Tip grabbed her wrist. "What are you doing?" His voice sounded rough.

"Do you know, earlier tonight," she whispered, "what happened to me, it- it was like nothing I have ever experienced before." She lifted her gaze. "Except with you."

His eyes flickered, then shone. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and dragged her to him. His mouth came down upon hers firm and open, his hands circling her face, sinking into her hair as he pressed her against the wall. He kissed her deep, hard, and wonderfully.

Bea clutched his shoulders and drank him in, trapped between solid man and her own liquid heart. Her palms slid down his chest, adoring him. She would never weary of touching him, not even when they were old and gray and barely able to totter around. The sensation of his heartbeats beneath her fingertips would always move her.

She should tell him now that she was sorry she had prodded him to cry off. She should end this foolishness and have the man of her dreams who desired her and cared for her. But she couldn't. Now more than ever, she knew she did not deserve him.

Not yet.

"No." She shoved him away, pressing the back of her shaking hand to her mouth. "I will not marry you under these circumstances."

"These circumstances?" he exclaimed, his breaths uneven. "What circumstances are those, Miss Sinclaire? That I have not, in fact, asked you to marry me lately? Or that you cannot keep your hands off me? Or-"

"Go away, Peter." She slid from between him and the wall, sidestepping out of his reach. "Go to the village or some other place, and don't come back until tomorrow. I am excessively fatigued and cannot quarrel with you at present. But, frankly, if you remain here I don't believe I can withstand you, either."

He stared. "You are excessively fatigued?"

She nodded.

"And cannot quarrel with me?"

She bit both her lips.

"Beatrice Sinclaire, you are a strange and impossible woman."

"I know. The trouble is that no one has ever recognized that but you!" She whirled around and ran for her room.

She locked the door. This dramatic gesture did not, however, guarantee a restful night. She lay awake staring at the canopy atop her bed, her heart beating wildly at the memory of Tip's burning kiss and outraged look, his wonderful words and everything between them, everything she had done wrong, and right, and had yet to do.

When she finally arose near dawn, her eyes were heavy with dark circles beneath them and her cheeks as pasty as her mother said. She dressed and descended to the breakfast parlor, but not even the servants stirred yet. Leaving the building, she slipped silently across the mist-shrouded courtyard, making her way toward the rear garden path.

She walked and thought and imagined until the cold Welsh morning eventually drove her inside again. Smoothing the mist off her cloak, she made her way into the breakfast chamber.

Everyone was present except Tip. Bronwyn was absent as well, no doubt still at the village with her governess. Aunt Julia enjoyed a bowl of porridge and jam, her elbow entrenched in a puddle of butter.

"Oh, are you awake this early, Beatrice?" Bea's mother asked with a lift of her pencil-thin brow. "How unusual for you of late. Lady Bronwyn keeps her servants to shockingly early hours. But this is the wretched countryside, after all."

Bea went to the sideboard to collect a muffin and tea.

"Beatrice," her father said in quiet tones, "have you given any further thought to your poor attitude last evening?"

Bea took a slow breath.

"No, Papa, I have not." She set down her plate, a tinny sensation running through her blood, thinner and colder than her heady excitement the night before, but clear and thoroughly focused. "I believe I was entirely in the right of it."

"In the right of it?" His brow darkened.

She folded her hands. "Thomas and Lady Bronwyn do not wish to marry."

Thunderous silence met her statement. She forged on, energy replacing the chill with each word. "Thomas's infatuation with her has cooled, and Lady Bronwyn, it seems, would prefer a titled gentleman."

"Thomas, my wayward son!" Lady Harriet exclaimed. "Your father has already sent his letter to Lord Prescot. Tell me your sister is spewing untruths."

"Why, Mama?" Bea asked. Fearless, fearless. "Only yesterday you complained that Bronwyn was not a suitable match for my brother. Have you altered your opinion on the matter so swiftly?"

"Insolent girl," her mother grumbled. "You are jealous of your brother's success and have intentionally botched this betrothal, haven't you?"

Bea's mouth fell open. "Jealous? Of Thomas's happiness? I wish him nothing but."

"You are guaranteeing that right and tight then, aren't you?" Thomas shot her a glare, crossing his arms.

Heat ran up Bea's spine. "What on earth are you talking about? You would rather marry the wrong woman than risk Mama and Papa's displeasure?"

