A sleepy whisper murmured behind him, ‘Chit might as well as thrown down the gauntlet. Twenty guineas he’ll have her in his bed before the month is out, whatever the right or wrong of it.’
But had Archibald Cadmount known Miss Kathryn Marchant, he would have wagered very differently.
Chapter Three
The street was thronging with bodies as Kathryn wove a path through the crowds. Although the afternoon was well advanced, the street vendors were still plying their trade, which was fortuitous, as it was on an errand of procurement that she was employed. Despite the dusty heat and the overpowering smells arising from the pigs and piles of rotting rubbish nearby, she was glad to be free of the house in Green Street, no matter how short the duration. The week had passed slowly, with Aunt Anna and Lottie taking delight in meting out Kathryn’s punishment. No doubt it somehow acted to salve the snub that Lottie felt Ravensmede had dealt her at the ball. Kathryn had endured without complaint, and indeed had striven to appear positively cheerful. There was nothing like it for irritating Lottie, or Aunt Anna for that matter. Little did they know how she enjoyed her brief excursions from the house. It was only twenty minutes since Lottie, on overhearing that there were no potatoes left, had demanded a dish of potato pudding for dinner. Upon Lottie’s insistence, Kathryn had been dispatched to fetch some more. It was supposed to be a degrading experience, and one that would teach her a lesson.
A while later, and overhead the dazzling sun still shone down from a cloudless blue sky. A soft humming sounded from Kathryn’s lips as the notes of the music danced through her head. Her feet neatly avoided a pile of fresh horse manure and, as the tempo increased, she skipped over the stream of bloodied water running down from a nearby butcher’s shop. The noisy street had vanished. A cooling breeze fanned her face as she breathed in the fresh country air. She was beautifully composed as the gentleman swept her into his arms and they began to glide with effortless grace across the neat lawns of the country mansion. One two three, one two three, she counted the beats as her delicately embroidered slippers scarcely touched the ground. Lord Ravensmede was smiling, his green eyes twinkling in the sunlight…Ravensmede! Kathryn banished the thought and the noisy bustle of London reappeared. She adjusted the sack of potatoes balanced on her hip and continued her steady pace.
Ahead she could see the golden glint of the railings surrounding St James’s Park. The green grass and the cool sparkle of the canal beckoned enticingly. It wouldn’t take long, just to shelter beneath the cool dapple shade of the trees, to feel some little sense of space. Without a moment’s hesitation her dusty feet padded up the street and into the park. Carriages containing fine ladies rolled by. Smartly dressed gentlemen astride their horses trotted past. The grass was fresh and springy beneath Kathryn’s shoes. Ahead the air rippled with a heat haze.
She had just paused to watch two swans upon the water when a small family group passed close by. A familiar voice caught her attention. Glancing round, she saw, with some consternation, Miss Dawson walking arm in arm with her younger sister. Kathryn became suddenly all too aware of her situation. There could be no hiding the large and conspicuous sack of potatoes, and Miss Dawson was sure to mention any such meeting to Lottie. And then Lottie would know exactly what Kathryn had been up to during her errand. Quite deliberately Kathryn averted her face and walked in the opposite direction. She needn’t have worried. With half her hair escaping from her bonnet, a smear of dust on her chin, a soil-stained dress, and the presence of the exceedingly dirty sack on her hip, she appeared more like one of the inhabitants of St Giles’s Rookery, and not anyone connected to the respectable household of Mr Henry Marchant.
A close shave. Without further ado she disappeared behind the breadth of a large oak tree. It was only here that she laid down her burden. Hidden quite well as she was from view, she not only sat herself comfortably on the grass and leaned her back against the gnarled bark, but also dispensed with her bonnet and set about repairing the worst of her hair.
Lord Ravensmede reined his horse to a standstill, unable to quite believe his eyes. Surely that could not have been Miss Marchant he had just witnessed vanishing behind that oak? The slight figure certainly bore a striking resemblance to her graceful form, even bowed as it was with some large and weighty object. Perdition, he was becoming obsessed with the chit. First, she had been in his thoughts for the past week. Now, he was imagining that he saw her at every turn. It did not sit well with his lordship. His hand moved to twitch Rollo’s rein, then stilled. What if it really was Miss Marchant? He had a thing or two to say to that young lady. No matter how much Ravensmede might deny it, he felt aggrieved by her snub, especially in view of the effort he had made to silence Amanda White. His leg slid over the saddle and he jumped down to the ground.
