‘I do not seek to damage it,’ he said softly.
She should treat him with the cool distance that propriety demanded, but she could not. ‘If we are agreed that no such thing should happen again between us, then there is no reason that we cannot be friends.’
‘Friends?’ He rolled the word around his tongue in careful consideration. It would certainly be a novelty. ‘Friends do not avoid one another, Kathryn.’
‘No, they do not,’ she said quietly.
‘Well, in that case…’ the side of his mouth quirked ‘…we shall be friends.’
The last bars of ‘Ach! Du lieber Augustine’ sounded in the ballroom.
Kathryn had no opportunity to speak further with Lord Ravensmede that evening. It seemed that his taking her on to the floor had acted as a signal as to her availability as a dancing partner, for no sooner had she taken her seat once more than she was approached by first one young man and then another. She tried to decline as politely as possible, knowing that she was present only in the capacity of a companion, but Lady Maybury was having none of it and, at her insistence, Kathryn was forced to accept each and every one of the flood of dance invitations. While partnering Captain Brent for the quadrille she became aware of Lord Ravensmede’s scrutiny and during the Scottish reel with Mr Parket she saw that he had stood up with an elegant young blonde lady. After that he disappeared and Kathryn focused her attentions on remembering her dance steps.
Chapter Eight
Ravensmede carelessly dropped the neckcloth on to the chair and massaged the knot of tension at the back of his neck that had been growing all night since witnessing Kathryn in the arms of another man, or several other men to be precise. He sighed and loosened his shirt, glad that he had instructed his valet not to wait up. The night was still young, certainly for someone of the Viscount’s lifestyle, but he had no inclination to attend his club, and still less to visit Millicent Miller. He wondered whether he had been a trifle hasty in paying his latest mistress off. He paced around the bedchamber, restless, discontented. Each time he closed his eyes an image appeared—Kathryn smiling at someone, and that someone wasn’t him. Little wonder he’d been forced to leave early. He poured himself another large and aromatic brandy and lay back still clothed upon the bed.
Perhaps Millicent was exactly what he needed. A pretty face and willing body to ease his frustration. But the thought went no further. The need that gnawed at him was specific, and he was quite sure that only one woman could remedy it. He had no notion for any of the women that had served as his mistresses. Indeed, he had no notion for anyone or anything other than his grandmother’s companion; a woman whom life had treated harshly, who, until he had quite literally stumbled upon her at Lady Finlay’s ball with that dreadful blonde cousin, had battled alone through life’s trials. The thought of what she had witnessed after her father’s suicide, and, worse still, at the hands of the woman who called herself her aunt, nipped at Ravensmede. Yet Kathryn had endured and refused to be either cowed or embittered by her experiences.
Perdition, but she was beautiful. He had known it from the first, when she was hidden behind that monstrosity of a grey garment that passed for a dress. His grandmother’s influence had unmasked Kathryn’s real beauty for all to see. She was not pretty in the mundane sense of the ton. Rather her eyes had a silver sparkle, and that smile…He had scarcely been able to draw his eyes away from the sight of Kathryn, encased in the violet evening dress that emphasised the gentle curves of her figure.
And when he’d first approached her, only to find her with that faraway look in her eyes, he wanted nothing other than to pull her into his arms and kiss that delectable mouth that moved so readily to laughter. It had nigh on been his undoing, causing as it did certain physical reactions that were hardly appropriate at a society ball, least of all in front of his own grandmother. He’d been forced to concentrate his attentions on his grandam’s cronies in the hope of preventing what could have been an embarrassing situation for them all.
His fingers raked the dark ruffle of his hair. What was this obsession he felt for Kathryn? A desire to bed her, and yet he recoiled from treating her in such a despicable way. He was growing soft. Never once in all the years of playing the rake had he suffered such a revelation of conscience. And all because he’d developed a fancy for his grandmother’s companion. Truth to be told, much more than a fancy.
It was time he took himself in hand. She was just a woman, like any other. The brandy trickled down his throat, soothing the edge from his emptiness. A smile crooked across his face. Yes, Kathryn Marchant was definitely all woman, but she was nothing like any of the others. Maybe, just maybe, Kathryn had already offered him the solution to his problem. It was almost as if he heard again the soft whisper of her words within his bedchamber, there is no reason that we cannot be friends.
