Free Captive Bride by Katharine Ashe Page B

will forgive me.”
    Forgive him? She’d never slept so peacefully, filled with sweet happiness and the pleasantest tinglings .
    “You are very kind to apologize.” She drew in a steadying breath and told the biggest lie of her life. “But it was nothing, really.”
    Silence followed. She could not bring herself to look at him. If she saw relief on his face, she might actually cry.
    The formal path ended at a gate set in a wall, continuing as dirt and pebbles on the opposite side as it skirted the glade. Thomas and Bronwyn went ahead, her hand tucked into his elbow.
    “Lady Marstowe seems concerned that your brother is in danger from Lady Bronwyn,” Tip said, as though following her thoughts.
    “They are obviously quite attached.” Bea folded her hands into the fall of her rose-colored gingham skirt.
    “I understand she is an heiress. What could concern Lady Marstowe over such an alliance?”
    Bea’s heart thudded dully. He thought of marriage in such rational terms. But most everyone did, except foolish girls still in the schoolroom, and herself, of course. Her mother and father’s marriage had been one of convenience, after all, although her father had adored his young, sparklingly beautiful wife. At first.
    Bea cleared her throat. “We know little of Lady Bronwyn’s father. Only what Mr. Whitney told Thomas. I suppose Aunt Grace is worried about that. Thomas mustn’t ally himself with a questionable family.”
    Another long pause ensued before he spoke again.
    “I know nothing of Prescot except that he is a recluse and never takes his seat in Lords. But I’ve spent a great deal of time in the country these past few years, of course, so I am not acquainted with everyone in town. Would you like me to send to my solicitor to inquire into him?”
    Bea’s gaze lifted and her steps faltered. “Oh, that will not be necessary, but you are very ki —”
    “Kind, yes,” he finished. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Nevertheless, to put Lady Marstowe at ease, I will write to my solicitor today.”
    Bea bit the inside of her cheek and started walking again, her feet sinking into the mossy ground cover like treading on pillows. A pair of black birds darted past, twisting about each other as they flew, and a gull cawed far overhead. The autumn sea breeze rose cool and damp off the hillside into the sunshine. But Bea’s chest felt heavy.
    “Papa should really do this sort of thing,” she finally said.
    “In his absence, I am happy to.”
    “Thank you, my lord.”
    “Thank you, Peter.”
    Her gaze shot up. He tilted his head to glance aside at her, his mouth curving into the barest suggestion of a grin.
    “We have been friends for seven years, Bea. And now I have kissed you, as well. You sound perfectly antique calling me ‘my lord,’ not to mention dreadfully prim.”
    Bea’s pulse tripped. “That is a singularly ungallant thing to say,” she replied to cover her shock of confused pleasure and irrational disappointment. Friends ? But of course they were friends. They certainly weren’t anything else.
    Before she could halt her increasingly unruly tongue, she blurted out, “Do you really think I’m prim?”
    He chuckled, a rich rumble of pleasure. “You sound it, occasionally.”
    “When I behave as propriety demands?” Perhaps pretending indignation would still the quivers in her belly.
    “When you go on as though we are nearly strangers, when we are nothing of the sort.” His voice continued light, but Bea’s heart pounded.
    Nothing of the sort .
    “Not only ungallant, but ungrateful,” she said as steadily as she could. “Calling you by your title is a mark of respect, of course.”
    He grasped her hand, encompassing it in his large, strong hold.
    “Respect is all well and good, my girl, but I should think I deserve something more than that by now.”
    His emerald eyes above the slight smile looked intensely bright. Bea’s heart wanted to explode. Her head chased after the excitement too. It