"Hello, Rhys. Are you turning in as well?"

"Perpetually, my lady."

Aunt Julia chuckled.

"Good night, Iversly." The dowager gestured her sister and the baron forward.

Bea paused. At the door, Tip cast her a glance, then went out.

"Lord Iversly," she said, "I wish to thank you for what you have done for me."

"You have what you desire now," he said without inflection.

"Well, partially, at least."

"Ah, but I believe you will find that you have more than you could have ever dreamt, my dear."

The knot of nerves in Bea's belly tightened. "But what of you, my lord? Will you ever find your dream?"

Silence met her, vacant and chill in the fire-warmed parlor. Bea waited, but nothing came, and she knew she was alone.

She climbed the stairs and walked the corridor to her bedchamber in a pensive humor. She grasped the latch but did not turn it.

Iversly was willing, even eager, to live eternally without hope of love. And Thomas seemed happy to wait indefinitely to learn if he and his betrothed would rub along well together. But Bea's blood still ran with impatient need. She did not wish to wait months or years to know if Tip could love her. Her daring certainly would not be any higher than now, after finally telling off her family. She might as well learn the truth right away. At least then she would know what to expect from her marriage.

"Planning on spending the night here in the corridor?" Tip's voice came at her shoulder.

She spun around.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Being betrothed to him, this time publicly, permanently, did not make it any easier to stand close to him without losing her breath. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow, his jaw was ever so slightly shadowed with whisker growth, and his vibrant eyes sparkled.

"I-I was th-thinking."

"And stammering again, apparently." He reached up and tucked a few errant strands of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips lingered. "What seems to be the trouble now? Has Iversly discomposed you once more?"

She shook her head, swallowing around the lump of wavering courage lodged in her throat.

"Not Iversly?" he asked, moving closer. A breath of air separated them. Bea had to bend her neck to hold his gaze.

"Not him." She curled her fingers around his lapel, turned the door latch, and pulled him into her bedchamber.

Tip caught her up in one arm, pushing the door shut.

"What's this? Have I caused sensible, practical Miss Beatrice Sinclaire to become overset?" He smiled, and heaven descended for Bea.

"Always," she breathed and drew his face down to kiss.

He dragged her tight against his body.

Given the half hour it had taken her mother to button her into her garments, Bea's clothing came off with remarkable speed. But Tip seemed intent, his fingers on the hooks and laces quite sure. Her stays, shift, and stockings joined petticoat and gown on the floor.

He took in a heavy breath, tangled his hands in her hair, and covered her mouth. He kissed her with a hunger Bea hadn't dared to imagine. She tore at his coat and cravat, needing to feel his warm skin beneath her hands. He yanked his shirt over his head and pulled her into his arms again.

She fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, caressing his arousal beneath the fabric in tentative strokes. Tip sighed deeply, his hand covered hers, then he helped her divest him of the garment. Bea sought his hard satiny length, warmth bursting inside her in anticipation.

He swept her up and deposited her on the bed.

For a moment he stood still, his gaze scanning her from toe to brow, and Bea thought she would die with delirious happiness. Heat prickled behind her eyes, so intense she sucked in breath to hold her emotions at bay. He joined her on the mattress, moving between her thighs and bringing his body intimately against hers.

He took her face between his hands. "Beatrice Sinclaire," he whispered huskily, "you are beautiful."

She choked down a sob of overflowing joy, shifting beneath him to feel him more, reveling in his words and the caress of his body. He lowered his mouth to hers, and she drank him in. Whatever this was that he was giving her, whether love or merely friendship laced with searing passion, she could accept it. She would take anything he had to offer if it felt like this forever.

Her hands clutching his shoulders trembled and her breaths were labored as he kissed a line of perfect pleasure along her throat to her neck. Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes, then spilled out, marking twin tracks into her hair. She willed them away, praying he would not notice, but another sob shook her.

"What is it?" he murmured against her shoulder, a smile in his voice.

