Chapter Sixteen
Nicholas arrived at the Duke of Winston’s residence at precisely eleven o’clock the next morning.
Not with his curricle this time, but with his coach.
A closed carriage—with a coachman—was the only intelligent choice today.If he was going to coax Bea into wanting another kiss (and he very much hoped to), he needed her beside him, present—without wind to blame for the trembling in her breath, without a crowd to hide behind, without any confusion about what she was choosing.
She may have pushed him away and gotten angry at him two days ago, but he’d felt the heat in her response at first.He hadn’t imagined it.Shehadkissed him back.
Of course, if she wished to leave, she would.He would make certain of it.It would be her choice at all times.
But if she stayed, it would be because she wanted to.
She had fled the gardens.Right after he’d told her he wanted her towantto marry him.She’d picked up her skirts, and all but ran from him back into the house.He hadn’t followed her.Instead, he’d sent round a note asking her to accompany him for another ride in the park this afternoon.
She hadn’t answered.
Which he had chosen to interpret as a possibility rather than a refusal.
He would accept an actual refusal the moment she gave it, of course.But silence was merely uncertainty…and uncertainty deserved patience.
So here he was.
The butler took one look at him and nodded him inside without comment.
Nicholas waited in the foyer, glancing once at the wide, sweeping staircase.He expected Bea to descend in an impatient flurry of skirts, her temper leading the way.
She did not disappoint.
She came down the steps dressed for purpose rather than pleasure, wearing a tailored walking gown in a cool, unobtrusive shade of blue, white kid gloves fitted tight to her hands, and bonnet ribbons tied with more determination than grace.Everything about her said she expected a battle and had dressed accordingly.
Her expression indicated she was already suspicious.Good.Suspicion kept her alert.Alertness made her reactive.And he needed her reactions—every one of them.Especially the breathy, reckless ones.
“Lord Vanover,” she said coolly, her nostrils flaring.
He allowed himself the smallest smile.“Lady Beatrix.”
“Your parents?”he asked politely.
“In the morning room,” she replied.“Busy.”
Of course they were.The duke and duchess were always busy, too busy to notice their daughter’s increasing agitation as she crossed the foyer toward the open door, where his closed coach waited, an invitation she was free to refuse.
He offered his arm.Not stepping closer.Not crowding her.Giving her the space to decide.
She stared at his sleeve long enough that a lesser man might have felt the sting.
But she took it…eventually.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve, light, reluctant, her touch sparking through him like a flare.
“Well then,” she said, resigned but trying hard not to look flustered, “let us get this over with.”
Perfect.Exactly the tone he wanted, controlled disdain masking something considerably warmer.
The butler opened the door, and they stepped outside.
They descended the front steps together, Nicholas unhurried, utterly decisive.The vehicle waited at the curb.She faltered for the barest fraction of a step.She’d expected the curricle.
