Mother had desperately loved their father. He’d repaid her love by abandoning her in the countryside and taking himself off to London to take part in the depravity of the gaming tables. In the end, he’d squandered nearly all their familial possessions, the un-entailed landholdings, and risked their good names for his own shameful interests.
If that was love, then Katherine was quite content without it.
“Surely not all men are selfish beasts like Father,” Anne murmured.
Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from disabusing Anne of her childlike notions. Anne had seemed blissfully ignorant of the direness of their circumstances, and Katherine could not very well share with her now, the terror that had gripped her during those uncertain years.
“Katherine?” Anne prodded.
Katherine shook her head. “Forgive me. I was wool-gathering.”
Her sister sighed. “Very well. I’ll not bother you further with the matter for now, but do not consider this conversation at an end.”
Katherine smiled, recognizing the determined glint in her sister’s eyes. If she knew her sister, she’d already composed a list of prospective bridegrooms for Katherine.
Why could Katherine only imagine one particular name upon that unwritten list?
Chapter Nine
My Lady, I’ve nearly completed my reading of Wordsworth’s latest work. If you care to attain the copy prior to your departure for the Christmastide season, I shall have it during my daily walk in Hyde Park, alongside the Serpentine River Friday morn.
If you fail to make an appearance, I will consign the copy to a permanent place upon my bookshelf.
~B
Katherine stared down at the missive she’d received earlier that week, and then squinted off into the distance through the heavy snow falling from the white-grey morning sky. She trudged through the heavy snow. Though the London streets had been uncharacteristically empty, her carriage ride had been slowed by the violent storm. Now, she quickened her step, wondering if the Duke of Bainbridge had tired of waiting for her to appear and had even now left, or…
“My lady, it is sheer madness to be out in this weather,” her maid, Sara said, a faintly pleading note in her words.
Katherine slowed her stride a moment, and glanced back. Sara huddled inside her brown cloak, her teeth chattered loudly in the quiet of the winter storm.
Katherine adjusted her own cloak, pulling it closer to herself. “I’ll not be long. I merely am going to walk along the Serpentine. You may remain here. The park is empty, no harm will befall me,” she said when her maid opened her mouth to protest.
With that, Katherine turned on her heel, and trudged through the snow. Her serviceable black boots crunched noisily through the powdery softness that covered the ground. Sara was indeed correct—it was sheer madness to be out in such weather, and yet, Katherine desperately wanted the copy of Wordsworth’s latest book. She stopped beside the Serpentine, iced over from the winter cold, and stared out across its surface.
It wasn’t about her desire for the book.
Though she was looking forward to reading the volume.
For some inexplicable reason that defied logic and all good common-sense she prided herself upon—Katherine wished to see the Duke of Bainbridge. She tucked her gloved palms into the muffler and rubbed the cold digits in an attempt to bring warmth back into them.
He wasn’t here.
She snorted.
Whyever would he come out in such a storm?
She frowned. He could have had the decency to pen a note, informing her of his altered plans.
“Are you mad?”
Katherine shrieked, and spun around so quickly her boots skid along the snowy pavement, and she tumbled into the Duke of Bainbridge’s arms.
His arms closed over her in a seemingly reflexive manner, as he righted her.
Katherine swallowed, and glanced up, up, ever up his too-tall frame into his expressionless green eyes. Her breath caught. The green of his eyes put her in mind of the rolling hills and pastures in her family’s countryseat of Leeds.
But he didn’t release her. He continued to hold her in a most improper, but highly protective manner. In spite of the cold of the winter day, an unexplained warmth seeped into Katherine at the point where their bodies touched. It fanned out, thawing the chill, and replacing it with a most delicious heat.
Then he spoke. “What are you thinking coming out in this storm?” His words came cold and flat like the smooth icicles hanging from the wych elm tree.
Katherine blinked. “You said to meet you here so that I might attain your copy of—”
“Surely you have more sense than God gave a child, madam, not to brave a winter storm,” he snapped. He released her suddenly and took a step away from her. His gaze raked the emptiness around them. “And unchaperoned, no less,” he muttered that last part more to himself.
Katherine’s brows dipped, and she counted to five in a bid to maintain her composure.
When her efforts proved unsuccessful, she proceeded to count to ten.
He lowered his midnight black brows; giving him the look of a devil at play in the purity of the snow. “What are you doing?”
“I am counting,” she snapped.
His eyes narrowed. “Counting.”
“Yes. I find it calms me when I’m…” The duke’s jaw went slack, his brows shot above to his noble brow. She angled her head. “Whatever is the matter with you?” she asked.
He closed his mouth so tightly; she detected the faint click of his teeth meeting teeth. That was going to give him a devilish headache. Which would only be fitting, the insufferable lout!
“Nothing,” he growled. Except his tone implied it was not merely nothing that had earned his ducal disapproval.
Katherine took a step toward him. “You are also out in this storm,” she said. He backed away from her.
