by Eva Devon
“Mrs. Darrell, I may have just swallowed my own doom, all thanks to your blasted determination.”
It wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t stop the anger. He was the experienced one in these matters. It was his fault. Which he should have been used to by now. It was impossible for him to form relationships where one party didn’t end up either dead or in extreme trouble.
He should have listened to his instincts. He’d known deep down he should avoid this woman. Known associating her might lead him to betray Jane’s memory.
For a brief, too brief he had to admit, moment, he’d ignored his instincts and now look where he was. In the middle of a biblical scale scandal.
Worse, he’d ignored his own promise to remain true to Jane in his heart and soul. Bastard that he was, he had allowed his growing fascination with Mrs. Darrell to rule his actions.
“Doom?” Kate smiled waveringly. “Come now, melodrama is not becoming in a gentleman.”
Ryder gaped at her. “Melodrama, madam? Melodrama?” Surely she understood what happened back there? Understood what he was now expected to do?
“Under the circumstances, I do think you might call me Kathryn, or Kate. Everyone else does.”
Her unwavering optimism was absolutely grating. Ryder massaged his temples, trying to understand how she could be so damned cheerful. “Mrs. Darrell, you don’t seem to understand the seriousness of this—”
“Oh, I’m quite certain there will be a great to do, but then it will all fade away as all scandals do. I’m a widow with a great deal of money. You are a duke. What harm can truly be done?”
Ryder didn’t miss the forced certainty in her voice. Clearly, she did understand that what they had done was not typical. “We were caught cock out, skirts up by the entire—the entire—ton.”
Kathryn blushed. She cleared her throat and actually had the decency to look sheepish. “Yes, that was rather bad.”
“Bad, Mrs. Darrell?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Kathryn.”
“As you wish.” He blew out a harsh breath.
It was hard to believe the woman was arguing the semantics of first and last names in their situation. “Bad does not even begin to encompass the enormity of what has befallen us.”
Good God, he could not be in this situation. He could not and should not have to choose between Jane’s memory and this madly captivating woman before him. “Catastrophe, madam. That is what we have. We have a bloody catastrophe.”
Her confidence slowly dimmed under his tirade. She folded her hands into her lap and glanced out the window. “I realize I have behaved without modesty.”
Ryder shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He didn’t want her feeling as if he thought badly of her or her behavior. In the end, this truly was his damned fault, but right now he was having a devil of a time getting a hold of his temper. Perhaps because he’d put himself in this wild situation.
“I, myself, shall hardly be canonized any time soon,” he said softly. “But that is not the point. The point is we were caught—”
She snapped her gaze to him and the gray depths stormed with razor sharp intellect. “Make no mistake. I shall not be cowed by this circumstance. I have lived too much of my life in the care of other people’s opinion. I will not be coerced into guilt. Anyone in our set would have done exactly as we did. We just happened to be found.”
God, she was beautiful in her assurance and determination. And her passion was admirable. Few women would claim their own futures as she had done and remain so bold in the face of the ton’s displeasure. He had to admit, it had never occurred to him this was truly about freedom for her. He’d merely assumed she’d been repressed sexually, as happened to many wives. This, however, was different. Kathryn clearly longed for independence. Of every sort. But that she truly thought of herself to be coupled with the likes of him and the people he sinned with?
“Our set?” he asked gently.
“Yes.”
“Madam, you are about as much a part of my set, as a poodle is like to a wolfhound.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That is not a flattering comparison, Your Grace. Though I may have given evidence to the contrary, I am not a silly person and have lived my life with a ridiculous sense of propriety and duty.”
Ryder hesitated. He had given insult by comparing her to such a vapid little beast, but damnation, this was infuriating. “I apologize, but do you realize how utterly ruined you are?”
She opened her mouth ever so slightly, then clapped it shut.
“You are ruined,” he repeated softly but firmly.
She shrugged. “I shall recover.”
“Not in London, you shall not. Not unless you wish to be reduced to the status of an extremely loose woman. No house of any repute will welcome you. It matters not that half the ton would have done what you did.”
“It is what is seen that counts,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Exactly.”
Ryder leaned back and wiped a hand over his face. He had never cared so strongly about the fate of a lady he’d involved himself with. His lack of emotional regard to the women he bedded was the only way he had been able to justify being untrue to Jane. He cared for this woman. Too much. “Do you know the only way you can be saved?”
She glared back at him, clearly annoyed he was forcing her to see the cold reality of such a beastly happenstance.
Ryder laced his hands together over his lap. “I am expected to marry you.”
“No, thank you,” she said tightly.
Ryder blinked then braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward. He remained silent for a moment, convincing himself she had, indeed, just uttered the words, no and thank you together.
In the first place, every woman in Christendom panted after his dukedom, even though they knew he would never propose. Secondly, he was this woman’s salvation and she was dismissing him before he’d even told her he wasn’t going to offer. It was—it was damned disconcerting!
She didn’t want him? The feeling lacing through his chest was most certainly not disappointment. It was relief. Indeed. It was.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice incredulous to his own ears.