"I would have done it my way," Thomas grumbled.

"How is that, Tom? After you are already married to her? Let me tell you something, that lovely girl you set your sights on just over a fortnight ago will not wait patiently to see the day." She balled her quivering fists. "Thomas, this is the last scrape I am wresting you from, and you should thank me for it. From now on, you are on your own."

"Beatrice, you have certainly done this, and your brother will suffer for it."

"I beg your pardon, Mama, but I simply cannot see how I am to blame for Thomas and Lady Bronwyn determining they will not suit," she said, her teeth clenched so hard they squeaked. "And that is another thing. Just because I didn't hang out for every gentleman who crossed our drawing room threshold does not mean I had an aversion to finding a suitable husband."

"You never showed interest in any of them," Lady Harriet sniffed.

"I did. Some of them were quite nice. But I had little opportunity to discover whether they would suit. You chased them all away with your whining and complaining so effectively, I never knew. Then you took me out of society at precisely the moment I was beginning to feel comfortable in it, cutting me off from my friends in order to spend time with yours and making so many demands on me that it was nearly impossible to go out simply for diversion."

Her mother waved that away with a languid hand. "You would never have accepted any of them if they had continued coming around."

"That is true. I might not have." Most assuredly not, with her heart lodged securely in Peter Cheriot. "But that hardly signifies. At least I might have enjoyed better company than your gossiping friends. I should have adored living with Aunt Audrey, even just visiting her on occasion." She turned to her father. "Why didn't you consider that for me, Papa? Why only when it came to bringing out Lady Bronwyn did it cross your mind? Didn't you think me fit to enjoy my seasons as well? You gave Georgie that consideration when she went down to town. Why not me?"

"Your aunt does not approve of your brother. You know that, Beatrice. You would not have been able to keep an eye on him from Audrey's house."

"How is it that I became my brother's keeper? Perhaps when we were children and we shared the schoolroom it might have made sense. But Thomas is a grown man now, Papa. To expect him to take instruction from a sister who has seen considerably less of the world than he has is ludicrous." She let that sink in. "And it is unfair to me, as well."

Her father stood, pulling his napkin from his lap. "Beatrice, what has gotten into you?"

"Myself, I think."

"You are a selfish girl," Lady Harriet sighed. "Alfred, tell your impertinent daughter that she is wretchedly selfish."

"Selfish to meekly rusticate to the country because you drove Papa to distraction in town?" Bea said, calm conviction filling her. "Furthermore," she looked to her father, "Mama does not need me at home. She needs you, her husband. You want me to be there so that you are not obliged to feel guilty about not being there. But acting as your substitute is not my life's ambition. I never wanted the position, and I only did it from duty to both of you. For too many years. As of now, I will no longer be filling that role."

Bea's father stared, eyes wide.

"What else would you do?" Lady Harriet said petulantly. "Go to live with your sister in Ireland? I daresay she would be happy to have you there to care for the children, at the very least."

"I have no doubt Georgie and Kievan would welcome me into their home, as a friend rather than an unpaid servant, of course. But I do not intend to go there." She took in a thick gulp of air. Sometime during her tirade Tip had appeared at the doorway. She felt his presence like a wind strengthening her flame. Certainty filled her lungs and sang in her blood. "Lord Cheriot has asked for my hand, and I have accepted."

December 29, 1814 Today I made the acquaintance of Mr. Peter Cheriot. He is kind, clever, and well-natured, and when we speak he looks at me as though he is actually listening to my words.

He is also very handsome. Mama says handsome men are a woman's curse. But Mr. Cheriot seems handsome on the inside as well. Cousin Mirabella was excessively peevish due to the weather, and he spent an hour with her counting snowflakes on the window to distract her. She is not yet eleven, although he must be nineteen at least.

Mama also says I haven't the knack of flirting with gentlemen and will be a dismal failure during my first season in society. But Mr. Cheriot seemed perfectly happy to talk with me. He is very amiable.

Diary, when he looks at me, my insides grow warm in the oddest manner. I cannot explain it. I would say it was love at first sight, but I do not believe in such a thing.

Rather, I did not. Until perhaps today.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Her parents gaped.

"Beatrice, how could you?" her mother exclaimed.

"I don't have any idea what you mean, Mama. And I could very well, thank you."

Her father cleared his throat. "Baron or no, Cheriot, you might have asked me first."

