Untamed

by Anna Cowan

  The sixth morning she woke without him, it was not a small ache. She felt as though her body had been hollowed out, and was sucking at the world.

  Kit, her mother, Tom and Crispin were sitting down to breakfast when the Squire’s summons was brought in on a salver. The day before, a Louis XIV table had been delivered to the Manor, and instated in the room that had been cleared out for it days before. Kit had no memory of what this room used to be, but now it was their breakfast parlour, completely ostentatious with the grand table and brocaded curtains and a gold-framed Turner that had been hung on the wall practically before the paint had dried on it. It was too much. It was just like him. She loved it, and although she would have to sell everything off to repay the Squire, this room would remain. Just as he had made it – for her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Katherine?’ he asked, arriving at that moment in the doorway, in full dress.

  She looked up from the Squire’s summons, into the dark blue of his eyes. Her body clenched, clutched at the world.

  ‘Is it bad news, Kit?’ asked Tom from beside her, and pulled at the paper in her hands; she was forced to look away from Jude to snatch it back.

  Lydia came in behind Jude and steered him to the sideboard. Crispin leapt up and engaged him in talking about a mare they had thought to ride out and see next week.

  ‘The Squire has invited me for tea, Tom, that’s all. He . . . hints . . . that he wouldn’t be averse to Lady Rose accompanying me.’

  ‘We mustn’t keep the Squire waiting,’ said Jude, bringing his plate of toast to the table. ‘Katherine and I shall submit ourselves to it. And afterwards we shall expect you all to spoil us rotten in recompense.’

  ‘I haven’t seen dear Violet in an age,’ Lydia said breezily, sitting by Jude with her own heaped plate. ‘I believe I shall accompany you.’

  Jude glared at her, then speared a sausage off her plate. Which would explain why Lydia had put so much food on it. Kit kept forgetting how very well they knew each other.

  ‘Winston was always such a good neighbour,’ Ma said, accepting a fresh cup of tea from the footman. ‘He and your father were almost like brothers. It meant a lot to your father – he never quite believed that I didn’t mind his lack of a title, you see. I can only think Winston took his death very hard, as we have seen him so rarely these past years.’

  ‘Ah but then,’ said Jude idly, ‘a man like Sir Winston will not choose to be friendly when he can choose to condescend. The temptation is too much.’

  ‘I don’t take your meaning, my dear,’ said Ma, frowning a little.

  Kit shot a look at Lydia, a desperate, Shut him up!

  Jude moved deftly out of the range of Lydia’s elbow and said, ‘I didn’t mean to be obscure. I am talking about the fact that the Squire —’

  ‘Ma, I don’t think you —’

  ‘Be quiet, Katherine. The Squire what?’

  Kit saw the deep fear in her mother. She knew, also, that this was all a dream and would end.

  ‘He holds the mortgage on the Manor,’ said Jude, and something in his voice made Kit think that he wasn’t being an arse; he had simply thought they all knew.

  Three pairs of Sutherland eyes came to rest on Kit.

  ‘Kit,’ said Tom, very quietly. ‘What have you done?’

  She made herself look up at him. It was his inheritance, not hers. She took his hand under the table, and squeezed it as though she could crush him into forgiving her. She thought for a horrible moment that he was going to pull away, but he relented, and squeezed back.

  ‘Oh, Kit,’ said her mother, and Kit watched her change – like a folded paper flower crumpling beyond repair in her inartistic fingers.

  Jude threw his fork down on to the table. ‘Would you listen to yourselves? How did you think you kept the Manor, when the late Mr Abraham Sutherland had lost his fortune many times over?’

  Her mother flinched, became even smaller.

  ‘Lydia’s marriage settlement,’ Tom mumbled, his hand convulsive against Kit’s. She held it tight and firm in hers.

  ‘How much did your father receive when you married BenRuin?’ Jude asked.

  Something horrible and mutinous passed over Lydia’s face. Then she said, ‘Enough to buy him a title, if he’d wanted it.’

  Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Jude held up a hand to him, without ever looking away from Lydia. ‘And what did he buy with it?’