“No, thank you,” she said again folding her arms just below her breasts.
Surprised by his own sudden discomfort at her quick rejection, he said, “That was not an offer. Merely a statement of fact.”
“Oh.” She shifted uncomfortably. “It matters not. I already said no.”
Yes, well. It was for the best in any case. Even now, he could recall Jane on their wedding day with perfect accuracy. She’d been full of grace and beautiful, so unlike the day she died.
Ryder swallowed quickly. “So you absolve me from your ruin?” he asked, his own shock ripe in his voice. Any other woman would be screaming that he had forced himself upon her and then shout for the banns to be posted.
“Absolutely.”
Before he could stop himself, the word slipped from his lips, “Why?”
“Suffice it to say, I have made the mistake of marriage before.” The light in her face faded. “I have no intention on revisiting such an unpleasing happenstance.”
“I see.” He, too, had been married.
Like the woman sitting across from, he had no intention of marrying again, but for very different reasons. Memories of Jane invoked such pain, but he welcomed the harsh feeling. He needed to remember she had once lived, walked gently through their home and lovingly held his hand in the darkest moments of his young life.
Jane. Quiet and kind, her voice had always been a surprise, but he’d listened to her, always valued her opinion. When she’d been taken from him—“Then we are of a like mind,” he gruffly pointed out.
“Yes.”
He blew out an exhausted breath. “Then there is nothing more to say.”
Her gaze lifted to his face and she looked at him for a long moment, as if willing him to say exactly what she wanted. Alas, he had no idea what the
woman was thinking and he couldn’t imagine the words that would be perfect to her ears.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “There is nothing more to say.”
As though on cue, the carriage rolled to a stop before her townhouse and the footman jumped down and opened the door.
The silence stretched between them for several moments. Finally, Ryder spoke. “I am sorry it ended like this.”
She smiled slightly—her angelic, enigmatic smile. “I am only sorry we were unable to finish.” With that, she started to step down out of the carriage.
Before Ryder could stop himself, he grabbed her hand, savoring the gentle feel of her and pressed her open palm to his lips. The scent of roses washed over him and he breathed it in, knowing it might be the last time. “Farewell.”
Her hand ever so lightly cupped his cheek then slid away. Mrs. Darrell dashed down the step and up to her townhouse.
She didn’t look back.
Ryder found himself hoping she would. It was the most ridiculous notion, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he’d let his last chance at happiness climb out of the carriage.
It was a damned foolish thought and before he could allow it to take root, he slipped Jane’s ribbon from his pocket and tied it back around his wrist. He gazed down at it for a moment, his throat tightening. Then he tore his gaze away and pounded on the roof. The coachman cracked the whip and he rode into the darkness. Where he belonged.
*
To her absolute irritation, Kate watched the duke’s coach rattle away through the window of the salon. She shouldn’t really give a fig for his departure, but she did. What was worse, she felt as though her entire spirit was rioting inside her body. It was like her body was insisting she run out into the night and stop the duke from leaving. That was nonsense. If she didn’t keep a hold of herself, the reality of her situation would hurtle her into a tear-ridden mass.
She lifted her hand and pressed it to the cold, glass windowpane. She could still see his face, rapt with desire for her. It had been the most thrilling moment of her life. He had made her feel utterly beautiful, as if she were the only woman in the world.
But she supposed that was his specialty, for he hadn’t even suggested they might see each other again. In fact, his attitude had been firm in his resolve that their relationship should come to an end.
Sighing, Kate pushed herself away from the window and turned to the empty salon. She bit down on her lip, trying to control the nerves shaking within her. One moment, the man was so charmingly ardent. He’d even protected her from the watchful eyes of the ton, sweeping her possessively into his arms.
Then he’d taken it all away. He hadn’t whispered one word of reassurance. Perhaps Mrs. Barton was right. In the end, the duke was a man not to be trusted.
Kate bit back a bitter laugh. He hadn’t even offered that she might call him by his first name. Well, she’d learned her first real lesson about the ton. She was on her own, just like she’d always been. Nothing was going to stop her from doing just as she pleased. She was going to live her life on her own terms.
Certainly, she wasn’t going to let the duke or the ton stand in her way. After all, a woman of her wealth and determination could find people who would still be willing to enjoy life with her. Those were the people who were worth her time, not those who would run at the sign of danger.
Chapter 10
Kate was sick of scandal, sin and the papers. In fact, the papers she had so once loved to read were now her enemy, labeling her the most loose of lascivious ladies. She was even more annoyed with the dozens of roses, orchids and flowers she didn’t even know the names of piling up at her door.
Apparently, it was now widely considered that she was going to be London’s next great courtesan. After all, what else was left to her except banishment to some horrid part of Spain or some Germanic principality? Frankly, she had no liking for beer and kraut. She’d also heard that living in Spain was positively dreary.
