Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  What kind of captain had he been? Fair and just, Katrina gathered from his treatment of his aunt and concern for his sisters. More a comrade to his crew than a master?

  Mama tutted and waved her hand before straightening a couple of volumes. “As soon as possible is perfectly fine. I’ll have the servants make the beds, and I shall assign maids to assist your aunt and sisters. Unless they have their own? What about a governess? Should I have a room readied for her as well?”

  “No, I’ve dismissed their governess. She was mean, neglectful, and I suspect had a penchant for brandy.” He breathed out a controlled sigh. “That’s another thing I beg your guidance for since you’ve a daughter.” His hooded gaze trailed to Katrina. “I haven’t the first notion what constitutes an acceptable governess.”

  “Yes, you do.” Katrina lifted her hand and ticked off her fingers. “A respectable woman who’s not given to unkindness, inattention, or tipping a flask too readily.” She lifted a fourth finger. “And, from my personal experiences, a lady who doesn’t have a particular preference for garlic and onions,” up went her thumb, “and doesn’t regularly remove her shoes and expose her charges to her malodorous feet.”

  Her monologue met with a rich, throaty chuckle, and Nic grinned. “I’ll make a mental note, particularly of the latter.”

  Mama tapped her chin. “I think the girls should share a room, so they aren’t lonely or frightened in their new environ.” A keen glint entered her eyes. “Your Grace, where do you intend to reside?”

  Nic clasped his hands behind him and rocked onto his heels.

  Ah, the privateer again.

  “I shall either stay at Aunt Bertie’s or a nearby inn.”

  Mama shook her raven head. “No inns close by, I fear. May I propose you stay with us as well? As I said earlier, we’ve plenty of room, and having you about will give your sisters more opportunity to become acquainted with you in a less formal setting.”

  Katrina’s heart tripped. Nic sleeping beneath the same roof? Eating every meal with her? Perhaps reading in the library or playing cards in the parlor?

  What would Richard think?

  He could think whatever he liked. If, and when, he bothered to appear. And if he never did, Nic’s presence made no difference. Besides, she wasn’t carrying on an illicit affair with him, for heaven’s sake.

  He had a young lady on his arm. A very pregnant young lady.

  He did seem in a terrible rush. Barely civil to Aunt Miriam.

  Blast and bother. Her ruminations brought the Belamonts’ words crashing into her mind, bathing her in distress. Had Richard betrayed her? Their love? What did a person do in this circumstance? Wait and hope he had a valid reason? Send the Bow Street Runners after him? Pen a polite note inquiring if their courtship had ended? For all the haut ton’s rules and recommendations on decorous behavior, nothing addressed this ugliness.

  Mama’s consideration shifted to Katrina, and even in the dim light, something in addition to warmth tinged her mother’s eyes. “And, I think having you here would do Katrina a wealth of good to divert her from this evening’s unpleasant developments.”

  “Mama!” Good God. Must Mama bring that up now? Had she guessed Katrina’s thoughts? “I promise you, I’m not about to succumb to a fit of the blue devils. I’m confident we’ll know the truth of it soon enough.”

  She wasn’t confident at all, but whining and moping served no purpose, though if Richard had thrown her over, she’d be hard-pressed to maintain her stoic front. Perhaps she could persuade her parents to take a trip abroad for several months.

  Papa couldn’t leave the bank that long.

  Well, then her and Mama.

  “If you’re certain it wouldn’t be an inconvenience …?” Nic spoke to her mother, but his sharp gaze rested upon Katrina.

  “Not in the least.” Mama shook her head once.

  He grinned and inclined his head, his dimple and scar catching the candles’ meager light. “Then, I should be honored to accept your hospitality. Now if you will excuse me, I’ll bid Needham and the others a good evening. I’ve much to do, not the least of which is to inform my aunt she’ll be taking up residence here.” He chuckled again, the deep baritone reverberating off the book-laden shelves. “She’ll kick up a fuss, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Only for a trifling, but once she’s here, I’m sure she’ll be glad of it,” Katrina assured him.

  “Until the day after tomorrow, ladies.” He kissed Mama’s hand before bending over Katrina’s.