The intimate whisper only caused the tears to flow more heavily. She bit down on her lip in agony. He simply must not see her like this. But try as she might, the stream of tears only worsened.

Tip lifted his head. His eyes darkened with dismay.

"You are not laughing." He pushed back onto his elbows. "Oh, no. No. Don't, Bea, please. I knew it was tooa* I should have waited until after we wed. But then you seemed to wanta* Dear God, please don't cry."

He pulled away and sat up on the side of the bed. Through her sobs, Bea ached from his abrupt distance. She pushed to a sitting position and reached for his arm. The sensation of his hot skin over firm muscle caught her breath.

"I did want to. I do. I'm so sorry." She hiccupped a staggered sniffle and sucked in a big breath, struggling to contain her weeping. "I cannot seem to prevent it. I am just so filled with- with everything. I-I know I am stammering, but I feel as though I've sprouted wings, or perhaps only found those I always folded up tight before."

Through her tear-fogged vision, he looked befuddled.

"When I left Mama at Hart House to come here," she hurried to explain, "I was so excited for an adventure. But I discovered more than an adventure here. I discovered that I do not want to go back to being good, practical, sensible, obedient, wretched Beatrice. Ever! I want to be free. Not just here at the castle for a few days. Always."

"Free?" His jaw went taut, his shoulders rigid. "Don't even think of refusing to marry me again, Bea," he said in warning tones. "It's far too late for that."

"No, of course not," she exclaimed, but the look in his eyes was so strange. "It is only that I-" The tears began again, heavier this time, streaming down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw.

"Dear God, this is a nightmare," he said in a thick voice, running a hand through his hair. "I want you so much it makes me crazy sometimes, nearly all the time. It used to be that making love to you was the only thing I could think about. Now, more than anything, what I want most is to make you happy. I thought perhaps you felt the same way. But if this is how it will be, I cannot do this to you. It's impossible."

"It doesn't have to be this way," she said through the tears, her heart singing from his beautiful words. Perfect words. Words she'd never dreamed he would say. "I won't always cry, and you dida*you do give me pleasure. What I mean to say isa*"

"No. This was a mistake. I'll go." He stood and moved across the chamber toward his clothing, hastily pulling on his trousers.

"Don't you dare leave, Peter Cheriot!" She leapt off the bed, grabbing up her wrapper and clutching it in front of her-for protection or comfort she didn't know.

"Let me go, Bea," he said, his voice hoarse. "Then you will stop crying and tomorrow after we've both had some sleep we can sit down and calmly talk about how we are going to arrange this." He swallowed jerkily.

"I do not wish to sleep, and I do not wish to arrange it. No! Listen to me, for pity's sake."

"Your tears tell me everything I need to know."

"Curse my wretched tears," she groaned. "I'm crying because I am happy!"

Tip went absolutely still. But his eyes grew more fevered yet, a look of panic stealing into them. "Happy?"

"Yes, I'm happy, you imbecile. And I cannot bring myself to believe you actually wish to marry me. Every time I think of it, I know I must be dreaming. Then, when you hold me, I feel as though-as though-I feel heaven." The floodgates of Bea's eyes opened wide now. Her heart seemed to pour through them too.

"You are happy." It was a statement, uttered low and unsteadily. He did not look pleased at all.

Bea choked back another sob, nodding.

Tip walked to her, grasped her arms tight, and swept her into a kiss that left her struggling for air and clinging to him helplessly. His mouth moved along her jaw, then lower, ravenous, and his arms encircled her, pulling her against him. She welcomed his caresses, sinking her fingers into his hair and sighing her pleasure through her soggy throat.

He pressed his lips beneath her ear, his hands gripping her close. "I am lost, Bea." His voice was a ragged whisper. "Flooded with you."

"W-what?" The word stumbled between her trembling lips.

He pulled back, his emerald eyes awash in bewilderment. "I need you like air. Even more so since you discovered your wings. I wanted you before, but since we came here, each time the spark of excitement lights your eyes, I want you more until I cannot see, can barely breathe unless I hear you, touch you. I tried to control it, to deny it. I even left here on the pretense that I could withstand it. But it was futile. You hold me in your hands. I am yours to do with as you will."