  Lydia’s eyes flicked to their mother, and Kit would not have expected that sign of consideration. ‘He lost every penny. And then he gambled on his expectation of more.’

  In Kit’s beautiful breakfast room, on a bright spring morning, the surface of their life here was split, the truth spilled out amongst the fresh-cut flowers and warm morning rolls, across the shiny surface of the table.

  ‘I am sick to death of this,’ Jude said, his voice harsh but still subtly feminine. ‘I will not have a mere squire holding you ransom, Katherine. I think I would like to take care of Sir Winston once and for all. Or rather, my cousin the Duke of Darlington is going to take care of him. My cousin would do anything I asked of him.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Crispin. ‘That is, my lady, the Duke isn’t even in England.’

  Jude frowned at Crispin, and it reminded Kit that they were in the habit of contradicting him only because he allowed it. Then his mood changed, quicksilver.

  ‘You’re quite right, my dear,’ he said. ‘It would be beneath my cousin to deal with him personally.’

  Violet thought she might actually die before she made it to London for her debut. Two more weeks, and time crawling so slowly along that sometimes she felt as if she was going backwards.

  ‘One more time,’ said Mrs Parsons, without looking up from her embroidery.

  Violet minced across the room towards her, and swept down into her court curtsey. She didn’t need to practise it again. She knew it was perfect. Her hair was an extraordinary colour, her dress expensive, if not in the first stare of fashion. But court dresses were supposed to be a little old-fashioned, anyway, so that didn’t matter. She was seventeen, and beautiful, and none of that meant anything out here in the countryside, where no one could see her.

  ‘Come, sit by me,’ Mrs Parsons said in her flawless French. ‘Your tense conjugations are still sloppy.’

  ‘I would have attended your garden party,’ Violet said, paying no mind to her own awful accent, ‘but I hadn’t been well. If you were to ask me again in the future —’

  ‘Duke!’ someone shouted, down below. It was abrupt as a filthy word in the quiet morning. Nothing ever happened here. Their butler never raised his voice.

  ‘The Duke of Darlington is approaching!’ he shouted up the stairs, followed by a volley of orders too fast for Violet to follow.

  She leapt up, ignoring Mrs Parsons, and ran to the window.

  Oh, it was too – too wonderful to be real.

  A rather large party approached the Abbey on foot. Her eyes found the Duke immediately. He would have been impossible to miss. His blue coat seemed soaked with colour, more real than any other part of the morning. His hat was tall, but sat at a jaunty angle on his head, and his boots reflected sunlight with every step. Even the way he walked was the most wonderful thing Violet had ever seen. He tilted his head up to the window, and she fancied she saw him smile and she almost toppled over.

  She remembered to breathe, and the window misted up. She scrubbed viciously at it. She didn’t want to miss an instant of this.

  On the Duke’s arm was his terrifyingly sophisticated cousin. She was wearing a pale lavender dress today, and it was hard to see beneath the lace parasol from this distance, but it rather looked as though she had a whole bird twined into her yellow wig. Violet really had to see Miss Faith about getting hoops.

  She let her eyes roam briefly away from the Duke, and noted Kit – no change to her disastrously plain wardrobe – and Tom. Violet flushed a little when she recognised his contained stride. She hadn’t seen Tom in an age, and
she had fancied she loved him for a long time.

  Still, a duke.

  Her eyes were pulled back to His Grace, as he turned to his cousin and laughed at something she said. Oh, God, there was no way Violet would be able to compete. Lady Rose was a little . . . intimidating. She seemed to know everything, and only a third of what she said made any sense. Violet huffed, and quickly wiped the window clean again. She would simply have to make the Duke see how charming a quiet, lovely girl could be in comparison.

  Her eyes widened a little when she saw that Mrs Sutherland made one of the party, because Mrs Sutherland had hardly left her house since her husband’s death – not even to attend church, which was the only thing there was to do here, anyway.