Slowly and carefully he placed the empty glass upon the bedside table, stripped off the remainder of his clothes and crawled beneath the covers. For the first time in ten years Ravensmede was sound asleep before the clock struck midnight.
The sunshine flooded the breakfast room, basking both Kathryn and Lady Maybury in its golden light. Her ladyship was devouring a plate of chops, her appetite being disproportionately large for so small and frail a person. Her companion was satisfied with a mere egg on toast. Behind Kathryn’s plate was propped The Times, from which she was reading aloud the announcements, between mouthfuls of breakfast.
‘Lord Barclay has the common sense of a flea. Engaged to Wilhelmina Turbet? Mark my words, the girl will bore him rigid in less than a month. Just like her mother—nothing between the ears, I’m afraid.’ Lady Maybury helped herself to yet another slice of toast.
Kathryn poked an errant curl behind her ear and smiled mischievously. ‘But I thought that’s precisely what a gentleman demanded of his wife. Did not Lady Hadstone say there’s nothing less attractive than a clever woman?’
‘Ho!’ screeched her ladyship at the top of her voice. ‘Amelia’s three daughters couldn’t hold a single thought in their heads between them. She’s not likely to say anything else! Fortunately for her, their dowries were large. Had them off her hands in no time, even though they each had the brain of a small carp, and the face to match.’
The two ladies were laughing at Lady Maybury’s scathing observation when the footman entered to announce the Viscount of Ravensmede, followed closely by the man himself.
‘Grandmama, Miss Marchant.’ He gave a nonchalant bow. ‘Forgive the early hour of my call. I wished to catch you before you made arrangements for the day.’
‘Nick,’ murmured the dowager with pleasure. ‘Come and join us for a spot of breakfast.’ She indicated the empty seat to her right-hand side and rammed another mouthful of pork into her mouth. ‘I’m sure Miss Marchant will not object.’
Kathryn smiled at both grandmother and grandson. ‘Of course not.’
Lord Ravensmede helped himself to a little toast and some coffee.
‘What’s wrong with you, boy?’ The dowager’s brow wrinkled. ‘Picking at your food like a sparrow. Are you sickening for something?’
Ravensmede took his grandparent’s jibes with good nature. ‘I’ve already broken my fast. I’m merely accommodating your hospitality, ma’am.’
Lady Maybury grunted, but the faded green eyes remained unconvinced.
‘Have you made plans for today?’ Ravensmede sipped his coffee, but abandoned the half-eaten toast.
‘Apart from attending the Opera House tonight, we are as yet undecided.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll allow me to accompany you on a visit to the exhibition of the Society of Painters in Oil and Water-colours. From there we could travel to the British Museum.’ His gaze flitted from his grandmother to her companion.
The old lady smiled, a fiery light appearing in her eyes. ‘What do you say, Kathryn? Shall we attend?’
Kathryn could barely conceal her surprise in being asked. ‘My lady, I’m happy to abide by whatever you
should decide,’ she said with the utmost diplomacy.
‘Don’t flannel me, gel! Do you want to go or don’t you? It’s a simple enough question.’
The heat rose in Kathryn’s face, creating two small spots of colour. ‘I would very much like to see the paintings.’ With calm deliberation she folded the newspaper over and laid it on the table.
‘Good,’ announced the dowager, and then said to her grandson, ‘Come back in an hour, we shall be ready then. Haven’t had time to finish m’breakfast,’ she grumbled. ‘Blasted interruptions aren’t good for the digestion. Off with you, then!’ And the formidable little lady held her cheek up for Lord Ravensmede’s kiss before shooing him from the room.