Having securely tethered the gelding to a nearby tree, Ravensmede proceeded on foot with some caution. Thus, he walked directly to the opposite side of the massive oak without the slightest noise. He heard the hushed melody from her lips before he saw her: ‘Ach! Du lieber Augustine.’ It had been playing when he danced with her at Lady Finlay’s ball. The memory tugged a smile at his mouth. He moved leisurely around the trunk.
She was sitting on the grass, her legs drawn up beneath her, intent on scraping her mass of red-brown hair up into a chignon. The hairpins were held at the ready between her lips. And all the while her soft humming filled the air. At her side lay a lumpy and rather grubby sack. Ravensmede stared, intrigued with the sight. What an earth was the girl up to?
He stepped forward. ‘Miss Marchant, a pleasure to make your acquaintance once again.’
Kathryn jumped, dropped the hank of hair she was attempting to secure, and almost inhaled one of the hairpins. The remainder of the pins scattered on the ground as she exclaimed with undisguised horror, ‘Lord Ravensmede!’
Ravensmede watched while she scrambled unceremoniously to her feet, brushing any remnants of grass from her skirt. In one glance he took in the worn shoes caked in dust, the soiled dress, and the fatigue in her eyes. The bridge of her nose and cheeks were smattered with freckles that had not been there a week ago, and dirt streaked her chin. He held out his hand to take hers. Kathryn stared at it as if it held a dagger. ‘Miss Marchant,’ he said with the utmost politeness, and with slow deliberation touched her bare fingers to his lips. Not only was she gloveless, but her hands were reddened and rough, almost as if she had been scrubbing floors or laundering. A frown flitted across his brow at the thought.
Kathryn saw the look and, snatching her fingers away, clasped her hands behind her back. ‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted, then, remembering her manners, ‘I mean…I didn’t expect to meet you here.’
‘Apparently not.’ Ravensmede’s gaze dropped to the sack and wandered back to her face. Crimson washed her cheeks and he thought he saw a flash of anger in her eyes before it was masked.
She held his gaze boldly. ‘Please don’t allow me to interrupt your walk, my lord.’ Her cheeks burned hotter.
Ravensmede smiled lazily. He was not to be dismissed so easily. ‘I assure you it’s no interruption. Perhaps I could join you.’
The girl seemed speechless for a moment at the audacity of his suggestion. He was fully aware that it was rather inappropriate. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lord.’ As he knew it would not be. Her voice was firm, her body poised for flight. ‘Indeed, I must be getting back to Green Street. I’ve been away too long as it is.’ Her eyes scanned for the pins, and, having located them in the soil by an exposed tree root, she bent to retrieve them.
Ravensmede saw her purpose and, with surprising agility for a gentleman wearing such tight-fitting buckskins, stooped to reach them first. Their fingers brushed; an intense awareness tingled in the air between them. He stared into the widening clear grey eyes. Realised that he wanted her, even dressed as she was in the guise of a servant. A determined interest stirred. Jaded boredom faded. His gaze dropped to her lips.
Kathryn withdrew her
hand as if she had been burned. ‘I do b-beg your pardon,’ she stuttered, and rose swiftly to her feet.
Ravensmede followed, his eyes still trained on her face. The pins lay forgotten in the dirt. He closed the distance between them and reached out for her.
A woman’s laugh sounded from the other side of the oak. ‘Come along, Mary, we mustn’t be late.’
It was enough to burst the growing bubble of tension.
Lord Ravensmede recovered first, dropping his hand to his side, and did not move. He was so close he could see the dark sweep of her eyelashes and the glitter of perspiration on her cheekbones.
One step back and then she halted, an expression of confusion on her face. ‘I should leave.’
Ravensmede was not fooled by the small gruff voice.
She stepped aside and bent to retrieve the sack.
‘Wait.’ His hand stilled her outstretched arm. Neither the material of her dress nor his fine leather gloves dampened the arc of excitement that sparked between them.
