by Olivia Drake
Jerome paled. “So, you’ve been examining the shop’s ledgers.”
“Yes,” Norah said. “And I—we—intend to settle with you as soon as possible.”
“Consider the debt canceled. You don’t owe me a copper.”
“How noble of you,” Kit mocked. “Or shall I say expedient? Perhaps you see more profit in making Norah very grateful to you.”
Jerome hissed a breath between his teeth. “Only a lecher like you would dream up such a vile suggestion—”
“You’re doing it again,” Norah snapped. “You’re behaving like two dogs fighting over a bone.”
“You’re far more precious than a bone, my dear,” Jerome said, still glaring at Kit. “Not that Blackthorne would ever value you. He’ll use you and then discard you, as he does all his women.”
He voiced the fear savaging Norah’s heart. In that one vital way, she dared not trust Kit.
He took a step forward. “You’re wrong about me. My intentions toward Norah are honorable.”
“You wouldn’t know honor if it kicked you off one of your racehorses.”
“Is that so?” Kit’s icy gaze flitted to her, and warmed to a strange, burning intensity. In a hushed tone, he added, “Regardless of what you think, Norah will stay here. As my wife.”
Chapter 13
Kit watched the surprise unfurl on Norah’s face. Her lips parted and her emerald eyes rounded. Her skin glowed pearl-pale in the afternoon sunlight, the freckles scattered like gold dust across the bridge of her nose. Her ruby curls tumbled over the gentle mound of her breasts. Despite his desperate yearning, he couldn’t interpret her reaction to his abrupt proposal.
Lord, what had he done?
He had intended to romance her with soft compliments and tender kisses, to ease her into accepting his suit. But Jerome threatened to take her away. Kit couldn’t relinquish her to the one man who already owned her affections. The one man who clearly wanted to marry her himself.
Lord Blackthorne has been nothing short of wonderful.
The memory of her words heartened Kit. But only for a moment. Norah frowned down at the wedding band she twisted on her finger.
Jesus God. Maybe his true rival was a dead man. She still loved that bastard, Maurice.
Please don’t say no, Kit silently beseeched her. Please.
“Norah can’t marry you.”
He focused cool eyes on Jerome. “What gives you the right to speak for her?”
The older man raked his fingers through his hair, mussing the shiny silver strands. “We’re friends. She has no family. Somebody has to protect her from scoundrels like you.”
“I’m proposing to marry her, not molest her.”
“She’s in mourning, barely eight weeks a widow. People will question your haste. Given the circumstances of her night here, they’ll say you compromised her.”
“So? Once nine months have passed, everyone will know the wedding wasn’t forced.”
“Regardless, remarrying so swiftly simply isn’t done. I won’t let you drag Norah’s good name through your own mud.”
Dread lay like a rock in Kit’s stomach. In the past he had thumbed his nose at society; now he agonized at the prospect of even one critical word spoken against Norah. Years of abuse had hardened him, but she was still so fragile.
The picture of vulnerability, she sat with her head bowed, her unbound hair hiding her expression. Why didn’t she speak?
“She’ll be the Marchioness of Blackthorne and someday the Duchess of Lamborough,” he said. “Any gossip will eventually die down.”
“This is madness.’ Jerome paced before the bank of windows. “Title or not, you would make her an unfit husband.”
The insult echoed a lifetime of slurs. Conscious of the Indian blood that coursed through his veins, Kit balled his fists. “I beg your pardon?” he said in his most chilling tone.
Jerome leveled his keen blue gaze. “May I point out, you’ve proven yourself incapable of fidelity. Love and integrity are so much dirt under your feet. I won’t stand by while you dishonor Norah.”
“May I point out, you hardly know me. Yet you presume to pass judgment.”
“Yes, by God. You’re a rakehell. Everyone knows that. A murder took place at one of your decadent parties, for God’s sake.” He shook his finger at Kit. “If she ever remarries, I’ll approve the man. And you’re at the very bottom of the list.”
His scorn enraged Kit. For half a penny, he’d grind his heel into those suave features. “And I suppose you’re at the top.”
