“Well…”
Kate shrugged. “It makes no difference. If Mr. Wilton offers—which he won’t—I must decline.”
Grace must still think love conquered all—or perhaps it was only the champagne talking. Real people didn’t live happily ever after; they had to face—daily—society’s or their family’s censure. Love was wonderful, but friendship, respect, and companionship would do, perhaps better than love in a hermit’s cave.
“But—”
The coach stopped and Kate was spared further fruitless argument. Her butler-cum-footman, Mr. Sykes, opened the door and peered into the carriage cautiously.
“It’s safe, Mr. Sykes. Lady Grace made it home without casting up her accounts.”
“Ah. I am very glad to hear it.” He extended his hand. “May I assist you to alight, Lady Grace?”
“C-certainly.” Grace climbed out of the carriage quickly, but the moment her foot touched the pavement, she collapsed against Sykes.
“Grace!”
“Don’t be alarmed, my lady.” Sykes slid his arm under one of Grace’s. “If you could disembark and take Lady Grace’s other side, I believe we can manage nicely.” Sykes was able to brace Grace’s not-inconsiderable weight against his body while offering Kate his free hand.
“I’m f-fine, Aunt Kate. I j-just need a minute to get my b-bearings—oh.” Grace pressed a hand to her lips.
“I believe the sooner we get Lady Grace to her room, my lady, the less chance we have of a Regrettable Occurrence on the street.”
“Very true, Mr. Sykes.” Kate scrambled out of the carriage. “Let’s get you up to bed, Grace.”
Grace nodded and took a step, supported mostly by Sykes.
“The n-night air…seems to…d-does, actually, have an unfortunate—” Grace paused and pressed her hand to her lips again. She was definitely taking on a greenish cast. “Ohh.”
That sounded distinctly like a moan. Kate shot a glance at Sykes. He nodded. “Yes, my lady, I would say time was indeed of the essence.”
They hustled Grace into the house and up the stairs, making it to her room without disaster, and propped her up against the bed.
Kate heaved a sigh of relief. She did hope Grace would not be too sick. Now that she thought about it, her one and only episode of overindulgence in spirits had come after her first Alvord ball as well. She’d stolen a bottle of Standen’s brandy after he’d enumerated in excruciating detail all the reasons she could not—could never—wed Mr. Alex Wilton. She had never felt so ill—she had never been so ill, especially when her brother had bundled her into the carriage at first light. She’d had to ride in the dreadful rocking conveyance all the way to Standen.
She’d best have Sykes fetch their maid. She would know just what to do to make Grace more comfortable. “Mr. Sykes, will you—”
“Ohh, w-why is the room sp-spinning?”
“What?” Kate whirled around. Grace had decided to try lying down—a poor decision. Her face was now a ghastly shade of white.
“I think I’m going to be—” Grace turned on her side and struggled to push herself up.
Kate grabbed a basin from the cabinet next to the bed. “Get Marie, Sykes—and hurry.”
As she thrust the basin under Grace’s chin, she remembered one key task she had left undone.
Bloody hell. She hadn’t unlocked the servants’ door for Alex.
“You don’t have to leave on my account, David.” Alex watched the Duke of Alvord waltz by, Miss Sarah Hamilton in his arms. Alvord was staring down at his partner as if there were no one else in the room. Miss Hamilton’s face was flushed—she looked just as adoringly up at the duke.
There was no question in Alex’s mind—or the mind of any other man present, he’d wager—exactly what Alvord wished to be doing at that moment with his American guest. Which was precisely what Alex would like to be doing with Kate. It had been heaven waltzing with her tonight—he hoped his thoughts then hadn’t been as apparent as Alvord’s were now.
Hell, if the waltz had been danced twenty-three years ago, he’d have been certain to have found a way to get Kate to Gretna, damn the scandal. He would have gone mad otherwise.
And tonight he’d finally be able to—
If he went, that is.
“Why would I wish to stay?” David was saying. “My future wife has departed.”