She took another step toward him. This time, he remained fixed to the snow-laden pavement. The tips of her boots kissed the tips of his black Hessians. Katherine jabbed a finger at his chest. “Furthermore, you sent me a note, requesting my presence.”
“I…”
She waved her finger up at him. “No, Your Grace.” If he weren’t so bloody tall she suspected she could have done a more convincing job of conveying her disapproval with her finger. As it was, she settled for waving the digit somewhere in the vicinity of his neck. “You might have penned a second note to inform me that you wished to reschedule the meeting. It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.”
He lowered his head, so the tinge of mint, and something surprisingly sweet, the faintest hint of chocolate that clung to his breath, fanned her cheeks. Fire flashed in his endless green eyes, and God help her, with fury radiating from those moss-green irises, she thought he might kiss her. And what was more foolish was the desperate desire for him to kiss her.
“Did you hear me,” he snapped.
Katherine blinked up at him. Well, perhaps he didn’t intend to kiss her. A gentleman would not speak in those cool, modulated tones if he had intentions of kissing—
“My lady?”
Katherine cleared her throat. “Er, what was that?”
“Do you have wool in your ears, my lady?” She suspected it was more likely she had wool in her brain. “I sent round a note.”
He’d sent round a note? Impossible.
“I did not receive a note,” she said a touch defensively, because if he had sent a note, and she’d been foolish enough to brave this frigid winter weather, well, it made her appear like nothing more than a silly ninny hammer.
His head dipped lower and a black strand of hair fell across his brow. “Do you presume to call me a liar?” he hissed.
Odd, that single strand made him appear so much gentler, so much less reserved than the gentleman who’d plucked her from the Thames. Katherine’s fingers fair itched to brush that lock back; so black it bore the faint trace of blue, like the midnight sky. She swallowed. Her ey
es went to the faint indentation at the center of his hard, square jaw.
God help her, she wanted to lean up and explore the hard contours of his lips. The wicked thoughts trickled into her consciousness. She wanted to, though.
“I wouldn’t dare,” she whispered. Because it would be the height of impropriety and madness to kiss the stern, frowning gentleman. Ladies didn’t kiss gentlemen.
He gave a curt nod. “Because I do not take charges against my honor lightly.”
What in the devil was he talking about?
“You’re out in the storm as well,” she said.
He glowered at her. “I am not an unwed, unchaperoned—”
“I’m not unchaperoned.”
“Young lady,” he finished.
Her eyes went to his firm mouth. He most certainly was not a young lady. Katherine wet her lips. He’d been abundantly clear since he’d come upon her that her company was not desired here. She should turn around and flee.
What was it about him that held her fixed to the spot?
As he stood on the frozen path alongside the Serpentine, amidst the increasing snowfall, with the biting wind whipping about him, Jasper came to a most unwanted, unwelcome, and staggering realization.
He wanted to kiss Lady Katherine Adamson.
His gaze took in the delicate lines of her heart-shaped face; the almost cat-like quality of her brown eyes. And suddenly, eyes that were once merely brown, put him in mind of the choicest brandy; warm and fathomless.
Jasper’s body blazed to life with a heated awareness of her.
He told himself that his reaction was merely physical.
He told himself it was a betrayal of Lydia and her memory.
Bastard that he was, Jasper couldn’t find the resolve to turn around and leave Lady Katherine’s side.
“Your Grace?” she whispered.
“Jasper,” he said, his voice harsh. God help him, he needed to hear his name upon her lips, to remind himself that, even in just that moment, he lived.
Her soulful brown eyes widened. “Your Grace?”
“My name is Jasper.”
She tilted her head at an endearing little angle, and the tiniest fragment of his battered stone heart reassembled into the configuration of what it once had been. “Jasper,” she whispered, as though tasting it upon her lips.
A primitive growl worked its way up from his chest, past his lips, and he took her mouth in a hard, unrelenting kiss.
Her body stiffened against his, and he thought she might pull away from the volatility of his embrace.
He should have expected more of the vixen who’d survived an icy plunge into the Thames.
Katherine leaned up on tiptoes and angled her head, allowing him a better vantage of her mouth. She moaned, and he slipped his tongue inside, exploring the hot cavern.
She tasted of tea and mint leaves, and he wanted to drown in the sweetness of her. She tangled her hands in the strands of his hair and gave a faint tug. He groaned, his shaft hardened. He’d been too long without a woman. His body merely sought the surcease to be found only in the honeyed depths of a woman’s hot center.
He told himself that.
Over and over.
The words a chant. A litany.
Liar.
His hand worked its way inside the front of her emerald green cloak, and he sought out the lush curve of her generous breast. Through the fabric of her wool gown he teased the sensitive flesh of her nipple. His body ached to lay her down upon the blanket of snow, like the Ice Princess he’d once believed her to be, tug the cloak free, and expose the bountiful breasts to his worshipful gaze.
She moaned and leaned into his touch.
Encouraged, Jasper’s mouth left hers. She cried out, in protest, her strong fingers made a desperate bid to guide him back to her.
