He was sure she intended to look business-like in her navy carriage dress, the belted pelisse and flaring skirts trimmed with military-style gold braiding. Her bonnet had strings of blue ribbon, its dark veil currently pinned up. Her pale blonde hair was parted in the middle, ringlets dangling over her cheeks, and her accessories were simple pearls at her ears and gloves of cream kid.
Knowing Bea, she had no idea that the severity of her ensemble highlighted her svelte femininity, the delicacy of her strength. When a man looked at her, he wouldn’t be thinking about sitting across a desk from her; he’d be fantasizing about bending her over said desk and discovering the fire beneath that tantalizingly cool composure…
Her eyebrows winged. “You don’t think I can manage the squire?”
“Manage? Yes. With diplomacy…?” He gave her a significant look.
Over dessert last evening, Beatrice had shown him the anonymous threatening note she’d received and, with the help of the Sheridans, she’d compiled a list of suspects for the arson. As the list had grown, so had the knot in Wick’s gut.
Christ Almighty, the lady was a magnet for trouble.
She’d had a series of squabbles with Crombie, who apparently held a grudge against her for outbidding him on Camden Manor, which he’d wanted to annex to his own estate. Their most recent skirmish had occurred last month. According to Bea, a fence had come down between their properties, and when she’d gone to fix it, she’d found that the squire had gotten there first. His workers, she’d claimed indignantly, had been planting the poles an extra six feet past her property line. When the workers had refused to desist, she’d waited until nighttime to send her own men out.
In the morning, Squire Crombie had found a pile of fencing on his doorstep. She’d had her own fence put in; nailed upon it was a map of her property lines. Her butler, Gentleman Henderson, had been posted there as well, shotgun in hand, to dissuade the squire from retaliation.
Crombie was not Bea’s only enemy. The Reverend Mr. Henry Wright, the village rector, held a prejudice against the tenants to whom Bea offered safe harbor and preached fire and brimstone about her at his weekly sermons, which she’d ceased to attend. Randall Perkins, the former tenant who’d been caught assaulting her maid Lisette, was also a possible culprit. Perkins had been laying low since then, although there’d been sightings of him in the nearby villages. Apparently, he had a birthmark, the port-wine stain on the left side of his face making him rather conspicuous.
Thenthere were the factory owners up north.
When Wick had heard that the Potteries Coalition had harassed Beatrice, he’d felt a surge of fury. The leader, Thomas McGillivray, and the other bastards were key investors in GLNR’s current scheme…and a large part of the reason Wick had come to Staffordshire incognito. The Coalition had grown impatient with the delay in laying track, and Wick hadn’t wanted them breathing down his neck while he did his job.
He would not, however, tolerate the damned bastards ganging up against Beatrice. Despite her protest, he’d told her that he would take care of the factory owners since he had a business relationship with them. This morning, he’d sent a note off to McGillivray, whose offices were in Stoke-Upon-Trent, to set up a meeting.
As if on cue, Beatrice reminded him, “I’m letting you take the lead with the factory owners.”
He wondered if she’d read his mind. Then again, she’d probably been saving that argument to use as leverage. In her shoes, he would have done the same thing.
Devil and damn, if he didn’t enjoy the way she kept him on his toes. He admired her tenacity: the strength of her will, her desire to do the right thing. Discovering that she’d received her scar while rescuing a boy from abuse made her all the more beautiful in his eyes. The fact that she’d trusted him with the painful memory felt like a gift. It was a sign that they were making progress.
That didn’t mean he’d back down, however. Nor did he think that she wished him to. Their verbal sparring was their own special way of flirting.
“As I caused that particular problem,” he said mildly, “it’s only fair that I deal with it.”
“Since Crombie despises me for buying the estate he wanted, this is my problem to contend with,” she countered. “Give and take, Murray. This is how this relationship is going to work.”
She looked so adorably pleased with herself that he couldn’t resist. Twitching the curtains together, he snatched her from her seat and onto his lap, quelling her squeal of protest with his kiss. He couldn’t afford to let things get too heated—the journey to Crombie’s wasn’t long—but this being Beatrice and him, tongues got involved. Before he knew it, he had his hand up her skirts, and she was moaning against his lips.
“Damn, lass,” he said hoarsely. “You’re wet for me already.”
“I can’t help it.” Her cheeks flushed, she squirmed as he fingered her dewy petals. “Especially when you do that. And even more so if you were to go a bit higher…”
Her brazen demand made him grin. And his cock strain against his trousers.
“I’d like nothing more than to diddle your pearl until you come for me,” he murmured. “But we’re nearly there.”
“Why did you start this if we couldn’t finish?”
It was the closest to a pout that he’d seen from her, and he loved it.
He chucked her beneath her chin before settling her back on her side. “Because I couldn’t resist you, Madam Practical. And also because I wanted you to have a preview of what I’ll be giving you tonight.”
“Tonight?” In one of her quicksilver changes, she transformed from the confident lady of the manor to an endearingly novice lover. Her eyes soft and voice even softer, she asked, “Are you planning to visit me in…my bedchamber?”
He knew a rendezvous wasn’t proper. Yet she was going to be his wife sooner or later, he rationalized. Making love to her might actually speed up the courtship, and he wasn’t above using pleasure to seal this particular deal.
The choice, however, would be up to her.
“If you’d rather observe proprieties,” he began.
