by Martha Keyes
He looked up at her. “Kate,” he said. “Please tell me in all honesty, can you ever forgive me for tonight?”
The sensation of her heart racing had become a more common occurrence during her acquaintance with Lord Ashworth, but it still surprised her each time it happened. Hearing him dispense with the formality of “Miss Matcham” had not only caused such a reaction but also made it difficult to swallow. Her nerves brought on a strange desire to laugh.
“Forgive you?” she said incredulously. “When I very nearly killed you?”
A laugh escaped him, and she couldn’t help but smile, relieved at his reaction to a situation she had been hesitant to bring up.
“My dear Kate,” he said in utter enjoyment, causing her to swallow at his form of address, “I am afraid that I have given you an overinflated sense of strength.”
“Not so,” she said with an impressive attempt at gravity. “I was quite sure that I had murdered you using nothing but my own brute force. You can’t imagine the relief I felt to see that the case was otherwise!”
He threw his head back in laughter. “I hesitate to do damage to your ego, but I am afraid you have no business hitting anyone over the head. The blow was shockingly feeble, which made my pretended fall that much more difficult to carry out convincingly. If Briggs weren’t such a fool, he would have seen through it immediately.”
Kate’s eyes were wide, and she batted at his arm. “You lie!” She paused and looked at him. “You truly only pretended?”
He nodded and began walking forward again. “When you hit me, I figured that you had a plan of your own. And so I trusted you and went along with it.” He looked at her with a censuring gaze. “A novel concept for you, I know.”
“Well,” said Kate in a voice of deep offense, “that is quite the most deflating thing anyone has said to me in recent memory. I was certain that I possessed hitherto-unknown superhuman strength, but I see that is not the case.”
“I am afraid not.” He smiled at her and, for a moment, and their eyes met in shared enjoyment. But his smile faded slowly, the troubled brow returning.
“I promise you I would never have let you come to harm under my care.” He stopped, looking down to her wrists. He reached for her arm, gently pulling it into the light of the lantern he carried. He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slowly at the sight of her red and torn skin.
Unused to such attention being paid to her pain and wishing to change the subject, she said, “My lord, if we stop every ten paces, I don’t believe we shall ever reach Ashworth Place.”
“You are right, of course,” he said with a half-smile. His eyes lingered on her wrists, though as he guided her arm back to its place at her side. “Lancelot is just beyond this thicket.”
Hearing the name of his horse put Kate in mind of something which had escaped her memory during the fast-paced events of the past day.
“My lord?” she said with some hesitation, wondering if perhaps Fanny had been mistaken somehow.
“Yes,” he said, pulling a branch back to let her pass through.
“Why did you not tell me that you were responsible for bringing Cleopatra to Wyndcross?”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “You know, when I wrote to Lady Hammond, I requested her quite plainly not to tell you of my involvement.”
Kate laughed. “You betray your unfamiliarity with Fanny, then. I don’t think she ever kept a secret in her life.” She smiled as she thought of her aunt, but her head tilted to the side as she realized he hadn’t answered her question. “Why should you not wish for me to know?”
He inhaled deeply, and she watched his face. He looked to be debating within himself but soon chuckled. “After inspecting Lady Crofte’s horse myself, I felt far too much sympathy with you to consign you to riding—Cinnamon, was it? —for the duration of your visit.”
Kate couldn’t resist a smile, but she raised an incredulous eyebrow. She wanted to press him more but felt it would be uncivil to do so, particularly since he seemed intent on deflecting her questions with humor, but she understood his use of the tactic since it was one she herself was partial to.
“Well, I can’t say that I believe you,” she said with a twinkle. “Particularly given that, left to your plan, my visit would have come to an abrupt end this evening—” he made as if to reply, but she talked over him "—if I hadn’t channeled my hidden and considerable strength to frustrate it.”
A loud laugh erupted from him, and he looked at her with such warmth and enjoyment that she felt light-headed for a moment.
“Your show of strength, as you very inaccurately call it,” he said, “was unnecessary. While I applaud your initiative, it is only fair that I call your attention to the many times that I told you that you could safely trust me.”
“Oh,” Kate tapped a finger on her lip, feigning an epiphany. “You are referring, I presume, to the times when you ordered me to trust you, despite the fact that you were leading me to my death. Yes, I see. It was quite silly of me not to have believed you.”
He bit his lip to keep from laughing and said, “Did you really believe I would allow you to be harmed?” He said it as if it were unthinkable.
Kate opened her mouth to talk but instead closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, mustering patience. “Yes, I did.” Before he could remonstrate, she continued. “I suppose I can be forgiven for assuming such a thing, given that you were about to tie me up in an enclosed space where I would drown with the incoming tide?”
She raised her brows, but he shook his head as she spoke.
“Before you struck me—with what I can only describe as the force of a small child—” he added as her twitching lips belied her indignant expression, “I was trying to convey to you that I would leave your ropes loose. Then you could escape back up the hill where I would return to you after I ensured that Emmerson had been caught. We had to have him in the act of managing the entire affair.” Again, he spoke as though he were pointing out the obvious.