  Her eyes widened even further when she realised that the elegant figure beside Mrs Sutherland must be Lydia – the Countess of BenRuin. She’d not seen Lydia for years, and the sudden tightening of her lips, the burn through her chest, reminded her unpleasantly of what it was like when Lydia was around. The other golden-haired girl. She was wearing a very fashionable bonnet, a pale pelisse and a golden shawl. She glinted a little in the sunlight as she walked.

  A countess.

  Still.

  Violet looked back at the Duke. She had to believe it might be possible. She had to. What was the point of being seventeen and beautiful, otherwise?

  ‘— away from the window, this instant.’

  Mrs Parsons’ admonitions finally penetrated, and she realised she was pressed fully against the glass and had crushed the front of her dress.

  ‘Quickly,’ she said. ‘I must change. Quickly, the —’ She couldn’t wear lavender – too like Lady Rose. Could she risk her pale yellow, and stand up in comparison to Lydia? She made a face. Better not risk it. ‘The white,’ she said. Her best chance was her unspoiled youth.

  When she was dressed she tripped out of the room and down the stairs, humming a country dance. She thought she did rather well in her act of nonchalance, as none of the party looked up when she came down the stairs. Father was greeting them just inside the front door, and all the downstairs activity had subsided from view – except for that red-headed maid, the one they’d hired on last year, who scurried past the bottom of the stairs with a tall vase.

  ‘Hello, Kit,’ she said quietly, coming up beside the easiest of the party. Kit didn’t count, and Violet could get rid of some of her nerves – acclimatise herself to being so close to the Duke of Darlington. Dear God, the Duke of Darlington.

  Kit looked over at her, distracted. ‘Morning, Violet.’

  The woman’s manners really were abominable. Violet felt shame, hot and prickling down to the soles of her feet, thinking that a duke had been exposed to them. Kit’s hair was tied roughly back from her head, and none of her hard frame was disguised by the plain dress and spencer she wore. Violet peeked at her feet, and confirmed that she hadn’t even changed out of her muddy boots in deference to her guest.

  ‘Ah, Violet,’ said a cool, polished voice from her other side, and she looked up into the pale beauty of Lydia’s face. Her breathing came a little fast, and she told herself to calm down. Lydia was spoken for – she was married. She posed no threat.

  ‘You must forgive me for being a terrible correspondent,’ the Countess said. ‘But I do enjoy your little missives. In fact, it was your description of Lady Rose that made me particularly long to visit the country. She and I are old friends, you see, and I missed her.’

  ‘Of – of course,’ Violet said, and stammered prettily without even trying, because the Duke’s gaze had landed squarely on her.

  ‘And who is this delicious little person,’ he said, his face so bright and friendly that Violet found herself unable for a moment to speak.

  ‘My daughter,’ Father said, stepping between them and drawing himself all the way up, as he did when he wanted to impress. ‘If it please Your Grace, may I present Miss Violet Feldon?’

  He stepped back again and nodded sharply at Violet. She walked towards the Duke and all her poise evaporated, leaving behind it a hot desperate wish not to trip over herself in front of these people. She arrived, after what felt like an age, before him, and lifted her hand.

  His gloves were tucked into his pocket; he would feel how damp her skin was, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He took her hand and raised her knuckles until she felt the barest brush of breath against her skin. His black hair fell down over his brow in the most dashing possible mess.

  And now she could die, and she wouldn’t mind in the slightest.

  ‘You are a vision,’ he said. ‘So pale and sweet, like a – a meringue.’

  Then he grunted. Which was rather odd. Violet looked up quickly and realised that Lady Rose had jabbed him in the ribs with the end of her folded parasol, which was just unkind. Especially when the Duke had been paying Violet such pretty compliments. Lady Rose met Violet’s gaze and raised her striking black brows.

  Violet looked quickly away again.

  The Duke meanwhile was saying, ‘Your kind invitation was only for Miss Sutherland and my cousin, but I felt sure we should all be welcome. I was longing for an outing, and this seemed just the thing.’

  Her father hastened to reassure His Grace, and directed them all to the parlour, at which the Duke tucked her hand into his elbow.