  Broad-shouldered and commanding, Nic strode from the room, his swagger that of a man accustomed to walking decks rather than expensive, plush carpets or marbled floors. He possessed a masculine grace, impressive and imposing.

  “Are you smitten?”

  Her mother’s soft question yanked Katrina’s focus from the empty doorway.

  “Pardon?” Smitten, as in attracted to? Enamored of? Captivated by? Katrina collected her clambering thoughts. “What a peculiar question. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “I expected Miss Belamont’s revelation to produce a much stronger reaction, Kitty, and I didn’t miss his grace’s murmuring in your ear during dinner. He calms you in a way I’ve never seen before.”

  Katrina hugged her mother for an extended moment, scrambling for an honest explanation.

  “Mama, he’s a friend whom I’m happy to help. In some ways, he and I are alike, both born outside Society’s boundaries, yet thrust into the din because of our parents’ status. You know full well there are those who still turn their haughty noses up when in our presence, and I suspect his grace will bear a fair share of snobbery despite his lofty title. Jealousy and envy are toxic, piercing weapons. Perhaps it’s because we know we’re safe from romantic entanglement with the other that we can relax and be ourselves, and I find it quite refreshing, truth to tell.”

  Even as she murmured the words, Katrina knew them only partially true. If she weren’t already romantically involved, Nic was precisely the kind of man who could capture her heart.

  “Hmph. Call it what you will, my dear.” After blowing out the candles, her mother looped her hand through Katrina’s arm as they left the library, their slippers swishing in unison. “But I was young once too, and the way he looks at you isn’t fraternal. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked him to stay.”

  Surely Mama misread Nic. He looked upon her with an acquaintance’s regard.

  “Mama, he needs friends, and I assure you, I’m not about to fall in love with a scoundrel who’ll return to the sea the moment his sisters are raised and wed.” No, she’d fallen in love with a soldier whose face she’d had a deuced time recalling since a certain oversized swashbuckler with ridiculously green eyes discovered her crawling across his aunt’s floor.

  At the stairs, Mama cupped Katrina’s face. “Dearest, I hope with all my heart Major Domont’s delay is nothing more than an army matter, but you may need to prepare …” She inhaled a lungful and released it with a whoosh. “Well, I needn’t say it, my darling, need I?”

  Tears glimmered in her lovely violet eyes.

  “No, Mama, you needn’t, but I must know for certain.” Suddenly weary and fighting tears, Katrina cast her gaze to the first riser. Rejection stung. Brutally. The sooner she knew the truth, the sooner she could reevaluate her future. “Can you ask Papa to see to it for me? Send one of his men to Stratford-upon-Avon and discover why Major Domont is there? Out of uniform?”

  “I’ll have him do so first thing on the morrow.” Laughter and music echoed from the open drawing room doors, and Mama lowered her voice, two lines creasing her worried brow. “And if it’s discovered your major isn’t worthy, Kitty?”

  What a polite way to call Richard a philandering cockscum.

  “Well, I suppose I’ll need to seek elsewhere for a husband, won’t I?” In a decade. Either a man she hadn’t given her heart to, or one who wouldn’t mash the organ beneath his polished boots.

  “Yes, there’s always next Season.”
Mama nodded, a falsely bright smile wreathing her face. “That will give you a chance to recover … unless … you’ve someone in mind already?”

  Katrina lifted her skirts, and placing a foot on the lowest stair, rolled her shoulders while issuing a pathetic little laugh before quipping, “The Duke of Pendergast seeks a wife.”

  Chapter Seven

  Eyes half-open, Nic yawned and stretched his legs before him. On the coach’s opposite side, his sisters slept, tucked into each other. Shy to the point of awkwardness, Daphne and Delilah hardly spoke since he’d collected them this morning and left instructions with Chamberdall Court’s housekeeper to send their trunks by wagon no later than the next day.

  They adamantly refused to address him by his given name, but instead whispered, “Yes, Your Grace or No, Your Grace.” Someone, likely their now-former governess, had filled their heads with twaddle that had them pale and terrified in his presence.

