father to run in the meadows with him, to teach him to fish and hunt and ride. No father to hug him, to help him through his first heartbreak, to usher him into manhood. Malvern could never be that man. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would be both mother and father to him. She would be enough.
Preston read her thoughts. ‘He’ll have uncles, Bea. He’ll have Dimitri and Liam and me. He will not go wanting for male guidance.’ Something moved in his hazel eyes. She feared she knew what it was and it was the last thing she wanted from anyone, but especially from him.
‘I don’t need pity,’ Beatrice said firmly but quietly. She would not be made a charity case.
‘I’m not offering it,’ he replied with equal sincerity. ‘Of all the people I’ve ever known, Beatrice, you are the least likely to need it.’
‘As are you. You’re handsome and well positioned. I know very well from having seen it first hand—the matchmaking mamas are angling hard for you. You could marry whenever you like.’ Beatrice gave him a wry smile. She needed to direct the discussion away from herself. Their conversation yesterday had strayed in this direction, too, and she had no desire to head down that path again. If they stayed this course they’d end up talking about Alton, about why she wouldn’t seek him out. They could talk about marriage, just not hers. ‘Surely there’s a pretty girl who has captured your heart?’
‘Actually, no.’ Preston was determined not to be distracted, though. ‘Why won’t you talk about him, Bea? Matthew’s father? That’s twice now. Don’t think I don’t notice how you veer away from the subject.’
Bea met his gaze with a strong stare. ‘He is not worth talking about.’ How did she explain talking about him seemed to make Alton more real? She let the silence linger, signalling the finality of that conversation.
Preston shifted in his seat, rearranging his limbs. ‘So,’ he drawled, fixing her with a mischievous stare in return, ‘you think I’m handsome?’
‘You know you are. It’s empirically true.’ Beatrice laughed, but the sound came out a little nervously, her mouth dry. Preston was handsome. He wore his dark hair brushed back off his forehead, revealing the lean, elegant bones of his face, the razor straightness of his nose, the firm line of his jaw, the sweep of enigmatic cheekbones that appeared stark and sharp when he was angry and gave way to a hint of friendly apples when he smiled. Perhaps, though, what gave his face its handsomeness were its two best features: his hazel eyes, intelligent and compassionate by turn, and the thin aristocratic structure of his mouth. It was a face that paired well with his body. His was not the bulkier, muscled body of a man like Liam Casek, but athletically trim. A fencer’s body, lean and quick in its height.
Beatrice shifted, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts. It was something of a shock to think of Preston in those terms. She’d never catalogued Preston’s physical assets in quite such a way—like a debutante or a matchmaking mama looking for a prime eligible parti. ‘I’ll take him now.’ She reached for her son. She’d imposed on Preston long enough and holding the baby would give her something to do, something to think about besides Preston’s physique.
Preston surprised her. ‘No, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hold him a while longer. You can rest, if you want. You must be tired with all the getting up every night. I think Matthew and I are getting on famously.’
She was tired. The nights were indeed difficult. Beatrice didn’t need further urging. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, hoping the old adage was true—out of sight, out of mind. She’d very much like to dispel certain images of Preston Worth. Harbouring such fanciful notions was one sure way to destroy a friendship. It was probably why men and women were so often unsuccessful in their friendships with one another. It was more difficult than she’d expected to rid her mind of those images, but it was easy to rationalise why. They were in close quarters, there was the baby to look after. Jonathon and Claire’s news had thrown the holes of their own individual lives into sharp relief. It was natural to reach out and grab at the person nearest to you. Even now, wasn’t Preston doing the same thing? He wasn’t the only one who could read minds. She knew very well what he was doing. He was sitting across from her, holding the baby and pretending at fatherhood.
Of course, Preston’s situation wasn’t nearly as dire as hers. He could change his circumstances. She could not. Should not. She had her rules now and the number one rule was that men were dangerous. Rule number two: passion was dangerous. But Preston didn’t need to live by those rules. There was still time for him, all the time in the world. He could marry when he chose and he was young by male marriage standards. Many men didn’t marry until their thirties and Preston was what? Twenty-eight? He was five years older than May and she. She remembered that his birthday was in early April. The realisation almost made her eyes fly open. His birthday was the tenth.
He would likely celebrate it on the road. Away from his family. That was her fault. He’d not wanted to make this journey.
I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else coming for you.
He had sacrificed his comforts for her and she’d been shrewish with him. She would find a way to make it up to him.
In terms of igniting dangerous fantasies about one’s travelling partner, the day got markedly worse; everything seemed to feed those rather uncomfortable considerations. There was the picnic beside a quiet brook and a short walk through a meadow of wildflowers to stretch their legs later in the afternoon while Matthew dozed under the watchful eye of the driver, all of it accompanied by conversation, all of it seemingly meaningful to her, at least. It was a chance to get to know her friend again.
She learned about Preston’s work along the coast. Thanks to high taxes, smuggling was always in season. Danger, too, but he seemed to take it all in his stride. In turn, he asked about her interests—science and herbs, things she hadn’t devoted much time to since Matthew was born. She was starved for such conversation. It had been months since someone had paid attention to her as a singular entity in herself and it was intoxicating. The thoughtful conversation wove an intimacy all its own, a potency further enhanced by her earlier considerations—considerations that were becoming increasingly difficult to tamp down.
‘I think this might be the most pleasant day I’ve had in a long time.’ Beatrice let Preston hand her into the coach after their walk, suddenly conscious of his touch, of its warmth, its strength. ‘Motherhood, I’m discovering, is a lonely occupation. I don’t think I’ve talked to another soul about anything other than babies in for ever.’ Not talking about them had been liberating.
Preston grinned and settled into his seat. ‘I’m glad we stopped, then. I usually don’t talk about my work much. I suspect most find it boring, or somewhat scandalous. It’s one thing for a nobleman’s son to have a position, to be an “officer” of sorts, but it’s another thing to actually do the position.’ Preston shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine just sitting around all day. Apparently, several of my colleagues can manage it just fine. I would go barmy.’ He paused and turned more serious. ‘It killed me not to be able to serve against Napoleon. I was envious of Jonathon and his brother. Jonathon was an heir, too. I thought surely if Jonathon’s parents let him go, mine would as well.’
She hadn’t known. Always a dutiful son, he’d hid his disappointment admirably. ‘But you were posted to the coast instead?’
‘And not even in a military capacity.’ Preston gave a dry laugh. Beatrice could hear the