But Jasper craved the satiny smoothness of her long neck. He placed his lips to the rapidly fluttering pulse there. She cried out, her legs buckled out from under her.
Jasper caught her to him, and continued his ministrations.
“Jasper,” she whimpered into his mouth.
Oh God, the sound of his name, a breathy entreaty threatened to drive him beyond the point of control.
His lips nipped at the sensitive flesh of her neck, and her whimper turned into a husky, primitive moan. He worked his hands down her back, to the gentle swell of her hips, and then tugged her against him. His shaft surged against the softness of her belly.
Her head fell back.
A blast of cool winter air whipped around them. It tugged several long strands of dark brown locks free of the bonnet atop her head. The locks tumbled down past her shoulders. He took the lock and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, inhaling the spring lavender scent of the strand, so at odds with the Christmastide season.
Passion blazed within her eyes…and jerked him from the moment.
Jasper released the strand of hair, and took a step backwards. The horror of his actions, his absolute betrayal of Lydia’s memory, stole through him; it sucked the breath from his lungs.
Katherine closed her eyes a moment, snow swirled and danced about her flushed cheeks.
He spun away and battled the urge to pull her into his arms once again and continue exploring the warm, moist cavern of her mouth until she shook with desire.
Jasper raked his gloved hand through his hair. The abrupt movement sent snowflakes falling from his head. He stared out at the river. Since Lydia’s death, he’d lived the past three years, three-hundred and…his mind spun…
Was it fifty-three days?
Or fifty-four?
Panic built in his chest; it pounded away at his insides as he confronted the nauseating truth—he’d lost count of the days since Lydia had been gone.
His gut clenched. How, in a matter of days, had this happened?
Gentle fingers touched his shoulder. “Jasper?”
He closed his eyes. What had possessed him to give her leave to use his name? Nay, not leave…he’d all but commanded it of her. Sheer madness. His lips twisted. Then, he was the Mad Duke.
The sound of his name on her lips; spoken in her husky timbre served as a punishing lash upon his conscience.
Jasper opened his eyes, and stared blankly across the river. “My wife is dead.”
Katherine moved ever closer. She stepped in front of him, silent. The fabric of her cloak brushed against his legs.
He stared past the top of her velvet-trimmed bonnet, which was still askew from their embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. A gust of wind caught those words and carried them to his ears.
“I do not want your pity.” His words sounded hollow to his own ears. He no longer knew what he wanted.
“I don’t pity you, Jasper.”
He glanced down. A faint smile played about her lips.
“You are not the kind of man that one pities.”
His jaw tightened, and he glanced away. No, he was a heartless, soulless bastard.
What was it about this small, yet spirited woman that unearthed the parts of himself he’d tried desperately to bury?
“I hate water.”
Jasper blinked. His gaze moved back to hers.
“I hate water,” she said again. “As a child, we’d spend most of our days in my family’s cottage in Leeds. When I was a girl of seven years, my sister and I would often go off on our own. We traipsed all over the countryside. It exasperated my mother to no end.”
His lip tugged up at the corner as he considered his first meeting with Katherine. It would appear the young lady had not changed much since her earlier years.
She continued, and Jasper tried to follow the odd direction her thoughts had taken. “I am the younger twin.” Yes, Guilford had mentioned as much. Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “I’ve always felt more like an older sister. Anne has always been the fanciful, whimsical sister. I’ve always sought to protect her.”
He remembered the panicked, unholy light
in her eyes as he’d pulled her from the river, considered her outing this day in Hyde Park in the midst of a winter storm. “And who protects you, Katherine?”
She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Her brow wrinkled. “Since my father died, my sister Aldora fashioned herself as something of a protector of my family.” A sad little smile played about her lips. “Though, she wed three years ago, and now spends most of her time in the country.” She shook her head. “That is neither here nor there.”
He bit back a smile. “Your hatred of water,” he guided her back to her earlier statement.
“Ah, yes. I hate water. One day, Anne and I were playing alongside a river that bordered my father’s property. Anne’s favorite bonnet, a pretty pink one with satin ivory ribbons, fell into the water. She was desperately crying, and so I climbed upon a long tree trunk that had fallen across the river.”
The muscles in Jasper’s stomach tightened. He knew intuitively where her story was going. He would rather not think about a small Katherine Adamson pulled beneath the surface of a river. Not when he’d rescued her from the Thames, and knew the blood-terror that had gripped her in that moment.
“I fell in,” she said. “The current was fast-moving, and so very strong. It pulled at my skirts and dragged me under.”
The image she painted roused the protective instincts he’d thought long dead inside him.
“I was certain I was going to die.” Her words took on a faraway quality, as though she were speaking, but to no one in particular. “My sister managed to toss a long branch out, and I grasped onto it. She pulled me to safety.”
How very strong she’d been, even then as a small child to have battled past the terror to ultimately save herself.
Jasper would have been a boy of fifteen years or so; he wished he’d been there, just as he’d been those five days ago. He wished he’d been there to pluck her from the river so she could have turned her fear over to him.
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 41