She looked pointedly at his fingers; only when he removed the offending articles did she raise her gaze to meet his. ‘My lord?’
‘May I be so bold as to enquire the nature of your burden?’ His horsewhip flicked towards the sack.
Her eyes lowered only momentarily before her chin raised a notch, as if in challenge. ‘Potatoes.’
‘Potatoes!’ That would explain the preponderance of sandy soil about her person. ‘You’ve been sent to buy them?’ His lordship asked the question with a nonchalant air, as if lugging a huge sack of the damn things was an everyday occurrence for a gently bred companion.
She nodded once, that fierce little gaze never faltering for a minute.
‘I see,’ murmured Ravensmede with a sudden clarity of perception. The sinister hand of Mrs Marchant loomed large. ‘And this is one of your usual chores?’
‘No.’ Her fingers plucked nervously at the material of her skirt.
Ravensmede waited in silence, a look of expectation upon his face.
‘I’m assisting Mrs Moultrie in the kitchen this week.’
‘And last week too?’ he asked in a gentle tone. He suddenly understood why Kathryn had not accompanied her cousin and aunt on any of their recent outings.
More plucking at the material. ‘Yes.’
‘Surely Henry Marchant is not so strapped for cash that he cannot employ a kitchen maid?’
She said nothing, just looked at him.
‘It seems that you are out of favour with your aunt of late.’
Her eyes held his for a moment longer before glancing away.
‘Kathryn?’
She shivered.
The tips of his fingers brushed against hers. ‘Why might that be?’
She shook her head in denial.
‘Kathryn,’ he said again, more gently this time. ‘Will you not tell me the reason?’
A soft sigh sounded in the air. ‘Please, Lord Ravensmede, I must—’
‘You have not told her of our study in astronomy at Lady Finlay’s ball?’
Her cheeks reddened. ‘Of course not!’ Indignation flashed in her eyes. ‘I don’t wish to sound rude, my lord, but the reason that I’m assisting in the kitchen is none of your consideration.’
Ravensmede looked at her with growing intensity. ‘On the contrary, Miss Marchant,’ he said quietly, ‘it is everything of my consideration.’
Miss Marchant ignored his remark and continued, ‘Now, if you will please excuse me, my lord.’
‘No,’ he said with a wicked glint in his eye.
The poor girl paled.
‘How long is this…punishment to endure?’
A guarded look closed over Miss Marchant’s face. ‘I didn’t say anything about a punishment.’
His eyes held hers. ‘How long?’
Her gaze flickered away. She made to step back.
Ravensmede touched his fingers to her chin, guiding her focus to his. ‘Let me help you, Kathryn.’
For an instant, just one fleeting moment, he saw the softening of her expression, the hope that shone in her eyes. ‘Help me?’
‘If you were to be under my protection…’
A pause, followed by a dawning realisation. And then it was gone, replaced instead with hurt disbelief, and finally furious humiliation. ‘Certainly not!’
He had never had such an offer so adamantly refused.
She jerked away, leaving his fingers suspended in mid-air. ‘I don’t need your help, Lord Ravensmede.’ Her voice was cool, her words clipped. ‘I bid you good day, my lord.’ She bent to retrieve the sack of potatoes.
But Ravensmede was there first. He watched her cheeks blanch and her eyes widen.
‘My offer stands, Miss Marchant. If you should change your mind, you need only send me a message. Perhaps in time you will view matters differently.’
Her nostrils flared with fury. Her small breasts rose and fell with the quickening of her breathing. ‘I will never accept such an offer!’ Her hand tugged at the sack.
But Lord Ravensmede held firm. In one easy motion he tucked the sack neatly beneath his arm. ‘My horse is tethered close by. We’d best fasten this to Rollo’s saddle and make our way smartly to Green Street if these potatoes are on this evening’s menu.’ There was a teasing note in his voice, and the suggestion of a smile. Then off he sauntered towards the gelding, leaving Kathryn staring after him.
The sack was securely attached to the horse when he heard the rustle of her skirt behind him.
‘Lord Ravensmede, surely you cannot seriously mean to accompany me home?’ The glorious spread of hair had disappeared beneath a bonnet that matched the unfashionable brown coloration of her dress. The glare of sunlight exposed the fragility of her face, highlighting the smudges below her eyes.
