as I would imagine he would keep it. I have the most tiresome aches and fidgets from-"

"I brought her here," Mr. Sinclaire said ominously. "When I arrived in York the other day to discover that you had gone on this harebrained chase after your brother, I demanded we set off to find you at once. Of course that was after your mother waited nearly all afternoon to tell me where you were." He cast his wife a glowering look.

Bea clasped her hands tightly. Tip had seen her parents' unpleasantness with one another before. She couldn't fathom why it should make her feel especially ashamed now.

"Papa, I didn't need to chase Tom anywhere. He wrote to me exactly where he was staying, and before I left home I gave the direction to Mama, which is how you come to be here as well."

"What have you been doing to mix yourself up in this business?" he scowled. "You shouldn't be chasing about the countryside after Thomas's doxies. You will tarnish your reputation and your mother depends upon you. She needs you at home."

"Lady Bronwyn is not a doxy, Papa. She is a fine girl. Haven't you met her yet? Where has Tom gone?"

"He went upstairs to fetch you nearly an hour ago."

Bea's jaw tightened at her brother's cowardice. "No doubt he will return soon," she said, affecting serenity. "May I get you something, Mama? Freshen your tea?" Anything to be gone swiftly.

"Beatrice, you are withholding information from me." Her father's stormy eyes narrowed. "What is going on in this place?"

Bea's stomach churned. "We are all quite well except for Aunt Julia, which I suspect you know. She is ill. I would like to go see her right now, in fact." She did not dare edge toward the door yet. Her father's face was too dark.

"Has your brother compromised this Miss Nobody?"

"Lady Bronwyn, Papa."

"Is that what this is all about?"

"I am sure you should speak with him on that matter."

"He has compromised her!" Lady Harriet wailed, draping the back of an ivory hand over her mouth.

"Has he?" Mr. Sinclaire fixed Bea with an accusing glare.

"How could you allow him to do such a thing, Beatrice-to throw himself away on a nobody? Has she even made her bow to society? Good heavens, she must be Welsh. How dreadful." She shook her head. "Oh, you are a faithless girl not to care for your brother more dearly, and to protect my sensibilities with greater care, my third and most thankless daughter."

Bea's hands were clammy. "I don't know that-"

"You don't know by now that your brother depends on your good sense?" her father interrupted. "That without your guidance he is unable to make rational decisions? I hold you fully responsible for this mishap, Beatrice. I only hope I can find a way out of it before it is too late."

"I suspect it is already too late, Papa." Bea could not manage to raise her voice above a whisper. "Thomas is quite taken with her, and I believe he has asked her to marry him. But I am not certain." Her last words were swallowed by her father's exclamation and mother's renewed wailing.

"Sylvia could have prevented him from making such a foolish match," her mother groaned. "She always knew precisely a gentleman's worth and how to gage his position in society. I gave you all the advantages of town for two full seasons, yet you didn't learn anything of the kind. Wretched failures, both of them." She waved a contemptuous hand.

Bea's breath shortened. Her eldest sister, Sylvia, had married a man who once hired himself out as a lover to wealthy women at the French court. Sylvia had told this to Bea in private, and she had kept her sister's confidence. Now the tip of Bea's tongue itched to tell her mother the truth and dim some of the shine of her eldest sister's perfection. She swallowed back the impulse, ducking her chin.

"You have proven a terrible disappointment to your mother in this, Beatrice," her father said with a shake of his head. "And to me. You should not have allowed him to do this."

"I don't know that I could have halted him from it, Papa," she said, knowing that Tip watched her too. Her parents must be truly distressed to speak to her like this in his presence. "But I ought to have tried, I realize." Instead of flinging herself into adventure at the castle, she could have written Thomas a strong letter from the safe distance of the village, encouraging him to come home. Georgie would have done that sort of intelligent thing. Her father was probably thinking that right now.

Of course, she hadn't known about the curse or that she would be trapped in the castle. But she might have thought ahead rather than spending hours worrying about her own imprudent infatuation-an attachment that until a few minutes ago finally seemed so lovely, perhaps even not entirely wrong.

Now her hopes all seemed foolish beyond measure. She stood completely immobile, hands cold and face hot, stunned at how swiftly all sense of freedom and happiness had entirely deserted her.

"Perhaps, sir," Tip's deep voice sank into her, "I might be of use in searching out Thomas so that you can speak to him directly."

Bea's pulse quickened. Her parents could not mistake his mild chastisement. But they would not heed it. Tip did not understand anything about the situation. How could he?

"Oh, dear me, yes, Lord Cheriot. We are a family lost and abandoned, and you are quite gracious to offer your assistance," her mother trilled. She still called him by his title after so many years of familiarity. Abruptly, the formality seemed very silly to Bea, yet until a few days earlier she had insisted upon it-not out of respect for his consequence, she now realized, but to keep him at a distance. To keep her heart safe. But it had never been safe from the moment she met him.

"That is very good of you, Cheriot," her father said. "Harriet mentioned that you have business in the region. How do your interests go along here?"