It was very different from the last journey she had made in this same carriage. Kathryn drew her mind carefully away from that avenue of thought. Seated beside Lady Maybury with a well-behaved Lord Ravensmede opposite, things could not have been more dissimilar. Despite the warmth of the fine summer day and the firmly closed windows, Lady Maybury insisted on being covered with the vast expanse of her favourite travelling rug. Its woollen folds overlapped on to Kathryn’s legs, making her feel hot and sticky before they’d even arrived at Spring Gardens. She still wore the shabby blue muslin gown as her new afternoon dresses were yet to be delivered; a fact for which she was grateful, given the coolness of the simple material. Fortunately Lady Maybury had not demanded that her companion wear a spencer, although the mud-brown bonnet was an absolute necessity. They arrived at the exhibition while it was still relatively quiet and so were able to enjoy an unimpeded appreciation of the fine collection of water-colour and oil paintings.
‘I simply must sit and have a closer look at these paintings,’ said her ladyship, seating herself on one of the green-and-pink painted benches within the gallery.
Kathryn touched a hand to the dowager’s arm. ‘Are you quite well?’
A snort of disgust greeted her concern. ‘You’re getting as bad as m’grandson, miss. Can’t I enjoy the merits of Mr Fielding’s work without those around me becoming fixated on m’health?’
‘I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn’t mean to—’
‘No one ever does, it is—’ said the dowager with mounting exasperation.
Ravensmede’s voice interrupted smoothly. ‘Grandmama, allow me to suggest that I accompany Miss Marchant around the room, while you view Mr Fielding’s paintings in more detail.’
Kathryn looked rather uneasily towards Lord Ravensmede. ‘I—’
The old lady did not shift her gaze from the paintings on the wall before her. ‘Very well, Nick.’ And then, as if remembering Kathryn, she turned her head and mumbled, ‘Go ahead, gel.’
Without further ado Kathryn felt her hand being tucked into the Viscount’s arm, and then she was quite literally whisked to the other side of the expansive airy room.
His voice was deep and mellow, laced with a hint of amusement. ‘Please do forgive my grandmother, Miss Marchant. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be so…forthright in her opinion.’ Given that they were in such a very public place, he released her arm and stood back to consider the painting before them.
‘Your grandmother is honest and always speaks her mind. It’s a trait that I much admire,’ she said in stout defence of her employer, and stepped likewise to view the same work. With her head perched to one side she studied Mr Robson’s water-colour showing a rather sombre scene of a castle on a rock. ‘Mmm, it’s a very atmospheric scene,’ she said. ‘Do you like it, my lord?’
‘It’s well executed and undoubtedly of excellent technical expertise, but as to actually liking it…’
‘Can you not feel the sheer rugged rock on which Stirling Castle is built, the bleakness of the vast view, and the humidity of the grey cloud-layered sky?’
A nearly smile hovered at his mouth. ‘Enough to make me feel an inkling of gratitude that I’m here instead of there,’ he said drolly.
Kathryn’s eyes lit with passionate enthusiasm. ‘But there is freedom unbounded, wildness untamed—see the mountains in the background. And here is something altogether different.’ Her eyes met his and she smiled. ‘Mr Robson has succeeded very well in showing us that. He truly is a great artist.’
‘You sound as if you have a real interest in art.’
Her lips curved up in readiness. ‘I know very little of the subject, but when I was younger I enjoyed painting very much.’
‘And now?’
A shrug of the shoulders. ‘And now I have other things to occupy my time. What of you, my lord? Do you paint or sketch?’
Ravensmede laughed. ‘Not at all. Let’s just say my talents lie elsewhere. But I appreciate good art, especially that depicting the sea.’
‘Really?’ The genuine surprise was evident in her voice. ‘Seascapes are my favourite too. I remember once, many years ago, my father took us to Cornwall to visit his old friend. All those rugged sea views, it was bliss!’
They looked at Mr Robson’s painting in companionable silence, each caught in their own thoughts, unaware of the other bodies that drifted by. And by the time Kathryn had been returned to Lady Maybury’s side she felt quite sure that beneath the rakish exterior of Nicholas Maybury lurked another man altogether: a man who was infinitely likeable.
‘I’m sorry that you didn’t get to see more of the museum, Miss Marchant.’ Lord Ravensmede’s voice dropped in volume. ‘My grandmother’s constitution is not what it was.’ He glanced ahead to where Lady Maybury was tottering down the pathway of Montagu House. ‘Perhaps we could return another day.’