A muscle twitched in Ravensmede’s jaw. ‘But of course, Miss Marchant. It would not be gentlemanly to do otherwise.’ He’d be damned if he let her struggle beneath the weight of that load.
Panic rose in her voice. ‘No, it won’t do. You mustn’t! Please pass me the potatoes at once.’
Ravensmede turned to face her, a twinkling in his clear green eyes. ‘Have no fear, they’re fixed firmly in place and shall not dislodge.’
‘My lord,’ she said in a stage whisper, ‘I must insist that you return my potatoes and cease this…this.’ she plucked the word from the air ‘…madness, at once!’
The corners of Ravensmede’s mouth twisted upwards. ‘I believe that I’ve already explained my position, Miss Marchant.’ He tried not to laugh. ‘The potatoes are quite safe.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘Now, if you wish to avoid a scene I suggest that you take my arm and let us be on our way.’
Several murmurs alerted Miss Marchant to the interest growing around their conversation. At least two ladies were staring. She sighed and tentatively touched her fingers to his sleeve, only to find them firmly tucked within the crook of his arm.
With Miss Marchant secured on one side, and Rollo and the precious cargo on the other, Lord Ravensmede made his way towards Green Street.
Blast the confounded man! How dare he take such a liberty! She’d have rather balanced the potatoes on her hip to Stepney and back than endure this. What could he be thinking of? His offer of help? Help, indeed! Like a fool she had thought it an honest offer until the truth of his meaning had dawned. What kind of woman did he take her for? Well, he would soon learn that Kathryn Marchant had no need of his sort of help, not now, not ever!
She sneaked a look up at his face. His strong handsome features showed not the slightest hint of discomfort. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, she could almost have sworn that he was actually enjoying himself. Such behaviour was only to be expected from a man with Ravensmede’s reputation. Not that she knew exactly what it was that he was actually guilty of, only that there were many pursed lips and raised eyebrows at his arrival, and that he had a penchant for women, gaming and drink…in that order.
Her eyes dropped to the burgundy coat
, the matching waistcoat and immaculately arranged neckcloth. And lower still to the buff-coloured pantaloons that hugged the muscles of his thighs in a quite indecent fashion. The pristine condition and expensive cut of his clothing only served to emphasise the tawdry state of her own. Realising that she was staring at his lordship’s thighs brought her gaze rapidly up, only to meet with an amused pair of green eyes.
‘Do I meet with your approval, Miss Marchant?’ His voice was a slow delicious drawl.
‘Most certainly not,’ she snapped, feeling her cheeks begin to burn. Then, realising just how rude she sounded, added, ‘I appreciate that your intention to relieve me of my burden is one of kindness. It is, however, quite unnecessary.’
That slightly mocking gaze found hers once more. ‘On the contrary, Miss Marchant, I assure you that I’m never kind.’ Emerald lights danced in his eyes, rendering them such an unusual colour that it took the immense application of Kathryn’s will-power not to stare.
Not trusting herself not to deliver him a sharp retort, she bit her tongue. They strolled along in silence and all the while she took care to keep her face turned from him.
It was some minutes before he spoke again. ‘It appears that I’ve unwittingly offended you, Miss Marchant. Or have you just a natural aversion to my company?’
Her head swung round with surprise at the directness of his question. It was a big mistake. Those alluring eyes were on her again. A tingling sensation crept across her skin. Her tongue tied itself into knots and she quickly glanced away. ‘I…I’m…’
His voice lowered, so that the words would reach her ears alone. ‘It did not seem so at Lady Finlay’s ball.’
She stared at him aghast. ‘You appear to be labouring under some false impression of my character, my lord.’ Her hand tried to wriggle free of Ravensmede’s arm.
He did not release her. ‘Where precisely have I erred?’
As an elderly lady peered down at her from a passing carriage, Kathryn ceased her struggle.
Keeping her expression carefully bland as if they were discussing the weather, or other such matters, she whispered, ‘How can you ask such a thing?’ She glanced around and recognised that they were close to Green Street. ‘Please hurry, my lord. I have kept Mrs Moultrie waiting some considerable time.’
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