by Jo Beverley
He raised a hand. “I apologize again. What a treacherous business marriage is.” But there was more in his eyes—a keen awareness that made her feel as if he could read her mind and even her memories. As proof, he asked, “What did Cateril do?”
To deny everything would be pointless. “Sometimes he fretted about the embarrassing adorers. Once he tried to challenge a captain for giving me roses. Of course, Bullock refused to fight a cripple, which reminded Marcus of what he’d become. Sometimes he could forget that.”
How he’d raged—at Bullock, at the French, the Portuguese, and at fate. And then at her. A flailing fist had struck her in the ribs. She’d swung the pottery jug she’d had in her hand, opening a gash on his head. He’d collapsed into miserable self-pity and weeping contrition, and she’d retreated into wary silence, nursing her bruises. They’d been estranged for days. She’d given out that they both had head colds and couldn’t receive guests. They’d recovered, but it had never been the same, and it hadn’t been the only time. . . .
She started when Braydon took her hand. Was surprised to have him ease open a fist.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“So am I.” But she meant for the way things had been, and perhaps he understood.
He kissed her hand and then her lips, gently, probably offering comfort, but it became warmer, inviting more. But this time resentment and disquiet simmered in her and she couldn’t respond.
He stepped back. “I leave you to your domestic labors, my dear.”
Kitty was left feeling guilty about having rejected him, but she couldn’t change the way she felt.
Why had he questioned her right to drive?
Why had he asked about her around Town?
Why did he seem determined to probe matters she’d rather forget?
* * *
Braydon took refuge in his bedroom, needing time for his anger to simmer down. He wanted to thrash Marcus Cateril, but he couldn’t do it, even if the man were alive. How many of Kit Kat’s admirers had felt the same, guessing that Cateril’s surly rage at his condition was sometimes vented on his wife? Had they seen bruises, or even witnessed attacks? Had the puppy been offered in consolation?
How had she responded? When she’d said she’d be no Desdemona, she’d meant it, but had she felt able to hit back? She would have given as good as she got with words—that was sure. He’d married her for her fighting spirit, but he wished she’d not had to learn to fight.
He wanted to return to her and find a way to make it right, but her simmering anger had been like a wall. Breaking it down would do no good. He sought refuge in his office and paperwork. The sooner the administration of the viscountcy was in solid order, the sooner he could leave for London. He could be gone by Christmas and only obliged to return on occasions.
After mere minutes he tossed down his pen, realizing how little he wanted that now.
He’d be leaving Kitty alone in this hostile house, as she had perhaps been alone in a hostile marriage, despite her flock of admirers. More than that, he’d miss her company already, in and out of bed. There was so much to learn and explore in bed. And out of it . . .
Perhaps he could remain over Christmas. Town would be thin of company, and the troublemakers had gone quiet. There were probably rural rites he was supposed to take part in. Wassailers. Mummers. Gathering holly and mistletoe.
Quite likely the dowager was of the modern mind that saw such things as pagan.
He smiled at that. He’d encourage a riot of them.
* * *
Kitty paced her boudoir, tense with the residue of anger and with anxious unhappiness. She’d let out another side of herself—her ability to rage.
But then he’d guessed.
She hated that. Hated it! The violence in her marriage was her secret, hers and Marcus’s, and he’d taken it to the grave. It shamed her that she hadn’t been able to avoid it, to be kinder and gentler. In that, she’d failed as a wife.
Sillikin whined, nudging at her leg.
Kitty picked her up and hugged her. “At least he never hurt you, little one. Even when you told him off.”
Kitty sat to comb Sillikin’s long coat, easing tangles and removing leaves and twigs. Sometimes it was a tedious task, but often it was soothing.
“You cared for him, too, didn’t you? And he for you on his better days. You knew when he was most in pain.”
Marcus had tried to hide his pain, largely, she thought, because it was proof of his damaged state. In some ways he’d been like his mother in trying to pretend that the damage was less serious than it was, and that some of it might heal. Sometimes Kitty had thought he’d married her in expectation of a miracle cure, and that his bursts of anger grew out of disappointment.
“Braydon isn’t Marcus,” she said, working on a little tangle. “I must remember that.”
The task did ease her mind, but that allowed in other concerns.
“I’m woefully unprepared for this. I knew that, but I didn’t expect to trip over little things. Like the Town house. It is foolish to leave it empty for such a long time. If the viscountcy doesn’t need the money, it could have been given to the poor.” She paused, and examined her dog’s solemn expression. “The supportive silence, I see.”
Sillikin’s silence was bliss, not philosophical.
“He’s going to be jealous. Already is, because of Kit Kat. Why does that upset him? I never did anything wrong. A good thing that he’ll be away most of the time. Though I might be tempted to go up to London and catch him with his mistress. Sauce for the goose . . . You don’t approve?” she asked the dog with a smile. “You’re right, of course. It would achieve nothing but to make me a figure of fun. Women, especially ladies, are supposed to never talk of their husband’s unkindnesses, and to pretend ignorance of his infidelities. At least Marcus never strained my discretion in that department.”
She cleaned the comb of hair for the last time and put it aside. “Perhaps I’ll take a lover,” she said, but Sillikin was asleep.
