Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  Humiliation scalded her cheeks and caused an aching in her heart. Her fingers kneaded at the worn linen of her shift. But Kathryn did not cry, even though Ravensmede had viewed the shameful marks upon her body, even though she now knew herself to be an object of pity and curiosity. Jean’s eyes had been telling enough and she did not doubt that by tomorrow morning the story of her darned underclothing and smattering of bruises would be the main topic of conversation below stairs. Her chin jutted out as she held her head high. Let them talk. She had survived worse than a little tittle-tattle, much worse. Gossip would not touch her, as nothing had ever touched her since her father had placed the muzzle of a Manton in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  She had cried then, for days—or was it weeks? When the tears had finally stopped she had vowed they would never come again. That was when she had discovered the power of daydreams. Dreams that took her away from the pain of reality. Dreams that made life bearable. And the worse things got, the more Kathryn dreamed. Resolutely she raised the brush to the thick hank of chestnut hair curling over her shoulder and began slowly, steadily, to brush.

  ‘I like this toast. Is there more?’ Maggie demanded as she sat plumped up in the big bed. Sunshine shimmered on her black locks, coating them with a blue sheen and bleaching her small elfin face white.

  Kathryn laughed. ‘Of course, moppet, but first you have your ham and eggs to eat. Let’s see what room you have left when they’re gone.’

  The brown pansy eyes widened in awe. ‘Ham and eggs and toast?’

  ‘Most definitely.’ Kathryn positioned the full plate on the child’s tray.

  A large grin spread across Maggie’s face and soon she was too busy eating to manage more than the odd unintelligible word uttered through a mouthful of half-chewed food.

  Kathryn sat in the chair beside the bed. Sipping the hot coffee chased away the thick-headed feeling that had troubled her since waking. The bed had been both warm and comfortable, a far cry from the hard, lumpy truckle bed in her room at Green Street. But she had slept poorly, tormented by worries, and nightmares from the past. Her escape from the bosom of Henry Marchant’s family was not likely to be that simple. She nibbled at the toast, finding that the previous week’s starvation rations had rendered her unable to eat much before her stomach protested its fullness. A crumb was displaced from the bodice of her blue muslin dress with the flick of a finger before she caught sight of Maggie’s little face looking at her with a rather guilty expression. ‘Is something wrong? You seem to have stopped eating?’

  The black head shook in denial. The dark eyes peeped up through long lashes. ‘You ain’t got no eggs or ham. You can have some of mine if you want.’

  Kathryn knew what it had cost the child to make such a generous offer. A child who was no doubt used to going hungry. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, Maggie, but I’ve already eaten some eggs before I came to see you,’ she lied. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to eat them all yourself!’

  Maggie wasted no time in complying. ‘Where’s the pa?’ she questioned between mouthfuls of egg.

  The thought of Ravensmede in the role of a father brought a wry smile to Kathryn’s face. ‘Lord Ravensmede is probably still sleeping.’ She had no idea when he had returned, or, indeed, if he had returned at all. ‘He was out late last night and is bound to be very tired this morning.’

  The gentleman in question chose this precise minute to make his entry. ‘Good morning, Miss Marchant, Miss Maggie.’

  Maggie giggled, spluttering a piece of half-chewed ham down her chin.

  Kathryn remedied the accident with a starched white napkin while returning the greeting. For someone who’d been up half the night, he was looking bright-eyed and refreshed.

  ‘The ma said you was in bed ‘cos you was out last night. But she was wrong, ‘cos you’re here.’ Maggie smiled up at the tall dark-haired man, not intimidated by his lordship in the slightest. ‘Where was you?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Maggie!’ Kathryn admonished. ‘You mustn’t ask Lord Ravensmede such questions.’ But her cheeks glowed and not just because the child had unwittingly revealed that the ‘ma’ had noticed his absence the previous evening.

  Ravensmede sat himself down on the bed and tousled Maggie’s hair. ‘I was very busy, but now I’m back to check whether you’re eating up all of your breakfast.’

  If the Viscount’s reputation was true, Kathryn had a very good idea exactly what Lord Ravensmede had been ‘very busy’ doing throughout the night. She sought to change the subject. ‘Maggie’s leg is much better this morning. Dr Porter will be pleased when he calls again this afternoon to decide whether she may go home.’

  ‘Home to my ma and pa,’ declared Maggie in a cheerful tone.

  ‘Indeed so. They were very worried when I told them about your sore leg. If you’re to stay here much longer, they’ll come and visit you.’ The Viscount’s eyes twinkled.

  Kathryn could not prevent herself exclaiming, ‘You’ve spoken to them yourself?’

  His gaze met with her incredulous stare. ‘But of course. What else did you expect?’

  She smiled. ‘From what I’ve heard, certainly not that.’

  ‘Then you should not believe everything that you hear, Kathryn.’ He said her name like a caress.

  ‘And you should not seek to encourage an unwarranted reputation, sir!’ The smile deepened to a most unladylike grin.