Jerome stopped pacing. His silver eyebrows winged upward. “Where would you conceive such a notion—?”
“Are the two of you quite finished?” Norah broke in. “If I may be permitted to speak, you’ve both neglected one vital detail. No one has asked my opinion on this proposal.”
She sat with her palms braced on the floral cushions. Her angry frown, her tightened lips, shamed Kit. Oh God. He had offended her again; he had disregarded her need for independence. He had acted like the arrogant lord she thought him.
His own hostile words would drive her toward Jerome. Unless Kit opened his heart.
He crossed to her and went down on one knee. Shoving away the awful memory of kneeling before another girl who had spurned him in disgust, he grasped Norah’s small hand and strove for eloquence. “Norah, please forgive me. Had circumstances been different, I would have courted you the proper way, with gifts and flowers and compliments.”
“I won’t be bought,” she murmured stiffly. “I’m not like your other women.”
“I know—you’re special. There won’t ever be any other woman for me. I want to be your knight in shining armor. I want to commit my heart and soul to you. I want to be everything you dreamed of in the ideal husband.” He groped for the courage to utter the words he’d reserved for nearly thirty years. “I love you, Norah. Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Her eyes grew soft and hazy. The tip of her tongue slid over her lips. She started to melt forward, a goddess garbed in red hair and creamy silk. Then she withdrew her hand and pressed it to her stomach. “No.”
Stunned, he sat back on his heels. “No?”
She shook her head, slowly but emphatically. “No.”
“You heard her, my lord.” Jerome strode forward, triumph blazing in his eyes. “Norah is a lady. She has the good sense to realize your passion for her won’t last, that your promises are mere lies. She would never marry a black-hearted heathen like you.”
Kit surged to his feet. He couldn’t abide the racial innuendo, not in front of Norah. Rage blotted his reason. He swung out with his fist and clipped Jerome on the jaw.
Jerome staggered backward. His back struck the bedpost. Blood spotted the corner of his mouth.
Norah gasped. Kit kept his eyes on Jerome. “If you value your life, St. Claire, you’ll watch what you say to me.”
The older man brandished his fists. “Why, you bloody bugger—”
“Sweet heavens, stop!” Norah struggled to her feet and hastily limped to him. “No more fighting.”
“As you say.” Jerome reached out to support her, though his cheeks retained an infuriated flush. “I am a gentleman.”
“Are you hurt?” Balancing on one foot, she snatched a napkin from the tea tray and dabbed tenderly at the blood trickling down his chin. “Oh, you poor dear. I’m so terribly sorry.”
Her solicitude irked Kit. “For God’s sake, don’t apologize on my behalf.”
Eyes flashing, Norah swung on him. “Someone must! Jerome came here as a friend, to protect my honor. If you were as considerate as you claim to be, you would be glad of that.” She looked him up and down. “Knight in shining armor, indeed.”
Her words lashed like a horsewhip. Kit rubbed his throbbing knuckles. But the raw wound on his heart stung far worse than his hand. Christ, he had lost any hope of winning her. By indulging an adolescent fit of temper, he had pushed her straight into Jerome St. Claire’s
waiting arms.
Fear for her life pulsated against his rib cage. He mistrusted Jerome. What thoughts lay behind that urbane exterior? God, what if Jerome were the killer? He could have hired the woman who had murdered Maurice. What if now he meant to woo Norah to her death?
“Thank you, my dear.” Jerome took the cloth from her. “If you’ll get dressed and collect your things, we’ll go now.”
“No,” Kit said. “She’s staying here.”
“Now who’s speaking for her?” Jerome jeered.
“I’ll speak for myself.” Norah crossed her arms. “Forgive me, Jerome, but I can’t go with you.”
“But...you just said...”
“I am perfectly aware of what I said.”
She hobbled away and leaned against the bedpost. Half sick with relief, Kit stood perfectly still. He couldn’t flatter himself that she cared for him, but he thanked God she had the good sense to accept his protection. The dressing gown embraced her hourglass shape: the swell of her breasts curved into a slender waist, then flared out again to her hips. But Norah was more than a warm feminine body. Her resolute expression reflected her strength of character and her keen mind.
