Married By May

and Ben had taken their leave to return to Natalia’s aunt’s house, Beatrice had thought about it.
And since then, every time she tried to sleep, she thought about it.
She couldn’t believe the sensations he’d evoked in her when he’d wrapped those impossibly strong arms around her. He’d made her feel delicate, and feminine, and beautiful. Things she’d never felt before.
Nor had she ever before felt the delicious, wicked heat that unfurled in her belly as his tongue danced with her own, and his tormented groan rumbled against her chest.
He’d called on her every day since. They’d gone riding on her estate. They’d taken his gig on a drive around the village. They’d strolled arm-in-arm around the walled gardens of her house.
Of course, there had always been a chaperone of sorts present. Ben had insisted that he and Natalia join them on the afternoon of their ride, and none of Natalia’s tricks seemed to work to get him away from watching them.
And Hilda had accompanied them everywhere else.
They hadn’t had a chance to kiss since that first time. But as the days wore on and Beatrice’s confidence grew, so too did her determination.
She wanted another kiss. And she was going to make sure she got one.
“My lady, really.”
The irritated sound of protest from Monsieur Bisset dragged Beatrice’s wanton mind back to the task at hand. Namely, learning how to have a successful Season.
Now more than ever, London lacked any sort of appeal.
Beatrice might be an innocent, but she knew, with a certainty she couldn’t explain, what had happened between her and Mr. Brooks wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
Most ton marriages were political or financial alliances. Some were love matches, of course.
But the fire that raged between her and Mr. Brooks? That couldn’t possibly be common.
It was akin to the almost tangible love that surrounded Natalia and Ben. Their feelings for each other, their attraction to each other, was palpable. It always had been, even when they’d despised each other, it lurked under the surface.
Beatrice never thought she’d be lucky enough to experience such a thing for herself.
Yet she had.
And she knew that nobody in London; not an earl, or a duke, or even a prince would make her feel a fraction of what she felt in Mr. Brooks’ arms.
As Monsieur Bisset droned on and on, telling her things she’d already heard a hundred times, Beatrice’s mind raced.
In a few short weeks, Mama would drag them to London, determined to parade Beatrice around until someone took pity on her and married her.
It would be humiliating, of course. It always was.
Last year had been even worse because Natalia and Ben had been in Russia with her family, and Bea had never felt so alone.
But this year, how could she go and allow Mama to search for a husband for her, when her heart was well and truly on the way to belonging to another?
“Lady Beatrice, I must insist that you pay attention to me, s’il vous plait.”
Beatrice mumbled an apology and strove to at least pretend to be listening to her French tutor.
But her mind would not stay put. It insisted on travelling straight to where her heart had gone before it.
Both were firmly on Mr. Brooks and the magical feelings he’d awoken in her.
“I won’t do it. I’m leaving today. I’ll go to Scotland and help my father figure something out. Some way to pay you back straight away. I only need a couple of weeks.”
Ewan took a perverse sort of pleasure in Edmund’s wince as he drew back the curtains in the bedchamber and flooded the dank room with light.
The stench of stale alcohol permeated the space, so he threw open the window for good measure.
“What the hell are you about?” Edmund groused, struggling to sit up.
Thankfully, he was alone in his bed this morning.
Ewan didn’t think he’d have the stomach for anything else.
“I told you, I’m leaving. I came to bid you goodbye and tell you that you’ll have your money by month’s end.”
All week he’d found himself unable to sleep, thinking about this wretched scheme and what it would do to Beatrice. He’d sat and stewed endlessly over this predicament he’d found himself in.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he conceded. Most of his nights had been spent reliving his kiss with the surprising little miss who’d somehow managed to turn his world upside down.
He couldn’t go through with Edmund’s plan. He’d expected it to be difficult but now, it was impossible.
Not only would he not treat Beatrice so abominably, but hell would freeze over before he led her into the clutches of his cousin, like a lamb to slaughter.
The mere idea of Edmund’s hands on her made Ewan feel murderous. Not only because his cousin was an utter bastard, but because his jealousy at the idea of anyone touching her was like a live thing, slithering along his veins.
What a bloody mess he’d made.
But he was determined to set it right.
Much as the idea of leaving for good and not seeing the lady again caused the oddest sensation in his chest, he wouldn’t stay and be used as a pawn to destroy her.
And he wouldn’t stay to just enjoy her company, much as he wanted to, because he didn’t deserve her. Not after what he’d agreed to do.
So, his only option was to leave.
Edmund had staggered from the bed now and wrapped himself in a dressing gown.
As Ewan watched with ill-concealed disgust, his cousin moved to a table and poured a generous measure of brandy into a tumbler, knocking the entire thing back in one swallow.
“I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere, Cousin,” Edmund sneered, slamming the now empty glass on the table before turning to face Ewan.
“You think you can stop me?” Ewan asked softly, his voice giving no hint of the boiling anger that bubbled within.
“Oh, I can’t stop you.” Edmund shrugged. “But I know you won’t go.”
“And why is that?”
Ewan hated playing these foolish games. But Edmund held all the cards, and they