The man was as bad as a terrier with a rat. “I’ve told you—Standen will never give his consent.”
“And I’ve told you, I don’t care. Grace is of age. I don’t need the earl’s permission.”
“You assume Lady Grace is willing.”
The cocky bastard grinned. “I assume I can persuade her.”
Alex grunted. “Good luck with that. Women’s minds are beyond my poor comprehension.” Like Kate’s. What had she been thinking, inviting him to her bed? Yes, she was a widow, but still, she was Kate, shy, quiet, reserved, modest Kate.
Or was she? Twenty-three years changed a person. And truthfully, how well had he known her?
David drained the last of his champagne. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“All right.” He wished David would stay. It would make it that much easier for him to slip away to Oxbury House undetected. He didn’t want anyone—even David—knowing where he was going tonight.
Was he going?
His head said he shouldn’t. The Kate he knew—well, the woman whose memory he’d cherished all these years—would never invite a man to her bed without first securing the church’s blessing. If the merest whisper of her indiscretion got out, her brother would be livid…and society would feed on the tale like jackals on carrion.
Another organ insisted—strenuously—that he should. Kate had haunted him all these years, her face always lurking in his mind, even when he was busy in another woman’s bed. She had stolen a part of his heart and he needed it back.
Kate was a widow. For all he knew, she’d been welcoming men into her bed before Oxbury was cold in his grave. Had she even been faithful while the man was alive? Oxbury had been close to seventy when he’d cocked up his toes. Likely he hadn’t been able to attend to his marital duties for years.
But this was Kate.
And he didn’t have to trust his gut. His butler’s sister-in-law’s cousin worked at an inn near Oxbury’s country estate. If Kate had been taking lovers, he would have heard.
Alex collected his hat and cane from a footman and stepped outside with David into the hubbub of horses and carriages and coachmen.
“I’d say Alvord is going to get himself an American duchess, wouldn’t you?” David headed down the street toward their townhouse, passing the long line of coaches waiting to pick up their aristocratic owners. Alex fell into step with him, but didn’t reply. His mind was elsewhere.
David didn’t care if Alvord married a trained monkey, but he had to say something. He was too full of frustrated energy to keep still. Watching the duke waltz with Miss Hamilton had been torture—almost like being forced to watch sexual congress. True, some men enjoyed being spectators to such activity, but he much preferred being an actor—and he’d especially like acting with Lady Grace on a nice, soft bed.
Waltzing with her had been heaven, though not as heavenly as their too-short interlude in the garden. She was just as wonderful to hold and kiss as he’d imagined.
And if he didn’t keep talking, he would imagine in painful detail exactly what bedding her would feel like—and look like and taste like and smell like. He’d much prefer to wait until he reached the relative privacy of Dawson House to indulge in those fantasies. Walking in his damn breeches would become much too uncomfortable otherwise.
“How long do you think it will be before we read of the duke’s engagement in The Morning Post?”
“What?” Alex looked at him blankly.
Poor Uncle Alex’s imagination had clearly wandered in exactly the direction David was trying to avoid, though Alex seemed capable of walking and thinking of Lady Oxbury at the same t
ime. Still, he’d wager the level of sexual anguish in his library tonight was going to be much higher than that of a roomful of randy schoolboys. Fortunately he had a ready and ample supply of brandy with which they could drown their desires.
“The Duke of Alvord and Miss Hamilton—how soon do you think we’ll read that they are getting wed?”
“Oh, right—the salacious waltz.” Alex cleared his throat. “Very soon.” Damn, he’d like to be able to say he and Kate would be wedding soon as well.
Would they be bedding soon? Tonight?
“That’ll throw the cat amongst the pigeons. Rothingham’s daughter did not look at all happy some colonial upstart might snatch Alvord out of her grasping claws—I suspect she won’t give up that ducal prize easily. And Alvord’s cousin, Richard Runyon, looked just as evil as the rumors paint him.”