  She sat by him the whole time they took tea, and he interrupted the conversation on the slightest of her whims, and made sure she had all the best bits on her plate. She felt faint with attention. She could barely follow the conversation, except to understand that the Duke was offering to introduce her to society. A thousand dreams spiralled, burning, through her mind.

  Lady Rose was saying something clever to Father about how much interest a duke’s introduction and patronage was worth, and Lydia laughed and said it was a priceless thing, which everybody knew already.

  Kit hardly spoke at all, but when she did Lady Rose looked sharply at her. No doubt Lady Rose was wishing Kit wasn’t there at all to sit in their lovely gay party like an ungracious toad. Not like Violet, who was obviously the darling of the day – anyone could see it.

  She looked once, shining, at Father, to share her victory with him. Titled gentlemen would line up to dance with her. She would marry a baron at the very least. If the Duke didn’t . . . He did seem to like her very much, didn’t he?

  Father was smiling, but he didn’t look pleased. His shoulders were drawn up, and he was holding the cup in that dreadful peasant fashion she’d long ago lectured him out of.

  ‘Ah, now, this cake,’ the Duke said beside her, and she turned back to him, all thoughts of her father forgotten.

  After tea she organised a tour around the Abbey. It wasn’t as large as some other country houses, but it was very old and she was rather proud of it. She was feeling a little more confident, and she even managed to make it seem natural that they would break off into smaller groups. She had intended to have the Duke to herself, but that stupid Tom Sutherland didn’t understand her meaning – she’d even resorted to being quite, quite unsubtle – and had come with them.

  The Duke was wonderfully attentive to Violet at first, but Tom had so many interesting things to say about the Abbey – parts of its history Violet didn’t know, or the thoughts of long-dead men she’d never heard of that seemed to occur to him when he saw this stone or that painting – that he and the Duke were soon lost in a conversation she hadn’t a hope of following. Violet still held his arm – Tom couldn’t pry her off with a stick – but she found herself feeling strangely angry. She knew that something had excluded her, and it had been neither Tom nor the Duke, not directly. She wished the Duke would share his thoughts the way he’d shared the cake.

  It was only when they reconvened at the gallery, as planned, that they realised nobody had seen either Kit or Lady Rose for some time.

  A vent high up in the wall of the cupboard opened into some lit room. The murmured conversation of servants, and the muted thwack and clink of activity could be hear
d. Dust motes caught fire in the light that fell down through the vent, and across the silk that encased his shoulder.

  A shelf pressed into Kit’s shoulder blades, her lower back and thighs. He held her, hard, against them.

  She moved – less than an inch, just to relieve her muscles.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, his voice broken and loud in the confined space. ‘Not yet.’

  Her eyes slid closed, her body giving itself over to the closeness of him. She forced her eyes open again with an effort that made her shake. The only parts of them that touched were his hands digging into her arms, and his face against hers. Her chest raged with heat – clenched, unclenched, and demanded him.

  She made a soft sound in the almost-dark.

  He lifted his head suddenly away and she felt hungry, bird-like, at the loss. One of his hands covered her collarbone, swallowed her throat, tilted her head back. Another shelf bit into the base of her skull and she concentrated on the sharp sensation.

  It didn’t help; he could hear her breathing as loud as she did herself. A knife-cut wouldn’t distract her from this.

  He tipped his head back a fraction to look at her, and a stripe of light fell across his eye. She saw him with absolute clarity. This man, who would never be mapped or understood, who would demand everything of her and absorb it effortlessly and then demand more.

  This man.

  She stepped into him, felt the impact of his warmth against hers for only a second before he slammed her back against the shelves. There would be bruises tomorrow, but this time he had followed her, his body seeking to press through her skin.

  His mouth came to rest against hers.

  ‘Katherine,’ he said and kissed her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For a moment all they did was press their lips together. Then Jude felt hers begin to open, and he wanted to take it back – the cupboard, the costume, the shaving and unlacing. He was irrational and sure: if she opened her mouth all the way he would not survive it.

  Then the wet inside of her lip touched his, and he stopped thinking. His body formed itself around his tongue, his mouth, his entrance into her. So warm and reckless, this mouth of hers.