"Quite well, thank you," he said lightly. He had not yet gone to Porthmadog. A dull ache swirled in Bea's middle.

"You have no doubt had a great deal of messiness to deal with here," her father said tightly. "I wish my son had the integrity that you do." He shook his head.

"It wasn't too many years ago that I was stirring up trouble as well," Tip replied.

"Your parents never despaired of you. Your father, I know, was always very proud."

"And your beautiful mother so fond. And your sister, poor, sweet Elizabeth," Lady Harriet sighed. "Left without her mother at such a tender age. My Georgianna was such a comfort to her, although I suppose she was already in Ireland with Kievan then, wasn't she?" she said, as though the effort of piecing together the chronology of the past three years proved too onerous.

"Fortunately, my sister had already married by the time my mother passed away. She had two children of her own in whom to take solace."

"But, of course." Lady Harriet laid a languid hand upon her brow. "How time slips away when one is closeted in the country with no pleasant company, no diversions, nothing but endless gray days and tedious, disobedient servants that never attend to one's wishes suitably."

Bea's cheeks burned.

"Miss Sinclaire," Tip said behind her. "Would you care to accompany me to the village in search of your brother? We might prevail upon Lady Bronwyn to return to the castle as well so that she can become acquainted with your parents." He turned to them again. "Lady Bronwyn's former governess took poorly yesterday. Our hostess generously spent yesterday evening at Miss Minturn's cottage in the village."

"I should remain here and see to the settling in of the servants," Bea mumbled. She didn't think she could bear the sharp sweetness of his company, not the way she felt now.

"I suspect they will do well enough on their own, and Cook is here to assist." He moved to her side and she could not avoid looking at him.

On the surface, he seemed perfectly at ease, but a glint of hardness flickered in the back of his emerald eyes. He would not allow her to evade him; that much was clear.

She took his outstretched arm.

"Ma'am," he tilted his head to her mother. "Mr. Sinclaire, we depart in hopes of returning shortly with Thomas and Lady Bronwyn."

"Do be quick about it, Beatrice," Lady Harriet instructed with a heavy breath. "You are the only one who knows just how I like my wardrobe arranged. I shan't have a decent gown to wear to dinner this evening if you tarry long in that wretched village."

"Yes, Mama." She cast her father a quick glance in parting.

"Do as your mother requests, Beatrice," he said. "The sooner we find him, the sooner we can be gone from here and return you home where you belong." His tone reproved.

They went toward the door. Bea struggled to contain the trembling of her hand tucked in Tip's elbow.

As soon as they were in the corridor, she tried to pull away, but his arm pinned her to his side.

"Oh, no you don't," he said, his voice as firm as his grip, and dragged her through a door near the stairs.

"I thought we were going to the village." Her gaze darted around the tiny space. It was a roughly rectangular chamber, no more than six feet square, dust on the floor, and a bucket, mop, broom and dustpan the sole occupants. A tiny, deep aperture window provided very little light.

"Not just yet," he said behind her, shutting the door.

Bea's heart leapt. The last time he'd said those words, he kissed her. Had he brought her in here to do that again?

She turned to face him, and all hope of a lovely dalliance in the broom closet vanished. His face was hard, his look incredulous.

"What in God's name just happened in there?"

April 18, 1816 Mr. Peter Cheriot proposed marriage to me today.

Actually, he did not precisely make a formal offer. He simply said (as we strolled past the tennis players on the green, with Mama and two of her friends), "When we are married, Bea, we must have a tennis court put in the yard, don't you think?" He waved his hand toward the players, smiled, and immediately spoke of something else. I hardly knew what to say, in any case.

I do like him, Diary. I do not even mind it that he said such a thoughtless thing.

I like him very much.

Very much.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Bea released a miserable breath and it seemed to Tip that she bit the inside of her cheek.

"It's obvious, I should think," she said, her voice dull. "Mama and Papa are unhappy about Thomas's situation."

"Of course they are unhappy. Any sane parent would be."

"It is truly remarkable that they came. I didn't even know Papa planned to visit York this month. But Mama sometimes forgets to tell me of such matters until they are upon us." She worried her lovely lower lip between her teeth. "It is good to see him. It is nearly two years since he visited York, and four since that last time in London when he told Mama he would no longer hire the townhouse for her."

Tip remembered the day like it was yesterday. Between his father's declining health and finishing university, he'd barely had time enough to call upon Bea in town. With her removal north, he often had to arrange his schedule in labyrinthine twists to manage to see her. And the months between his visits to Yorkshire lasted far too long.

"Your mother is, as ever, entirely insensible of your feelings." He raked his fingers through his hair. Her gaze following the movement of his arm grew warm. His hand stalled at the back of his neck. He tried to remember what he'd been haranguing her about. It was difficult to think straight when she looked at him in quite that manner, like she had the night before when she first touched him.

He cleared his throat to recapture his indignation.

"Why are you allowing them to treat you in this manner? Your damn fool inconsiderate brother got you into this and you didn't say a blasted word about it."

"You needn't use such language." The glimmer of arousal left her eyes, fueling Tip's frustration.