Page 25 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

Bea did not bother to reply. She felt sick, breathless with foreboding as she climbed the stairs, no other thought in her head but that she must confront Stonehaven.

It was all wrong. Whilst she knew he did not love her, not even the version of her he thought was Sally, he certainly did not love Anne.

But, despite his teasing and flirtatious ways, she had sensed his loneliness, his desire for a deeper connection.

He would lose that chance forever if he made such an ill-considered decision before he’d had time to adapt to his new life.

Before she could think about her own ill-considered decision, Bea gave a sharp rap on his bedroom door and pushed it open.

“Who’s there?”

She closed the door behind her, finding him seated in a chair beside the fireplace.

He was sitting bolt upright, a glass of wine in his hand, his expression forbidding.

Yet he did not frighten her any longer, did not make her tongue tied and flustered as he once had, though longing rose inside her at the sight of his handsome, rugged face.

She did not move or speak, but his expression smoothed out, something like hope visible in the softening lines of his harsh features.

He sat up, feeling about for the table and putting the glass down with care.

“Sally?” he asked softly, such anticipation behind that one word that her heart filled with joy.

Bea knew it was wrong, that she was wicked and bad and that she would suffer for her actions, but she could not stop herself.

She crossed the room, moving quickly before her courage failed her, and climbed into his lap, her hands braced upon his shoulders.

For the briefest moment he stiffened in alarm, and then his hands came up to her face, cradling it like he held something precious and fragile in his grasp.

“I had to come,” she said helplessly, and did not murmur a word of protest as he drew her mouth down to his.

This kiss was quite unlike the barely there touch of mouths they had shared that morning.

It was as different as day was to night, drawing her in, drawing her down into a world where heat and darkness swept her up in an embrace as exquisite as it was terrifying.

Too exhilarated to fight it, though she knew she ought to, Bea allowed him to kiss her, to play with her mouth, teasing and questing for entry, which she could not deny him any more than she could deny her next breath.

His tongue swept in, and he tasted of wine and sin and yet there was sweetness there too, and so much tenderness that her heart swelled with it.

“Sally, Sally, foolish girl, what are you doing here?” he murmured, the words agonised as he pulled her closer against him, his lips moving restlessly over her face, his hot breath gusting over her cheek until his lips closed over hers again.

Bea pulled back, breaking the kiss and striking his shoulder with her fist, not hard, but a small act of retaliation for the pain she felt. “You’re marrying her! Why? Why would you do that?”

His features twisted, pain and regret written clearly upon them. “I’ve no choice. You did not think—”

“That you’d marry me? Lord, no. I’m not so foolish, but it hurts my heart to know you’ll marry her, when you don’t….” She hesitated, wondering if she had acted more foolishly than she realised. Had she been arrogant to assume she knew anything about him? “You don’t love her?”

Yet this time it was a question, and one to which she was no longer certain she had the answer. He shook his head, and the breath left her in a rush.

“And you, Sally, do you… care for me?”

She noted he did not say love. Was the notion that she loved him too hard to accept, or was he just shy of saying such things aloud? She did not know, but she told him the truth, anyway.

“I have loved you from the first day we met. I cannot tell you why, for you paid me no mind, but I loved you that day, and I think I shall love you until my last day. I do not understand it, but my father says it happens that way for some people. I always thought it a blessing, and that those who fell suddenly and with all their hearts were lucky, but now I disagree, for it feels like a burden, and one I shall never be free of.”

His breath caught at her words, his hand lifting to her face once more. There was a look of intense concentration as his fingers caressed her cheek, followed the sleek line of her eyebrow and then down the gentle slope of her nose. “Beautiful, inside and out. I knew it must be so.”

Bea’s heart swelled. Why did this compliment move her when so many others had meant nothing at all? She was hardly responsible for her face, which was only a quirk of fate and would likely fade as the years passed.

“Tell me about yourself,” he asked, surprising her. “Tell me what you like, what brings you joy. Where were you born, who are your people? Do you have brothers and sisters? You’re… You’re not married?”

She laughed at the last question. “Indeed, what do you take me for? I am not married. I have sisters,” she said, and then hesitated, wondering if she ought to have said brothers, but she was lying enough.

She wanted this to be true. “I was born in Little Valentine and have always lived here. I love the sea, watching it brings me peace. I love reading and escaping into other worlds. I love the garden and music and singing.”

And I love you .

“I wish I could know it all. Every bit of you,” he said, a wondering note to his voice, as if he did not understand why that was any more than she did. “Why is it like this, this connection to you? Why does it feel like I have found something that I didn’t know I’d lost?”

“I don’t know, but I feel the same,” she said simply, capturing his hand in hers, turning her face into it and kissing his palm. “I ought not to have come, ought never to have interfered, I know that, but I couldn’t do otherwise. I…I had to.”

The words seemed inadequate to describe the force that had propelled her into his arms, but when she looked up, she saw understanding in his expression.

“I know.” His voice was gruff as he pulled her forehead closer to touch his own. “I know,” he said again, little more than a breath of sound this time.

“I ought to go,” she said, wretched now, but surely George would be here soon, and she could not plunge Stonehaven into such disaster, for if he knew that marrying Anne was wrong, how despairing he would be to discover himself honour bound to marry Beatrice Honeywell.

“No—” he began, only to snap his mouth shut. “Yes. Go. Before I forget I’m a gentleman.”

“You could never do that,” she told him, pressing a small token into his hand as she kissed him once more, before slipping from his lap and running from the room.