So, here in London, in the prison that was now her townhouse, Kate sat at her desk overlooking Green Park and ground her teeth. The letters on her desk were in two convenient piles. One slim stack was full of invitations to what appeared to be orgies. The other, much larger stack, were retractions of invitations she’d already agreed to accept. Ironically, her new gowns arrived just this morning. Piles and piles of morning gowns, tea gowns, walking gowns, evening gowns, ball gowns and even a riding habit had been presented, along with the bill. Apparently, the tradesmen were nervous she might skip the country in the middle of the night.
Most likely, she wouldn’t have the chance to wear the very gowns she had finally been allowed to buy. It was as if the gods of propriety were railing at her sinful desire to step away from the pious path.
Worst of all, numerous charities returned her donations citing that they could not accept support from a person of such character. Those letters had nearly undone her. The thought of them even now tightened her throat.
Shaking her head, Kate lifted her quill ready to write a stinging reply to a rather terse letter sent by the Countess of Carmine. What was such a woman doing castigating her? No doubt, the countess was crowing her short burst of popularity in the London set was over. What could one say to such a person? Sod off really seemed the only appropriate reply.
Flinging down her quill, ink splattered on the green felt blotter and creamy letters. Kate sighed. She let her gaze trail to a large bouquet of crimson roses, a suitable color for her it would seem that had been sent by the Earl of Albany. It appeared a willingness to fling one’s skirts up for a bit of sport at the Royal Opera was a universal introduction to the opposite sex.
It could be worse. Truly. She could be under the guardianship of a father or a husband who would fling her into the country to be entertained by cows, sheep and incomparably bad musical performances by the local tradesmen’s daughters for her licentious behavior. She plunked her elbow on the table, heedless of the streaked ink and rested her chin on her fist.
The window beckoned. The dratted thing was like an invisible prison wall which permitted her hints of the glorious world of freedom just on the other side. Countless carriages bustled down the street and, even from here, she could see the riders showing off their finery in the park.
The lords’ and ladies’ clothes glared in contrast to the green of the trees and lawn, much like the colorful plumage of exotic birds. They flitted about, chattering. And here she was, once again, secluded and apart.
The feeling was all too familiar. The only difference, of course, was the reason for her imprisonment and the fact there had been nothing tempting on the other side of her parlor window in Shropshire.
Every now and then, to her chagrin, she fancied she spied the duke charging across the field on a great black hunter or racing down her road in one of those dangerous new curricles. But it was sheer fantasy. Fantasy she wanted to knock herself over the head with for even contemplating.
He probably had not thought a jot about her since their indiscretion. It wasn’t as if he had pursued her in the first place. No, she’d been the one to chase.
Perhaps in the grand tradition of the male, that had been her biggest foible. If she hadn’t made it so clear she wanted him, he might have pursued her. Kate clenched her jaw at the irritating thought. In truth, where did such action leave a lady? It left her waiting, that’s what; completely dependent on the dundering behavior of the gentleman in question.
The blasted duke had been sure she’d been too good or innocent or however he wanted to name it and only look at her now—the most scandalous lady in London. If she’d left the whole affair up to him, nothing would have happened.
Nothing.
It was a painful proposition that he wouldn’t have pursued her and now was unlikely to ever seek her out, seeing as how he hadn’t sought her out to begin with. Worse, while she was trapped, hiding away from the accusatory stares of society, he was, no doubt, out, laughing with his companions and having a merry time.
/>
She slapped her hand on her desk. One way or the other, she was proving herself to be a fool. Before, she’d been silly enough to believe in love and now, she was languishing over the neglect of a man who showered his attention upon women like spring rain over Derbyshire.
It wouldn’t do.
Kate’s hand trailed over the list Imogen won from Reginald last evening. It seemed the footman provided very stimulating sport for her cousin.
The thing was full of engagements for the next few days. The man, though as hard as steel, seemed to have the social acuity of a butterfly. . . or a wolf after lambs. And he was going out tonight. Or at least, so said Reginald. For there, in bold swipes of ink stood out the Earl of Albany’s fete.
Kate snorted. No doubt, the bounder would go, sip champagne all evening and find himself up the skirts of yet another woman. The thought caused her to see red and her fist balled the paper up into a tiny little crumple.
It was not right he should be free and she imprisoned. The very idea, the notion, the thought he might use his devilish hands upon another. . .
Kate drew in a slow breath to stop the growl ready to escape her throat.
Imogen bustled in through the door at the end of the parlor, a bouquet of red and white roses in her hand. “Can you believe it? Another one.” She thudded it down onto the gilt French table tucked below the window just opposite Kate’s desk. It joined ten other bouquets. “One might think we live in a hothouse.”
Kate smiled. “More like a house of ill repute.”
“Oh, please,” Imogen drawled, rolling her eyes. “Hardly the case, my dear. There’s only one infamous lady here, which doesn’t constitute a brothel.” She propped a hand on her hip and tilted her head. She gazed upward. “Though perhaps, I count.”
“You still have some semblance of virtue,” Kate pointed out, though she doubted that would last long if Imogen kept living with her.
Imogen tutted. “I haven’t had my virtue since I was a girl of fifteen. The rest is but a well thought out act. Now, how do you feel?” She took a few steps forward. “You don’t seem too dispirited.”