  His lordship arched a dark eyebrow and said, ‘I assure you that my reputation is most deserved, Miss Marchant.’

  If it had not been for the glimmer of the smile that lurked too readily behind his lips, she would have withdrawn. As it was, Miss Kathryn Marchant, who had for the past three years striven to be as quiet and unnoticeable as could be, was engaging in what could only be described as a rather flirtatious conversation with a notorious rake. But he was so damnably arrogant that he deserved to be taken down a peg or two. ‘Indeed, sir? Perhaps it is rather overrated.’ Had she just said such a comment? It barely seemed possible. Surely she must be in the grip of some madness. She most certainly knew she was when she saw his lips slide into a sensual curve.

  ‘Would you care to put it to the test?’ The suggestion in his gaze caused the heat to rise in her cheeks.

  Standing up abruptly, she smoothed her skirts down with the palms of her hands. ‘Certainly not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I had better get on.’ And, so saying, she gathered up Maggie’s tray containing the emptied plates and cups.

  A pair of strong arms reached across the bed and deftly lifted the tray away. The teasing sensuality had vanished. Instead, the stark contours of his face contained what looked to be anger. ‘You are a guest in this house, Miss Marchant, along with my grandmother. I pay my servants well to do such things.’ The tray was deposited unceremoniously on an occasional table and the bell pulled. ‘If you would be kind enough to attend the library in ten minutes, there is something which we must discuss.’

  A shiver stole down Kathryn’s spine. Clear grey eyes raised to meet green. ‘My lord?’

  ‘My name is Nicholas, Kathryn, I would that you used it,’ he said soberly and softly closed the door.

  Chapter Six

  Ravensmede was about to ignore his grandmother’s advice. The source of the foul markings on Kathryn Marchant’s skin was like a needle that pricked at him constantly. Even during last night’s journey to Whitecross Road to call upon little Maggie’s parents he could scarcely concentrate on what he had to say because of the blasted matter. Hitting a woman, any woman, was something that sickened Ravensmede to the pit of his stomach. The fact that it had been Kathryn on the receiving end of someone’s vicious temper exacerbated that response a hundredfold. He controlled his mounting fury admirably.

  Someone had been liberal with their fists, that much was evident, and there was no point in meeting Henry Marchant until he knew the truth of it. No matter what Lady Maybury said, Ravensmede had every intention of getting to the bottom of the sickening assault…and today.
Waiting for Kathryn to tell them in her own time was simply not soon enough. The brandy hit the back of his throat like a brand. He swallowed it down. Too damn early in the day, but he needed something to dampen his temper.

  A quiet tap at the door sounded and the subject of his concern presented herself. She was still dressed in the shabby muslin gown that she had worn yesterday. He noticed that the periwinkle blue coloration brought out the creamy white hue of her skin, and the red lights in her hair. The fichu had been arranged to cover every trace of the bruising. She was so slender as to appear fragile, something he had no memory of either on that first night at Lady Finlay’s ball, or later in St James’s Park. No doubt the bastard had been starving her as well. The thought of Henry Marchant curled his fingers into fists. With calm deliberation he forced his hands to relax. A deep breath, and he was ready to face her.

  ‘Kathryn.’ He smiled and gestured towards one of the two large wing chairs around the fireplace. ‘Sit down.’ As the day was fine and warm, and showed every promise to continue as such, the hearth was empty. Sunshine flooded in through the large bow window, highlighting a halo of red around the rich brown of her hair. He positioned himself in the opposite chair, stretching out his long, pantaloon-clad legs before him.

  She sat demurely, hands folded motionless in her lap, as if she were a model of relaxed serenity…as if she had not been beaten and starved by her so-called family. Her eyes glanced up, but the question in them remained unasked. He would have to tread very carefully. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, my lor…Ravensmede.’ Her fingers gripped tighter and then relaxed.

  ‘Then I will come straight to the point. Mr Marchant has arranged to call here at three o’clock to discuss your new position. My grandmother will explain the urgency of her need for a companion. In view of her age and the injured child upstairs, I’m sure that your uncle will understand why it was imperative that you commence as Lady Maybury’s companion with immediate effect.’ And if Henry Marchant dared to raise the slightest objection he’d see to it that the man was put firmly in his place.

  Her gaze was trained on the blackened grate. The rigid tension across her narrow shoulders tightened at his words. ‘Will he be accompanied by my aunt?’

  Now why should that matter so much to her? For suddenly he knew that to be very much the case. ‘In truth, I do not know. Do you wish to take your leave of her?’

  There was a pause, just long enough to be obvious. ‘Naturally. They are my family. It’s only polite, after all that they’ve done, that I take my leave of them all.’ And still her focus did not waver from the grate.

  ‘And what have they done, Kathryn?’ The question slipped softly from his lips.

  Startled eyes raised to his and quickly looked away again. A whisper of pink touched to her cheeks, before the small chin was thrust defiantly up. ‘Why, they took me in and offered me a home when my father died. I…I’m very grateful for their charity.’