And Kit yearned as desperately for her respect as he did for her passion. How could he bear to live in the same house with her? To see her every day and know she didn’t return his love?
He must. Her safety was more vital than his own pain.
“Norah, please reconsider,” Jerome said hoarsely. “He’ll ruin you. Your very presence here will besmirch your reputation. You’ve worked for years to win acceptance as a lady.”
She held her chin high. “Then I suppose I shall find out who my true friends are.”
“And the business? The scandal will drive clients away from the shop.”
“I’ve weathered worse troubles these past few months. One more scandal won’t matter.”
“You’ve no cause for worry,” Kit said. “My stepmother is due to arrive by train later this afternoon.”
Norah’s eyes widened. She clutched the robe beneath her chin. “The duchess? Kit, you should have warned me—”
“A likely story.” Jerome threw down the bloodied napkin. “I don’t believe a word the rascal says.”
“Believe what you like. I wired her early this morning. She’ll be escorting us to my parents’ estate in Kent.”
“You might have consulted me when you made your plans,” Norah said. “If I go off to Kent, who will watch over the shop?”
“Thaddeus can manage things.” Kit went to her and grasped her hand. “Please don’t be angry. You need a safe haven until your ankle is healed.”
“I forbid you to take her out of the city,” Jerome said.
Kit almost gagged on a rise of gall. “Who do you think you are—her husband? Or are you suggesting the Duchess of Lamborough is an inadequate guardian of Norah’s virtue?”
Jerome’s gaze wavered, but only for a moment. He crossed to her and snatched up her other hand. “For the sake of our long friendship, I must ask you one last time to come with me, Norah.”
“No. His stepmother will be here, for heaven’s sake.” She waved them both away, the silk and lace of her sleeve fluttering. “It’s time you accepted my ability to make my own choices. I will meet the duchess and then decide whether or not I’ll travel to Kent. Now I want the both of you to cease badgering me.”
“I’ll take my leave, then.” Jerome walked in jerky steps to the door. He turned to give Norah a piercing look that held the bitterness of regret. “I’ll be in town for at least a month, so please feel free to summon me—at any time, day or night.” He wheeled around and stalked out.
Victory left a sour taste in Kit’s mouth. Christ, he didn’t want to sympathize with the man. Yet he and Jerome shared one common failing: neither had won Norah’s heart.
She limped toward the bell cord by the fireplace. “I must get dressed,” she murmured in a curious, breathy voice.
“You should return to bed and rest that ankle.”
“Oh, bother my ankle. Kit, I can’t meet the duchess looking like this.” She grimaced at her nightdress, then tugged on the rope. “I do hope Betsy hurries. Do you suppose my gown is ready? Black velvet is hardly suitable for afternoon, but it will have to do.”
A faint ray of hope pierced the darkness of his despair. If Norah fretted over meeting his mother, maybe she did care for him. “I’ll check. And I’ll see to fetching the rest of your things.” He strode to the door.
“Kit?”
He spun on his heel, “Yes?”
Poised by the marble fireplace, she fingered the tasseled end of her sash. Her slim body stiff and proud, she murmured, “I want you to know I’m honored by your proposal. But I can’t marry you or anyone else. I’ve only just learned to rely on myself.”
He harnessed the wild beating in his chest. Once today he had humbled himself on his knees before her, and he could not bear the hurt of another refusal. “Do as you like,” he said, affecting an indifferent tone. “And rest assured I shan’t badger you again.”
Norah sat beside Kit in the dining room at Lamborough Hall and sampled her treacle tart. Though she had spent the past fortnight here at his parents’ estate, the beautiful room still awed her: the red damask draperies, the black japanned sideboards, the army of doting servants. Chinese lanterns shed pools of soft light over the intimate gathering. His parents occupied opposite ends of the long, white-draped table; across from Norah sat Kit’s youngest—and only unmarried—sister, Lady Annabelle, and his newly arrived friend, Lord Adrian Marlow.