"And you, Beatrice," Lady Harriet whined, "are an ungrateful girl not to have asked me first."

"As I understand it," Tip said, his voice perfectly even, "your other daughters' suitors did not ask your permission to pay their addresses. Nor did the ladies themselves require your leave to marry. Why should your youngest daughter be held to a different standard?"

Bea's breath left her. Could it be? Had he not asked them because he respected her-worlds more than her parents ever had-and he wished her to know it, even years ago? Bea's heart filled with gratitude. Warm, sizzling anticipation curled around it. He was not denying their betrothal.

"Be that as it may," her father said gruffly, "someone must look after Thomas and Lady Harriet."

"As head of your family, sir, I should think that would be your duty."

"You listen here, young man. You may hold a title, but I will not stand for Richard Cheriot's son, of all people, telling me what my duty to my family ought to be."

"Papa, stop," Bea cut in. "He does not deserve your censure, and it is me that you truly wish to chastise. So go ahead. Do so and be done with it, because this is your last opportunity. After this, you will have my deaf ear, I assure you."

"You thankless girl," her mother muttered.

Bea turned a level gaze upon her. "You, too, Mama. Have your say now. I will not be available for more forthwith."

The lady's mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Harriet," Lady Marstowe intoned. "Julia and I will not be returning to Hart House at this time. Instead, she and I, and you, will remain here after the others have departed."

Lady Harriet's crystal blue eyes went wide. "Me? Whatever can you mean to say, Aunt Grace?"

"That you are a spoilt, overindulged, petulant child, and it is about time you looked after someone else for a change. Lady Bronwyn's grandmother requires more attention than the chit is willing to pay her, and as Julia and I are past our prime we cannot do it alone." She cast Bea a shrewd look. "Perhaps Beatrice might recommend some methods for caring for an invalid."

Bea smiled. She glanced at Tip. He seemed to be studying the shine on the toes of his top boots. Her heart tightened. Could he be unhappy about what she had done?

"Alfred, tell her I will not do it," her mother insisted.

"No, Harriet. It will do you good to spend a minute or two each day thinking of someone other than yourself." His gaze shifted back to Bea, troubled. He opened his mouth as though to speak.

"I think I shall have a stroll in the garden," Aunt Julia said brightly, standing. "Gracie, Beatrice, I would be so happy to have your company." She turned her twinkling eyes on Tip. "And dear Peter, too, of course."

"Ma'am." He smiled and bowed.

Bea's hands trembled, spent exhilaration washing through her. She felt drained and wonderful. Almost courageous enough to face him alone.

"May I come along?" Thomas asked hesitantly.

Lady Harriet's lips twisted. "You are a faithless boy, Thomas. I always knew that."

"Oh hush, Mama." He came to Bea's side and offered his arm.

Bea's eyes went wide. He had not done such a thing in years. Not even during those endless nights at balls and assemblies her first season in London, when she had known so few people and often stood alone awaiting a partner, had Thomas acted the gallant escort to her.

But Tip had. Whenever he had been present at a party or ball he'd sought her out, teased and talked with her, made her feel comfortable. He had even introduced her to his friends, always gracious and solicitous. It had never bothered her that those eligible bachelors invariably disappeared into the ether as soon as they paid her a few calls. She only ever had eyes for one gentleman.

He still had not looked at her. She watched covertly as he took Aunt Julia's arm and led her from the breakfast parlor.

"Bea," her brother said as they moved through the courtyard toward the rear gate. The sun had climbed high enough to dissipate the mists, and the grass was nearly dry. Bea's slippers were already a soggy mess from earlier. But she didn't mind it. She walked five feet off the ground.

"I'm deuced sorry I've been so wretchedly addlepated," Thomas mumbled. "Will you forgive me?"

"Probably, but only after many years."

His gaze cut to hers, then relaxed with a great show of relief.

"You are gammoning me. My sister," he squeezed her hand in his elbow. "I don't know what I would ever do without you."

"Well you must become accustomed to it, Tom. I was perfectly serious in there when I said I am finished saving you from your mistakes."

"I know it, and I'm damned jelly-legged to do it alone, I'll admit, Bea. I depend upon you."

She blinked rapidly. "You have never said such a thing to me before."

His brow beetled. "I may not have said it, but it's the truth." He quirked a rueful smile. "I wouldn't be half the man I am if it weren't for you."

"Thank you, Tom."