Bea's heart pounded, and twisted. He wanted her, but he didn't want to want her? His anguished eyes showed it so clearly. And it explained so much-his kisses, his anger, his proposals and retractions.

"I-I am sorry," she said upon a choke, dashing her knuckles across her damp cheek. "Perhaps it will pass. I mean to say, perhaps your strong feelings have arisen from this rather intense situation here, the castle, the danger, and the-the intimacies we have shared."

"I should say so. But only to strengthen what already existed."

"Already existed?" She shook, clutching the dressing gown to her breasts. "I don't understand."

He stared at her for an endless moment, astonishment dawning upon his handsome face.

"Good Lord, Bea," he uttered in a low voice, "how can you not know it by now?"

"Not know what?"

His eyes glittered. "I am in love with you."

She couldn't breathe. "You are?"

"I have been in love with you for years."

"Years? Y-you have?"

"Of course I have. Why do you think I've asked you to marry me a dozen times?"

"Because-" She could not think. He loved her. He loved her. "Because you did not actually wish to marry," she whispered, the words sounding ridiculous beneath the force of the glorious truth, all of her rationalizations tragically foolish now. "Because I was a safe gamble since you knew I would refuse you."

With a strong hand he tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes directly.

"Bea, when a man does not wish to marry, he simply does not ask anyone." He smiled, and her knees turned to jelly.

"It does seem a rather far-fetched notion, now that you put it that way."

"It does indeed." His gaze scanned her face slowly, coming to rest on her mouth. He bent to touch his lips to hers, a deliciously tender caress. He drew back and took in a hard breath.

She flattened her palms on his chest, the dressing gown slithering to the floor between their feet.

"Would you-?" she whispered. "D-do you think you could-?" she tried again.

"More stammering? Am I always to have this effect upon you now?"

His shining gaze was too much to bear. She laid her cheek against his chest, his heartbeat swift beneath her ear.

"Please tell me again."

"I love you, Bea. I have loved you for so long and with such hope that you have become part of my very soul."

Happiness swelled in her, grand and fresh and spectacular.

Tip drew her away and his gaze sought hers. "I know you have given your heart elsewhere. But do you think that in time you could come to love me?"

Tears clogged her throat.

He stroked his thumb over her lips, his expression determined. "I want your love, Bea, and I will win it however necessary. Whoever he is, he was a fool to have left you free. But I have you now, and I will not give up, for I want all of you." With gentle fingers, he tried to wipe away the moisture collecting on her cheeks again. "Of course, if you ever let slip his name I may have to murder him."

She sobbed, turning her lips into his palm, then her cheek.

"Weep now if you must," he said roughly. "But I will make you forget him." He kissed her mouth and his hand trapped her hips against his.

"You cannot make me forget him." She sighed through her tears. "He is you."

He stilled. His lips parted for a long, silent interval.

"I beg your pardon?" he finally said.

Sweet laughter welled up in her. "You are the man I gave my heart to, Peter Cheriot. I love you. I have loved you since the moment we met. No one else. Only you."

He shook his head once, as though forcing space for the information, his jaw slack.

"Forgive me if I appear astonished." His voice was wonderfully unsteady. "But I must venture to say, Bea, that of all the gentlemen of your acquaintance, I believe I can safely assume that for some time now I have been the least ineligible."

"You loved Georgie."

"I did what?"

"You loved my sister. I was certain of it." She rushed the words. "You were devoted to her, then when Kievan and she married, you showered upon me all the attention you could no longer give to her. She broke your heart and it comforted you to pay addresses to me so that you could continue hearing of her, perhaps even see her when she visited Hart House."

"Astounding," he murmured. Then firmly, "I showered you with attention because I was falling in love with you."

"I didn't know that. You never told me."

"Because I-" He halted. "I asked you to marry me! Quite a few times."