In place of the traditional paintings of ancestors, fascinating photographs graced the walls. By now Norah knew them all, from the portrait of a gold-toothed mandarin bedecked in embroidered silk, to the one of a grubby Indian beggar gazing hungrily at a fruit stand piled high with mangoes and bananas.
The pictures were the work of Kit’s father, Damien Coleridge, the Duke of Lamborough. Broad-shouldered, with a shock of gray-streaked black hair, he bore a striking resemblance to his eldest son. In Kit the rugged handsomeness had a subtly exotic slant, the sensual fullness of his lower lip, the high slash of cheekbones, the polished teak skin. Warmth spread through her. If she had trusted her heart, she could be sitting here as his fiancée and preparing to join a real family. Instead, his parents believed she was merely his business partner.
Rest assured I shan’t badger you again. True to his word, Kit had acted the perfect gentleman, solicitous but remote. She found herself longing for the charmer who could melt her with a smile, for the rake who would steal a kiss in the British Museum, for the caring man who had rescued her from a murderer.
“Our first peaceful dinner in days,” the duke said, motioning to a footman to remove the china plates. “Thank God the regiment of hellions departed this morning.”
“Merciful heavens, Damien. Watch how you speak of our grandchildren.” Sarah, the Duchess of Lamborough, shook her blond head in mock exasperation. The aqua gown enhanced her eyes, the silk as smooth and serene as her ageless features. “What will Norah think, to hear you complaining about your own kin?”
“She’s likely as relieved as I am to see them go, but far too polite to say so.”
The gleam in his brown eyes told Norah he was teasing. A pang wrenched her heart. He and the duchess treated her as if she were one of the family, instead of a widow fallen on hard times. “On the contrary,” Norah murmured, “I loved meeting Kit’s nieces and nephews. And his sisters and brother. They told me about quite a few of his boyhood escapades. Such as the time he faked a fall off the Great Wall of China.”
Sarah pressed her fist to her bosom. “He nearly scared me to death.”
“Yes, and Papa walloped him so he couldn’t sit down for a week,” Annabelle said, a smirk shading her lily-pale features.
“How would you know?” Kit scoffed. “You were a baby, still in nappies.”
She tipped up her impish nose. “I can tell you, Norah, that he’s never bro
ught a lady home before. His other women are not the sort we would associate with—”
“Stop right there.” Kit aimed his silver fork at her, the tines glinting in the lamp glow. “Unless you want a walloping.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me. You just might lose the bet.”
She swung to her dinner companion and touched Adrian’s maroon coat sleeve. “Lord Adrian will protect me. Won’t you?”
His sandy curls framed languidly handsome features. He gaped at her beauty like a man long starved. “I, er, yes.” Clearing his throat, he dragged his gaze to Kit. “I say, speaking of things lost, I’ve found the Maharaja of Rampur.”
Norah’s heart flew into her throat. Dropping her fork with a clatter, she leaned forward. “Have you? I didn’t know you were looking for him.”
“Kit set me to the task,” Adrian grimaced. “A habit with the old boy lately.”
Before she could question the cryptic comment, Kit set down his water glass. “Good God, man, why didn’t you say something when you came in?”
“I was distracted, I suppose.” Adrian slanted another bedazzled glance at Annabelle, who lowered her fair eyelashes in a display of modesty.
Kit frowned at his friend. “Well?” he said curtly. “Don’t hold us in suspense.”
“His yacht is docked at the Isle of Wight. I read so in the gossip column in this morning’s Times.”
“What is your interest in this maharaja?” the duchess asked.
Norah explained about the Jubilee tiara and her need to buy Fire at Midnight. An ache started inside her. “This means I’ll have to leave soon to seek an audience with the maharaja.”
“All in good time.” Kit shaped his hand over hers, his warmth flowing into her for a scant moment before he drew back. “Your ankle is only just recovered. I won’t let you suffer a relapse.”
“I’m fine,” she murmured. Yet her belly churned with painful regrets and untimely yearnings. Seldom these past two weeks had he touched her. Because she had spurned him, like that stupid girl, Emma Woodfern. Surely he knew her own purpose hadn’t involved prejudice. Did he truly understand she’d had no choice?
