Captive Bride by Katharine Ashe Page B

about Tip’s mouth throughout the meal. He did not once look at Bea, and he continued unusually sober. Everyone else was wrapped up in the ghost. Bronwyn and Bea were obliged to repeat the details of his appearance several times, and Thomas recounted each occasion on which he had heard Lord Iversly speak. Tip remained largely silent, not offering his own testimonial although Bea was certain he had been speaking with the ghost when she entered the parlor.
    The party returned to the parlor after dinner to take tea, but the great-aunts did not remain long before rising to retire.
    “Lady Bronwyn,” the dowager said, “does Iversly wander the corridors at night, dragging chains and that sort of nonsense?”
    “Oh, no. He sleeps in the master suite, I believe. At least,” her voice quivered, “that is what he told me.”
    “The blackguard.” Thomas took her arm. “I will take you to see your grandmother before you retire, if you wish,” he said gently and led her from the chamber.
    “The poor dear,” Aunt Julia said, although Bea could not say whether she meant Lady Bronwyn or the sickly grandmother they had yet to meet. Bronwyn’s grandmother was of a delicate nature and apparently frightened of Lord Iversly . Thomas insisted this was the reason he had stayed on after his friend fled, although Bea wished he had thought to engage a more effective chaperone for the girl.
    She glanced at Tip across the parlor. His gaze rested on her, peculiarly enigmatic.
    “Beatrice, come along,” Lady Marstowe ordered. “Julia.”
    Bea obeyed, but Aunt Julia paused.
    “Peter dear, aren’t you going to bed too? It has been an awfully fagging day.”
    “Of course, ma’am.” He offered his arm to Julia, turning a warm smile on her. Bea’s throat tightened and she started up the winding stair beside Aunt Grace to the great-aunts’ apartments. Their bedchambers were all clustered about a central keep, with Bea’s around a corner along the dark, stone corridor, and Bronwyn’s, Thomas’s, and Tip’s just beyond.
    “Don’t let Lord Iversly’s jingling chains keep you awake all night,” Aunt Julia said with a seraphic smile and closed the door.
    The intimacy of the narrow corridor, lit only by a guttering torch stump, with Tip just behind her, closed in on Bea swiftly. She went the few yards to her bedchamber door and paused. He was close enough to touch, tall and dark in the cold, shadowed passageway. She crossed her arms, hugging them to her for warmth.
    “You really should leave here,” she said.
    “I will not. I have already told you so.”
    “This trouble has nothing to do with you.”
    “You are involved. It does now.”
    Bea tried to discern his expression in the dimness. “But you do not like this. I can see that.”
    “Why don’t you allow me to decide what I do or do not like, hm ?” He leaned one broad shoulder against her bedchamber door, as though perfectly at ease. “It’s a bit like one of those novels you like so much, isn’t it? The stories featuring horrid villains and helpless maidens.”
    Bea’s eyes snapped wide. “I do not like those sorts of novels.”
    “Of course you do.”
    Her cheeks got positively scalding. “How would you know that?”
    Tip’s gaze shifted, as though studying her blush. “I have accompanied you to the lending library in York at least half a dozen times, my girl. I am not blind.”
    Bea begged to differ. He had not been able to see how much she loved him for years.
    “Of course you have. I just never thought you would—” She halted and bit her lower lip.
    The light in Tip’s eyes seemed to flicker in the torch-glow. “You never thought I would what, practical, sensible Miss Sinclaire ? Notice your shameful secret?”
    She swallowed hard. Then frowned. Why must he always tease her? He had never teased Georgie . He always treated her with complete respect.
    “I never thought you would care enough to notice,” she said shortly.
    He pushed away from the door,