“An admirable plan,” Kate acknowledged, “but I fail to see how I was expected to divine it, given the circumstances. Yes,” she nodded decidedly after a moment of thought, “I think my plan served just as well.”
He looked ready to debate more, but she said with sincerity, “I am grateful to know that you did indeed have a plan, and I am sorry that I didn’t trust you. Let us simply agree that all’s well that ends well.”
He smiled at her and grasped her hand briefly in a gesture of agreement just as they reached Lancelot, making her feel strangely lightheaded. He insisted that she ride while he walked beside.
“If I had known how things would go, I would have brought a second horse,” he apologized.
“Yes, and if I had known, I would never have come,” she said with a roll of her eyes, softened by a smile. “Call me impatient or forward or whatever you like, but I am quite unwilling to go at the pace of your legs when Lancelot is capable of carrying us together in much better time.”
Lord Ashworth considered a moment. His hesitation lasted too long for Kate who let out an impatient huff and pulled him by the arm toward Lancelot, insisting that he ride in front and she behind him.
“How overbearing you are.” The corner of his lip trembled.
“You have no idea,” she said.
Once they were both situated on Lancelot, Kate gripping the back of the saddle behind to steady her, they started on their way, riding in silence, swaying in synchronicity with the steps of Lancelot.
Her thoughts turned to her own situation. While the knowledge that Lord Ashworth had not betrayed her had been terrifically welcome, it had also rekindled the romantic feelings she had been smothering by reminding herself of Lord Ashworth’s duplicity.
With such a glaring flaw no longer at her disposal, she was forced to face the reality of her desires, elusive as those desires might be. Many barriers remained unmoved.
Clara had seemed to be coming around to the idea of following her o
wn wishes instead of her mother’s. But if history was any indicator, she might very likely be swayed when under her mother’s influence again. Lady Crofte wouldn’t trade Lord Ashworth for Mr. Bradbury without a fight.
Perhaps more importantly, Lord Ashworth’s feelings were still a mystery. Did he have feelings for Clara? Did he wish to marry her for practical reasons? Even removing Clara from the equation by no means made a connection between Kate and Lord Ashworth a foregone conclusion.
Lancelot stumbled, startling her out of the lax hold she had adopted on the saddle. She grasped Lord Ashworth to stabilize herself only to remove her arms from around his waist in embarrassment, apologizing. She was interrupted.
“Lancelot, old boy,” Lord Ashworth said in a chiding voice, “what ails you? I believe he’s falling asleep on us. Or under us, rather. That won’t do, will it, Miss Matcham?”
She tried to ignore that he had reverted to a more formal form of address and feigned a sigh. “Actually, I have quite given up on ever getting to Ashworth Place.”
Lord Ashworth chuckled appreciatively. “She mocks us, Lancelot! Tsk tsk.” He shook his head and readjusted himself in the saddle. “As you wish, Miss Matcham. I would recommend holding on tightly.” He signaled Lancelot, and they lurched forward.
Kate found herself once again obliged to grab Lord Ashworth around the waist. The wind whipped her face, making her tired eyes sting so much that she turned and ducked her head, burying it in his back. She had always enjoyed a good gallop, but never had she experienced it as a second rider. She found it to be a much more thrilling experience and was quite sure that the circumstance of Lord Ashworth being her companion or the fact that she had to hold him tightly to keep her seat had nothing to do with the pleasure she took from it.
33
At the pace they rode, Ashworth Place was attained in a matter of minutes. The courtyard was shrouded in darkness. Kate had no idea what time it was—only that it had been dark for hours.
“I think we made quite good time in the end, don’t you?” he asked as he helped Kate off of the horse.
She replaced her smile with a look of hauteur and smoothed out her skirts, the hem of which was both torn and filthy. “It was adequate.”
He laughed and looped Lancelot’s reins onto a nearby post, turning to encounter a yawn from Kate. “Yes, quite so. You must be exhausted.”
She sighed. “I can’t deny it.”
A smiled peeped at the side of his mouth. “I believe I know what you would say right now.”
She raised her brows, wincing slightly as the gesture reminded her of the wounds on her cheek.
“Weary with toil,” he quoted, “I haste me to my bed, the dear repose for limbs with travel tired.” He smiled and raised his own brows, as if questioning whether he was right.
She smiled, recognizing the lines, and tilted her head to the side in thought. Her smile grew wry as she remembered the rest of the sonnet and just how à propos was his choice.
Seeing her ironic smile, he looked a question at her. “What is it?” he asked, full of curiosity.
She gave a quiet laugh and shook her head. “I was only remembering the rest of that particular sonnet.”
His eyes squinted in an attempt to remember, but after searching for a moment, he shook his head. “I confess it is the only part I remember.”
She smiled, unsure whether she was grateful or disappointed that he didn’t recall the rest. “Well you are quite right in your assumption, my lord. I’m not sure when I have looked forward with so much anticipation to a bed.”
He seemed still to be trying to remember the lines.
“My lord?”
He looked up.
She inhaled deeply and then exhaled in a quick rush of air. “Thank you.”