  Aunt Bertie snored softly beside him, her black-bonneted head resting on his shoulder as Percival napped in a basket atop her lap. Amidst his sisters’ muffled giggles, and Percival’s yowls and hisses, Nic, Dalton, and Aunt Bertie had maneuvered the obstinate cat into the hamper. Not without a few scratches, flying fur, and several muttered oaths.

  Cats—fat, pampered cats—were not meant to travel in smallish enclosures.

  To his delight and surprise, Aunt Bertie proved remarkably agreeable about trotting off to the Needhams’. So much so that he found himself almost asking why several times. After all, Daphne and Delilah weren’t directly related to her, so her zeal to become acquainted confounded a mite.

  Before falling asleep, she’d murmured something about a grand exploit. He’d hardly call an extended visit with a former pupil and her family an adventure, but then again, he’d traveled extensively and seen more in his six-and-twenty years than most people did in a lifetime. To his aunt, venturing to the Needhams’ for a few weeks might, indeed, be a splendid adventure.

  Daphne shifted, and Nic’s sisters captured his interest once more.

  For all Collingsworth’s blustering, he hadn’t bothered to collect the girls and ensconce them in his London house, even five weeks after their mother’s death. Probably because he already had four unmarried daughters underfoot and only cared about the guardianship’s monetary provision, with which he’d no doubt padded his thin pockets.

  Naming Collingsworth Daphne’s and Delilah’s guardian still didn’t make sense when Pendergast had intended to reveal Nic’s legitimacy, unless the old duke had meant it as a temporary arrangement until Nic could be notified of his inheritance.

  Nic scratched his cheek, unused to the smooth-shaven skin. No telling what maggot warped his sire’s reasoning, but he had a legacy of dubious decisions. Pray God the deficit wasn’t hereditary.

  Flexing his legs, he rested his head against the ducal carriage’s plush squabs. The old duke had a bloody fine coach house filled with more conveyances than anyone possibly had need of. The same could be said of the stables. How many horses did one man require? Or manors, for that matter? Nic’s man of business had advised him that he owned seven, not including the Berkley Square residence and a townhouse in Mayfair. Not for long. He intended to sell every unentailed property and, with the funds, establish trusts for his sisters.

  Daphne and Delilah would be quite wealthy in their own right, a distinct advantage with a tarnished pedigree. A derisive, and wholly gratified, grin tipped Nic’s mouth. Wouldn’t old Pendergast turn flips in his grave if he knew Nic’s scheme?

  Delilah sighed, the low sound forlorn, and in her sleep, Daphne snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around her younger sister, even as Aunt Bertie snorted and situated herself more comfortably against him.

  His family.

  They’d want for nothing, and more importantly, they’d know happiness again. He’d see to it. A foreign peace engulfed him, and he indulged the unfamiliar sensation for a few minutes, letting his mind wander to Katrina.

  Neither she nor Mrs. Needham had heard him step from the drawing room after saying his farewells. Unaware that he stood at the entry, they’d ascended the stairs, their heads close together and arms about each other’s waists. Hopefully his wife, whoever she should be, would treat his sisters thusly.

  The Duke of Pendergast seeks a wife.

  Had Katrina been serious?

  What rot. Of course not.

  More likely, the evening’s strain had her tossing the flippant remark. Not that he minded the path her mind had journeyed down. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though improbable, Nic found the notion most agreeable. Her heartache, he did not. Did he want to be the man she wed because another had rejected her?

  You don’t know that.

  Besides, wedding Katrina wasn’t an option, even if she already occupied a portion of his heart. A man didn’t embark on voyages and leave a woman with her buoyant, considerate temperament for months, or even years. She’d be lonely and miserable, and perhaps, in time, grow resentful and bitter. Her kind needed her husband close, to share life’s experiences with, especially if children came along.

  But never to sail again, even after his lettre de marque’s revocation? His pulse, his breathing, pulsed in rhythm to the sea’s tides. What could possibly compare to that magic?

  Just as well Domont had a prior claim on Katrina, and damn his eyes, he’d better have a blasted good reason for strutting around with another woman on his arm. Nic fisted his hands. And for not having the decency to contact Katrina … Kitty.

