Page 63 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“There’s the Three Twins on the High Street,” Lou answered, pointing. “But after you’ve rested and bathed, you’re welcome to come to the wedding breakfast.”
Duncan opened his mouth, presumably to gently refuse, but Beatrice spoke first. “That would be lovely.”
The church bell chimed, and Lou grimaced. “I have to go. See you at the breakfast!” With that, she dashed away.
Once they were alone, Beatrice turned to Duncan. “Was I so transparent about not wanting to attend the wedding?”
His gaze was concerned as it roamed over her face. “Given what you’d said about the state of your own marriage and your thoughts about the wedded state in general, it seemed best if we avoided watching Lou’s sister walk down the aisle.”
Beatrice cupped her hand against his jaw, feeling not just the prickles of his beard but a surge of gratitude. In a short time, he’d come to understand her far more than any man ever had. “You’re very kind.”
He only shrugged, which endeared him to her more. Then he asked, “Won’t attending the wedding breakfast be equally uncomfortable?”
“Given our slender supper and even more trim breakfast, I’ll endure the discomfort for roast ham and pudding.”
“And cake,” he said, eyes twinkling.
She looped her arm through his as they began to walk toward the inn. “And cake.”
The Beaumont grange hall had been festively decorated with bunting and flowers, and tables were set upbearing platters of food, fruit, and even more flowers. Guests milled, chatting and eating, and the bride and groom accepted felicitations from everyone. Even Duncan and Beatrice had congratulated the new Mr. and Mrs. Warnick after Lou’s introduction.
He’d tried to ignore the burst of pleasure that had arisen when he and Beatrice had been presented as Mr. and Mrs. Frye. They’d gone by these fictitious names for days, yet something about being represented as a married couple at a wedding gave it more heft, more significance.
But it didn’t have significance. It was a convenient disguise for this journey, to be discarded like a domino mask at the end of a masquerade.
Perhaps that was what tinted his mood as he and Beatrice stood in a corner, availing themselves of food from the offered banquet.
“It’s a perfectly pleasant wedding breakfast,” Duncan murmured to Beatrice as they stood in a corner.
She paused, a seed cake halfway to her mouth, and eyed the celebration. “Pleasantisn’t an especially effusive word.”
“The roasted ham, slices of chicken pie, and tiny fruit tartlets all taste fine,” he said quietly, careful that none of the other guests heard him. “The sparse rations last night and this morning whetted my appetite...”
“I sense anand yetin there,” she said, a corner of her mouth tilting up.
“And yet there’s a dullness on my palate.” He shook his head, baffled by the strange tenor of the room and the people within. “Can’t quite understand it. The sparkling wine is fizzing, the conversation seems cheerful enough, but . . .”
“It’s like someone let the air out of a balloon.”
He smiled at her perceptiveness, and how easily she seemed to understand him. “So it isn’t just me.”
“Not a bit, Mr. Frye. I should set off some Catherine wheels just to stir up some excitement.”
His smile widened. “Here, now. Pyrotechnics are my specialty, and I’d be vexed if you stole my literal thunder.”
“Can’t have youvexed, dearest Mr. Frye.” She winked at him, and it was astonishing how such a small movement could be both amusing and arousing at the same time. She must have seen the flare of heat in his gaze, because she murmured, “When we’re done honoring the new bride and groom, and when we’re finished with our meal, we ought to repair back to the inn and see what happens when Ivexyou some more.”
His body came immediately to life as hunger for her knifed through him. Holding her all last night had been delightfully torturous, but now he truly felt the effects of not being inside her for over twenty-four hours.
“Teasing lasses pay for their wickedness,” he said in a low, rough voice.
The flush that spread up her neck and into her cheeks made him growl. Breathlessly, she said, “I hope that’s a promise.”
“I never break promises,” he rumbled. “Been planning the next time we’re alone, and what I mean to do to you. And I’m a comprehensive planner.”
She gazed at him with scorching intent, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling. He was on the verge of taking hold of her wrist and gently but firmly pulling her out of the grange hall, toward their inn, when Lou appeared.
“They’ll be cutting pieces of cake soon,” the girl said with exasperation, “and then we can finally go home.”