Alex tried to control his annoyance. Why was David nattering on about the duke’s guests? He wasn’t normally such a rattle. “I don’t believe I saw Mr. Runyon.”
“Perhaps he appeared while you were in the garden with Lady Oxbury.”
Alex tripped on some uneven pavement.
“Careful, uncle. You don’t want to fall and break something. Might interfere with your courtship.”
Alex glared at his nephew. “Courtship? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then what were you doing in the garden, Uncle Alex? Examining the flowers? Discussing Plato? You were out there long enough to…Well, to do any number of things.” Should he tease Alex? If his uncle were anywhere near as frustrated as he was, the man might haul off and darken his daylights for him. Still, Grace would certainly expect him to encourage Alex to pursue her aunt. Teasing might not be the method she’d recommend, but a heart-to-heart talk wasn’t his or Alex’s style. And in any event, it looked as if no encouragement was necessary.
“Damn it, David, my activities are none of your concern.”
David laughed so loudly the stray dog across the street yelped and bolted down an alley.
“Will you be quiet, for God’s sake?”
“What? We don’t want to disturb the homeless curs or the cutpurses lurking in the shadows?”
“No, we don’t—or at least I don’t.”
David chuckled. “Not up for a fight this evening, uncle?”
“No.” Alex did have a quantity of energy to expend, but not on brawling. And Kate would surely not care to have him appear on her doorstep—or windowsill—bleeding and bruised. If he appeared at all, that is.
David laughed again, though a bit ruefully. “In truth, I’m not eager for a fight, myself. I’m already aching enough, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
Alex grunted and pretended not to notice, studying the path ahead of him instead. He could almost feel David’s thoughtful gaze on him, damn it all.
He hated London. He should go home. If he were at Clifton Hall now, he’d be sitting in his study, a glass of brandy at his elbow, a book in his hands, the fire crackling in the hearth. He’d be calm, tranquil, at ease—not walking a dirty London street, wondering whether he should visit Lady Oxbury’s bed, whether he would finally live the dream that had haunted him night after night for year after year.
A warm fire and a good book seemed exceedingly dull.
“If you do court Lady Oxbury,” David said, “that would help my cause. You can distract the dragon while I make off with the princess.”
“Lady Oxbury is not a dragon, and your cause will only be helped by Standen suffering a complete change of sentiment—an event even the most hardened gamester would not wager on.”
Alex wanted to court Kate, but how could he do so in front of the ton? All the old gossiping harpies would resurrect the scandals. Zounds, that would be dreadful. No, any pursuit must be conducted in private, away from prying eyes.
What could be more private than Kate’s bedchamber?
Kate was expecting him. She was an experienced woman…
“Alex, are you attending to me at all?”
But she was not a light skirt. He should marry her before he took her to bed. Still, she had invited him. It would be exceedingly rude not to appear…
“Alex!”
“What?” Alex stopped. David was standing on the walk about ten yards behind him. “What are you doing back there?”
David grinned. “Wondering how long it would take you to notice you were alone. You must be immersed in some very…deep thoughts.” His annoying nephew waggled his eyebrows.
Alex shrugged and resumed walking. David did not.
“What the—” Alex turned again. “Shall I leave you standing there like a lamppost? Come on.”
“Alex, look around.”
“Why?” Alex looked right and left. He saw a typical London street. “What am I supposed to see?”
“That we’re home. This is Dawson House.”
“Oh.” So perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He watched David take out his key and unlock the door.
He should follow him into the house, but he couldn’t persuade his feet to move. The last thing he wanted to do was go inside—or at least inside David’s house. He needed to clear his head, get rid of some of this energy coursing through his veins.
“I think I’ll walk for a while. Don’t wait up.”
David gave him a long look; then shrugged and shut the door behind him.
Alex hesitated. He could still change his mind. He could—he should—be sensible. Responsible. He should go up to his room and climb into bed. Alone.