  A curiosity-born grin tipped his lips. Soft and sweet kitten? Or playful and mischievous?

  He’d soon find out, as they’d be sharing a roof—a prospect simultaneously wonderful and awful. Nic could take his fill of Katrina’s presence, but coveting a woman whose heart belonged to another, and one he didn’t dare entertain wishful fantasies about, would not end well for him. But none of this was about him. His sisters and his aunt must be kept at his mind’s forefront.

  What he did, he did for them.

  And someday, when Aunt Bertie had passed and Daphne and Delilah were happily married with children on their knees, he could say the sacrifice had been worth it. And what if he and his duchess were blessed with children? What then? Would he desert his children for the sea? Those troublesome musings he shoved to a dark corner of his mind, to examine later. Much later.

  By the time they arrived at the Needhams’ ostentatious manor, late afternoon had descended, with her predictable wintertime gloom and chill. In short order, his aunt and sisters were hustled inside, relieved of their outer garments, and shown to their chambers with the promise of warm baths, hot chocolate, and a light repast.

  Rather than avail himself of his chamber, Nic sought the library, intent on selecting a volume or two. Having never had access to so many books, he craned his neck, gaping at the top shelves. Thousands of books beckoned, row upon row of varying sizes, surely a goodly number generations old.

  Katrina slipped into the room, and he sent her a smile as he climbed a ladder to its topmost rung. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” Holding the ladder’s sides, he leaned away and grinned.

  Eyes twinkling, she smiled back. “Do what?”

  “Have so many books to choose from, I needed a ladder to reach the uppermost volumes.”

  She played with a sofa pillow’s tassels, stroking the silk threads. “I’m sure Chamberdall Court has an extensive library.”

  Probably a mammoth one. But he was here. Now.

  A gold-embossed red leather drew his eye, and Nic pulled the volume from the shelf. He inhaled the heady aroma. “What about this one?”

  Katrina perched on a chair’s padded arm, the pillow in her lap, and shook her shiny head, sending her pearl teardrop earbobs bouncing. “Unless you’re searching for a volume on animal husbandry,” she squinted at the book he held, “specifically, the reproduction of poultry, you may want to reconsider your choice.”

  “Hmph, can’t say I have a need to know which cam
e first, the chicken or the egg, right now.” Or ever. Nic replaced the book and waved a careless hand. “Don’t suppose there’s anything here about how to raise decorous young women?”

  “Of course, but the reading is as dry as ash and utterly ridiculous.” After tossing the pillow onto the sofa, she stepped to a shelf near the door. “They’re located over here.” She bent and ran her fingers along a row of books before selecting two thin, blue-green tomes. “The Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment,” she raised the first book, “and The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living. Both guaranteed to bore your sisters and you to death.”

  She made a dramatic pose, eyes closed and the back of her hand pressed to her forehead.

  Was there a gentleman’s comportment equivalent? For him? One step at a time.

  “Excellent.” Deftly descending the ladder, he indicated the books with a nod. “Have you read either?”

  “Both, multiple times. Usually for penance after flouting a social rule.” After laying the books on the smallish desk, she leaned against it and chuckled, a light, joyful burble. “I fear they failed to transform me into a wholly proper miss. I tend to disregard the parts I think drivel, which, honestly, are most, yet I get along manageably well.” She wrinkled her nose adorably. “Mama and society might not agree, but I’ve become quite accomplished at acting the part.”

  His lips twitched. Good for her.

  “May I offer a word of advice, Nic?” She brushed her fingers along a quill’s feather lying in its feminine porcelain holder.

  “By all means.” A scribbled, crossed-off paper lay upon the desktop. Was that his bride list?

  “I’d give your sisters a bit of time before trying to transform them. I’m certain, as a duke’s daughters, they’ve already had comportment drilled into them until they want to scream. Let them breathe a little, come out of the shells they’ve retreated into.”

  “Sound advice, and a recommendation I’ll gratefully heed.” He had no more desire to read tedious decorum instructions than his sisters likely had to hear them. Once he’d reached the floor, Nick straightened his coat. “What do you suggest then? For my reading enjoyment?”