Page 69 of The Bachelor
She turned to look back at him. “You would never lower your pride enough to risk my saying no, so I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
Then she walked out, shutting the door behind her.
He stood there speechless, his hands curling into fists. She was making him insane! Choosing to fight, indeed. The only person choosing to fight washer.Clearly she desired him, and clearly she had enjoyed their lovemaking. What more did she want from him?
But when people edge too close, you always start pushing them away, and then, of course, you end up alone.
“Shut up, Beatrice!” he cried into the rafters.
The sound of servants running brought him up short. He’d yelled loudly enough to be heard?
Bloody hell. He’d better be fully dressed before they descended on him. He hobbled around to pick up articles of clothing, then finished dressing. By the time a maid and two footmen burst in, he was headed for the door, cane in hand.
“Sir, are you all right?” the maid asked. “We heard screaming.”
“I was looking for something up here and couldn’t find it. Please forgive my frustration. I . . . um . . . tend to talk to myself.”
One of the footmen stepped forward. “If you tell us what you’re looking for, Major, perhaps we could . . .”
But Joshua had already pushed past them and out into the hall. Let them wonder. People always wondered about him anyway. Might as well give them a better reason for it than his battle wounds.
The only person pitying you, Joshua, isyou.
Wonderful. Now he had both BeatriceandGwyn in his head. Time to drown out their voices. And he had the perfect place to do it, too.
It was high time he gave the Duke of Thornstock a piece of his mind.
Gwyn had barely reached her bedchamber on the second floor when she heard Joshua yelling something upstairs. A pox on him! He would bring all the servants running.
She hurried inside, praying that her maid wasn’t there. Thankfully, the room was empty, which was a good thing because she feared she was about to cry. And shenevercried. Blast it all! She dared not let anyone see her. She’d never be able to tell the truth about why she was upset.
Tearing off her mobcap, she threw herself across the bed and began to sob. What a coward she was! Instead of being determined to have the last word in their argument, she should have told Joshua she would marry him. But what if she had, and then, when she told him the rest of what had happened between her and Malet, he’d changed his mind? She knew Joshua—he would marry her anyway once she accepted his . . . hisnonproposal. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
That started her crying again, so hard that at first she didn’t hear the firm knocking at her door. But when it was coupled with Beatrice’s voice . . .
Oh, no, she couldn’t let Beatrice see her like this! Beatrice would guess who had caused her distress, and then she would either defend her brother or go give him a lecture. Then again, perhaps he could use a lecture from someone other than her.
She was still trying to decide what to do when Beatrice said, more softly, “Dearest, I’m coming in unless you say otherwise.”
Perhaps talking to Beatrice was a good idea. She might know more about why Joshua was so maddening. She would certainly know if Gwyn had a chance with him, given the peculiarities of her situation.
Gwyn sat up to pull her handkerchief out of her pocket, then saw the blood on it from when she’d wiped Lionel’s blood off Joshua’s face. That started her crying all over again.
The door opened and Beatrice peeked in, then said, “Oh, my dear, what has happened?” She slipped inside and closed the door. “Can I help?”
Gwyn was still staring at her bloody handkerchief through her tears.
When Beatrice hurried over and saw it, she started. “You’ve hurt yourself! Shall I fetch your mother?”
“No!” Gwyn said. “It’s not my blood. And Mama can’t know.”
“All right.” Beatrice whisked the bloody handkerchief from her and placed her own clean one in Gwyn’s hand. “There. I know you don’t want to wipe your nose with a bloody one.”
Gwyn cast her a grateful smile as she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Then she sat there staring down at Beatrice’s nicely embroidered handkerchief.
Beatrice took a seat on the bed next to her. “Dare I ask whose blood it is?”
“Do you swear not to tell Mama or Grey if I tell you?”