  The time had come to say what must be said, to discover the truth. He leaned forward by the smallest fraction. ‘But it wasn’t charity they had in mind when they dealt you your bruises, was it? And I would hazard a guess that it wasn’t gratitude you felt in receipt of those markings.’ His voice rumbled low and quiet, each word enunciated clearly, no hint of the practised rakish drawl.

  The chestnut-coloured head whipped round to face him, her breast rising and falling dramatically beneath the outmoded gown. Within her eyes flashed anger and something else that had gone in an instant. She faced him with her fear concealed. It seemed for a moment that his words had rendered her speechless, but she recovered herself well, forcing her emotions back under control. When her voice finally sounded it was quiet and careful, as if she were attending to his grandmother or the child that lay upstairs. ‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she began, ‘you are mistaken. The…bruises…that you happened to see upon my person are the result of a small accident, nothing more. Through my own clumsiness I tripped and fell. The blame rests entirely on my own head and no one else.’ The slender fingers began to twist themselves together.

  His eyes flitted to her hands, saw more than he was meant to see, and returned once more to her face and the darkened gaze that had been rapidly averted while she told her story. ‘You make a very poor liar, Kathryn.’

  The colour heightened in her cheeks and she shot him one brief infuriated glance. ‘I’m telling you the truth, sir. You’ve drawn the wrong conclusion.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He watched the small white teeth nibble delicately on the fullness of her lower lip and did not speak again until those stormy grey eyes slowly dragged round, as if not quite of their own accord, to meet his.

  ‘We have nothing further to discuss, sir. I shall be ready to meet my uncle at three o’clock.’ With that she rose and made to step away.

  But Ravensmede had no intention of letting Miss Marchant evade him quite so easily. Within an instant he was towering over her. ‘On the contrary, we’ve only just begun. Is that your best effort? I would not have thought your imagination to be so lacking.’

  A slight gasp escaped her lips before they pressed firmly together with annoyance.

  Before she could retaliate he pressed a hand to hers. ‘Do you always cross your fingers when you lie? Who told you that it saved you from the sin? Your nurse?’

  Rosy stain flooded her face and the fingers encased beneath his straightened themselves. She shifted her feet uneasily. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Mine said the same, much to my father’s disgust!’

  She smiled a small smile at that.

  It seemed a shame to destroy the sudden rapport that had developed between them, but he could do nothing else if he meant to know just who was responsible for her hurts. A suspect loomed large in his mind, but he would not confront the man without first hearing Kathryn’s side of the story. He lowered his head to hers. She was so close that his breath fanned a ripple across the curls framing her face, so close that the sweet scent of her filled his nostrils. One finger moved to tilt her chin, until her eyes were looking up into his. Ravensmede swallowed hard and resisted the urge to place his lips upon hers, to kiss her as thoroughly as he’d kissed her that night in the moonlit room. Temptation pulled him closer, beckoned him down a path he knew he had no right to tread. So close, so sweet. It seemed that her lips parted in invitation. He felt the stirrings of other interests and reined himself back with a self-denying hand. She was here for his protection, not the practised art of his seduction. But when he looked into Kathryn Marchant’s face there was nothing practised about the erratic thud of his heart or the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and never let her go.

  He wondered as to his assertion to his grandmother. I do not mean to ruin her, he had said. But the woman standing so close that he could have plucked a sweet kiss from her lips stirred his blood like no one else. He wanted her. Had wanted her since that night at Lady Finlay’s ball. A woman he could not allow himself to have; a woman who deserved better than the hand life had dealt her; a woman he had just made his grandmother’s companion. Mentally he dowsed himself with cold water and focused on the matter in hand. And that was confirming Henry Marchant’s guilt in the abuse of his niece. She was still looking up at him with such trust that it quite smote his jaded heart. With the gentlest of movements he touched his lips to the coolness of her forehead, before scanning her eyes once more.

  ‘Will you not trust me with the truth?’ he said softly.

  For the beat of a heart he thought she would do just that. Her mouth opened to speak and then closed again. Her gaze dropped and the moment was gone. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered.

  At least there were no more lies.

  ‘What happened is in the past and will not happen again. I know that you only mean to help me…Nicholas…but…please, just let the matter go.’

  His stomach somersaulted at the sound of his name upon her lips. What a glorious sound it was. ‘I cannot do that, Kathryn. You�
�ve been treated most cruelly and I cannot let any man get away with such injustice.’ Beneath his fingers her hand trembled and she sighed a sigh of such fatigue and sadness and disappointment. ‘Kathryn?’ The word held an intimacy that he had no right to.

  Slowly she shook her head and stepped back. ‘No.’ Her shoulders straightened and her face was filled with firm resolve.

  He made no move to reclaim her. Just watched, and waited.

  ‘No,’ she said again with increasing determination.

  There was nothing else for it. ‘Then you leave me with no other option.’ He waited for her response. Knew that it would come.

  Her voice was small and tight. ‘What do you mean to do?’