He smiled slightly at her gratitude, but shook his head, looking down as he moved a pebble with the toe of his boot. “How you can forgive, much less thank me, is beyond me. It was a roguish thing to deceive you. I’m more sorry than I can express to be the cause of it all. I wish I could redo it.”
“What,” Kate said in pretended offense, “and deprive me of the greatest adventure of my life? How very selfish. If you had given up catching Emmerson only to save me some paltry scratches, now that is something I could never forgive you for.”
His gaze rested on her, warm and appreciative. In an action that seemed a natural complement to the way he was looking at her, he reached his hand toward her own, taking it gently, ever-aware of her injuries, and moving in closer.
She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and tried to continue smiling despite the way her heart thumped uncomfortably inside.
His brows drew together, and he dropped her hand gently.
“You need sleep. Forgive me for keeping you. We should go.” He turned to lead the way into Ashworth Place.
Kate, taken off guard both by his sudden familiarity and by the restraint which followed it so abruptly, was too distracted by the confusion she felt to take in her surroundings. She was aware of Lord Ashworth ringing a bell after which a maid was brought to show Kate to a room.
Lord Ashworth wished her a good night’s sleep, glancing out one of the large windows lining the hallway where the skyline was beginning to lighten with the first signs of morning. He told her to sleep as long as she was able, bid her good night, and left her to the maid.
Kate’s limbs seemed to be sluggish with exhaustion. Anxious as she was for rest, she dreaded the battle between the fatigue which consumed her body and the desire to analyze all she had just experienced which consumed her mind.
Her feelings were, for better or worse, not in question. To spend more time on them was to waste both time and energy in a cause already decided. Everything she had learned in the last few hours had reconfirmed and magnified her regard for Lord Ashworth ten-fold.
His own feelings were another matter. At times he seemed to reciprocate on some level; at others, to distance himself from her. She didn’t doubt that he enjoyed her company. But the way his warmth had cooled so suddenly underlined what she already knew—Lord Ashworth had much more than love to consider in making a match. Even if he had not, enjoying her company did not equate with love or a desire to marry her.
Kate’s realistic nature forced her to accept the unlikelihood of her hopes being realized, but it also forced her to acknowledge that, were Lord Ashworth to desire to marry her, she would not refuse him. She desired his happiness, and if by some miracle their happiness was intertwined, she would not sacrifice that simply to satisfy those who wished to see him make a good match. Her selflessness did not extend so far as to deny herself joy and fulfillment based on an arrogant presumption of knowing what was best for Lord Ashworth better than he himself did. Her reason would not let her act in such a foolish or patronizing way, even if it appeared noble on the surface.
But the insignificant place she held in society permitted her to place little stock in the opinions of others. Most of society was indifferent to her—something that was not true for others like Lord Ashworth. He was heir to an earldom, and whatever decisions he made would be hashed and rehashed in social circles for as long as society’s voracious appetite would allow.
Whatever his future held, the successes and failures he might experience would forever be tied up in his decision to marry. Kate had seen it often during her seasons in London, and she recognized it in her own parents’ marriage.
Her mother had been deemed too far below her father to be an acceptable choice. As a result, anything Charles Matcham did which was disapproved of was attributed to his unwise marriage. The ills in her father’s life were looked on without sympathy, viewed as the natural byproduct of an unwise marriage. Kate couldn’t wish such treatment upon someone she loved as well as Lord Ashworth.
* * *
Kate found herself waking at an advanced hour of the day, momentarily confused by her unfamiliar surroundings.
She made a motion to pull back the bedcovers only to find that the ski
n on her wrists was painfully stiff. A flood of memories from the night before explained her discomfort, and she examined a wrist for a moment, pursing her lips at the ugly sight of her scabbed and red skin.
A knock sounded on the door. Kate rose from the bed and cracked the door, expecting to see the kind maid from the night before. She found herself facing her own maid, Lindley.
“Lindley!” she exclaimed, opening the door for Lindley to pass through.
“Miss!” Lindley said, her eyes darting to Kate’s cheek.
Kate put a hand to her sore cheek and shook her head with a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. I am well, Lindley. But how do you come to be here?”
“Yes, you may well ask.” Lindley sniffed. “And it’s no thanks to you that I am here. Worried sick is what I’ve been!” She sniffed loudly, setting down a portmanteau full of Kate’s belongings.
“Oh, indeed I am so sorry, Lindley, but I can tell you that there hasn’t been even a moment when I could have written to you. How in the world did you know to come?”
“His lordship was good enough to send word over early this morning, and my mind couldn’t rest until I’d seen you myself.” The words came out as a strange mix of chastisement and hurt, interspersed with sniffs and huffs.
Realizing how upset her maid was, Kate led her to the window seat where they sat together while Lindley gave vent to her emotions.
She recounted her hours of concern over Kate’s whereabouts when Cleopatra was found wandering the grounds riderless; the return soon thereafter of Clara who was too hysterical between fits of crying and terror to speak a coherent thought; and finally the intervention of Sir Richard who was forced to pour the nearest vase of water over his daughter’s head and talk sense into her before she could be brought to tell what she knew.