But he wanted to misbehave—thoroughly and utterly misbehave. Proper Alex Wilton wanted to act like a rogue, a rake, a scoundrel.
Well, hardly. But at his ripe old age, he could—he would—break, or at least bend, a few rules for once.
He started walking again, this time toward Oxbury House.
Chapter 6
It didn’t matter that she’d forgotten to unlock the servants’ entrance—Alex wouldn’t come. He would never do anything so shocking, certainly not once he’d had the opportunity to consider the matter.
Kate pushed her hair back out of her face as Marie left to empty the basin. Grace had collapsed against her pillows. “Feeling better?”
“A little.” Grace closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid tonight was a complete disaster.”
“Oh, I don’t believe any great harm was done. Lord Dawson kept you from bringing attention to yourself, though it might have been more to the point if he’d kept you from drinking so much champagne.”
Grace covered her face. “How can something that tastes so good make me feel so horrible?”
Kate laughed. “I don’t know, but if it’s any consolation, you’re not the first person to run afoul of the drink. The bubbles are very seductive.”
Grace sighed. “They are, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Kate relaxed a bit. Grace’s color was much improved. A cup of Marie’s peppermint tea and Grace should feel, if not right as rain, at least well on the mend.
Kate looked around the room. But perhaps they wouldn’t have that tea here. The heavy mahogany furniture and the blood-red curtains were depressing.
This was the master bedchamber. The footmen had taken her things to the adjoining bedroom, even though she was no longer mistress, so she’d had them put Grace’s bags in here. With just the two of them in residence, it was silly to stand on ceremony.
This room would suit the new Lord Oxbury—the Weasel—perfectly. He was depressing, too—and any manner of other unpleasant things. She had hated asking him for the key to Oxbury House, and she could tell he’d hated giving it to her. She was convinced he’d only done so in the hope some desperate man would offer for her, freeing him from any further obligation to her.
Yes, this dark room would be perfect for the Weasel, but had it suited her Oxbury? He must have stayed here whenever he’d come up to take his seat in the House of Lords. She didn’t know for certain—she’d never accompanied him. She’d always felt she had t
o stay in the country to see that everything ran smoothly in his absence.
Silly. Critten, the estate manager, was quite competent.
The truth was she’d never wanted to come to Town, and Oxbury had never insisted. Perhaps he knew what she just now suspected—that she’d been afraid she might encounter Alex. How would she have reacted?
Perhaps it was best she’d never know.
“Let’s go to my room, Grace—that is, if you feel up to it?”
“Yes. I feel better since I…” Grace gestured toward where the basin had been. “You know.” She stood, bracing herself on the bedpost. “I’d like to get out of my dress and stays first.”
“Of course, I—what is that din?”
Grace laughed. “It must be Hermes. He’s the only dog in the house, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but I was hoping he was asleep.”
Marie came in, carrying a pot of tea, a small black and white dog at her heels. “Shh, ye wild doggie. Do nae carry on so. Yer mistress is home now. She did nae desert ye.”
“Hermes, you idiot, behave.”
Hermes glanced at Kate and gave her a short bark of welcome before turning his attention back to Marie.
“If you can manage it, Marie, will you put the tray in my room?”
“Of course, my lady, as long as this imp of Satan does nae trip me.”
Hermes was on his hind legs now, prancing around Marie’s skirts, his feathery tail waving as he hopped, his ears flying.
“Yes, and very entertaining ye are, sir. Now move aside, do, so I can get through this door.”
Hermes barked and obliged, but still followed Marie closely.
Kate laughed. “You don’t happen to have a piece of cheese in your apron pocket, do you, Marie?”
Hermes had been her close companion for the last three years—his presence had helped immeasurably after Oxbury died—but he did have a sad tendency to ignore her when he thought someone might offer him food, unless that someone was the Weasel, of course. He was an excellent judge of character—he knew not to trust the new Lord Oxbury. Any food the Weasel offered was more than likely poisoned.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 98