‘That would be most agreeable, my lord.’ Kathryn caught up with the dowager just in time to hear her cursing.
‘Where the hell is the blasted carriage?’
‘Edwards will be walking the horses. He shall arrive presently,’ Lord Ravensmede reassured his grandmother.
‘Lady Maybury, Lord Ravensmede,’ said a coldly polite voice. And then added, ‘And, of course, Kathryn.’ Anna Marchant and her daughter stopped before the Viscount and his grandmother.
‘Aunt Anna, Lottie.’ Kathryn inclined her head in greeting. It had been some weeks since she’d left Green Street and in all that time she had never once set eyes again on any one of her relatives. She was surprised at just how easily their memory had been erased from her life. Now it was as if that miserable time had never been. Both Marchant women were immaculately dressed, their golden-blonde curls peeping from beneath their splendid bonnets. But the perfection of their appearance did little to hide the coolness of their eyes. ‘How nice to see you both again.’ It was gratifying to find that her time with Lady Maybury had not blunted Kathryn’s ability to play a part well.
Unfortunately Anna Marchant was not gifted with such thespian skills. Her narrow lips pursed to a fine line across her face, and the fair eyebrows could not quite prevent their involuntary scowl. ‘Indeed, dear Kathryn.’
Young Lottie’s gaze was having trouble detaching from Lord Ravensmede’s visage. When eventually she managed to prise it away, it flitted back and forth between the Viscount and her pauper cousin. ‘We’re on our way to the dressmaker. Mama has promised me a new gown for my musical evening and Mrs Thomas wants one final fitting before it will be complete.’
Mrs Marchant looked pointedly at the familiar old gown in which her niece was garbed.
A movement from the Viscount drew her attention, as he stepped forward, partially obscuring her view of Kathryn. ‘How very interesting,’ he uttered in a voice that would have curdled the freshest of milk.
‘Dear Kathryn.’ Mrs Marchant ignored him and managed to force a smile to her mouth; it did not extend anywhere near as far as her eyes. ‘What good fortune that we’ve chanced to meet like this.’
Lottie’s jaw dropped and she stared with puzzlement at her mama.
‘We’ve missed you so, haven’t we, Lottie?’
Lottie looked at her mother as if she had run mad.
‘Haven’t we, Lottie?’ said her mother again and pressed a fo
rceful hand to Lottie’s arm.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lottie.
Kathryn looked from the false geniality on her aunt’s face to the perplexity on that of her cousin.
‘We wanted to be sure of your attendance at Lottie’s musical evening,’ said Mrs Marchant.
Lottie positively scowled at her mama.
‘Things just wouldn’t be the same without you, dear Kathryn. And your uncle would so like to see you again.’
Her uncle had revealed no such inclination at their last meeting, thought Kathryn grimly. Nor did she relish the thought of spending an evening in the house in Green Street. But there seemed to be no way to decline the invitation graciously. ‘Thank you, Aunt, I shall enquire of Lady Maybury if it is permissible.’ She prayed that her ladyship would judge otherwise.
Mrs Marchant glanced at the dowager. ‘I promise we shall take very good care of your companion,’ she said with forced jollity.
Lady Maybury’s eyes brightened. ‘A musical evening, did you say? They are quite my favourite form of entertainment. We shall be happy to come.’
Kathryn’s heart sank.
‘How delightful,’ said Mrs Marchant weakly, and the smile on her face appeared to be suffering under the strain. ‘It shall, of course, be the smallest and most modest of affairs.’
Lady Maybury appeared undeterred.
‘Then I shall send you a card with all of the details,’ Mrs Marchant said. ‘And now we really must rush. We cannot keep Mrs Thomas waiting. Please do excuse us.’ With one rapid inclination of the head she placed a hand behind Lottie’s back and pushed. ‘Goodbye, Lady Maybury, Lord Ravensmede, Kathryn.’ And without another word she steered her daughter towards their carriage as fast as she could manage.
Lord Ravensmede raised a cynical eyebrow at his grandparent. ‘An interest in musical evenings? I seem to recall that you were afflicted by no such tendency last Season.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ declared the old lady. ‘Your memory’s going, boy. Never missed an invitation to a musical event in m’life.’
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