Kitty didn’t need a reaction from her dog to know she’d never do that. It would be dishonorable, and a husband being equally dishonorable wouldn’t absolve her. But that meant that when Braydon left for London, she’d be returned to celibacy. For the past few years, she’d felt the lack of a man, but dully amid the darkening days of her marriage and then the enclosing atmosphere of Cateril Manor. Now she was alive again, but he would soon leave.
Perhaps not till after Christmas.
Whatever happened, what she must do was keep her side of the bargain—and her temper—and become a perfect Viscountess Dauntry in all regards.
As a first step, Kitty put the sleeping Sillikin down near the fire, summoned the cook, and discussed menus for the coming week. At the end, she asked, “Is there anything you need in order to do your work to the best, Mrs. Northbrook?”
“Not unless there’s stuff needed for new dishes, milady. Turkish-like.”
“Turkish? Ah, you mean like Lord Dauntry’s coffee and cakes.”
“Nasty, thick stuff.” The woman went red. “Begging your pardon, milady!”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Northbrook. The coffee is very strong, but delicious if one has a taste for it. You don’t make it?”
“I do not, milady. His lordship’s gentleman does that, though I understand that in London his lordship’s cook prepares it.”
So he had a cook in his Town rooms. That implied considerable space. “I’m sure he’s not concerned that you have no experience of it.”
“I certainly hope so, milady. I’d be willing to learn, of course, but . . .”
But he won’t be here much? Kitty was surprised the servants knew that. No wonder they seemed uncertain about which side to support.
“But it would be difficult,” Kitty supplied. “As long as Johns is here to prepare it, that will do, but
have one of the kitchen servants learn from him in case. As you know, Lord Dauntry has many duties in Town, and in the New Year there’ll be Parliament, but he will be here as much as he can be, and I will be here most of the time.”
“You won’t be going to London with him, milady?”
Kitty wondered if people hearing that war is to be fought on their doorstep had the same frightened look. She was sorry for it, but the servants were going to have to choose their sides.
“Only occasionally,” she said. “There’s so much to do here. What will we need to provide for the tenants’ and servants’ ball?”
Mrs. Northbrook still looked anxious, but she had some good ideas. In the end, Kitty could thank her warmly and hope they parted on reasonably good terms.
So far, so good. What next?
It was approaching noon and she was hungry, but it was time to deal with Isabella. Two birds with one stone? She braced herself and then went down to Braydon’s study, annoyed to feel nervous about being with him again.
Her tone was probably too brisk as she asked, “Do you see any reason not to invite Isabella to eat lunch with us?”
“No, but what if she refuses?”
“It won’t be a command. If she chooses to stay cloistered, so be it.”
“Forever?”
“I feel sure I can outwait her.”
“So do I.”
That sounded approving, and Kitty relaxed a little. “I wonder . . .” she said.
“What?”
“Perhaps she’s caught in a trap similar to mine at Cateril Manor, tangled in the dowager’s mourning like a fly in a spider’s web. I’m sure she feels her losses as I felt mine, but is she mostly acting out of fear of upsetting her grandmother?”
“More likely out of fear of angering her.”
“You can’t be sure of that. The dowager has been mother to her for ten years.”
“And a dominant figure in this house all her life. You might be right, but how to break such chains?”
“We can offer escapes.”
“By all means, but open doors don’t always tempt a caged bird.”
“Because it’s afraid. We’ll have to overcome her fears.”
As I’ll have to overcome mine.
Kitty left, considering whether her experiences with Marcus had caged her in some way. Was she afraid of breaking free of watchfulness and readiness for war?
She was who she was, however, and she couldn’t bear to start bending and pretending in an attempt to placate an angry man.
She stuck to the matter in hand and sent Henry with a verbal invitation to Isabella. She was surprised, but pleased, when the girl accepted. Isabella would doubtless come with cannons at the ready, but Kitty hoped she’d soon have a better idea of how to sweeten the girl’s mood.
Chapter 23
Kitty made sure she was tidy and went down to the small dining room. She found Isabella already there, no longer wearing the ring. The girl was in the deepest mourning but also in the latest style. So she is interested in fashion. That is a beginning.
Sillikin hurried to make friends.
Isabella stepped back, snapping, “Go away!”
Kitty picked up the dog. “She’s not at all dangerous, I assure you.”
“But not suitable for a dining room.”
There was some justice in that. “If her presence upsets you . . .” Kitty summoned the footman from the hall and told him to take Sillikin to Henry.
When she turned back, Isabella said, “I understand you were raised in a shop, my lady. That must have been interesting.” Clearly “interesting” was not desirable. The girl had been sent here with prepared lines.
“It was,” Kitty said cheerfully. “There’s always something to read in a bookshop, and when I was older, I acted as shop assistant at times, which was fun.”
“Fun?”
“I enjoyed helping people find the books they wanted, and writing the bill and taking the money. Of course, I didn’t have to work long hours, as a real shop clerk might. And then I went to school. Have you attended school?”
“I had a governess.”
“I sometimes thought I would like that,” Kitty said, “and not have to go away, but I enjoyed being with other girls and the variety of subjects and activities. I assume you’ve learned music and dance?”
“I have been well educated in all regards, ma’am. I would have attended a ball this year if not for our tragic changes.”
Tragic changes; not losses. Before Kitty could react to that, Braydon arrived, followed closely by servants bearing food.
“Do let’s sit,” Kitty said. “I confess to being hungry.” Once they were settled and the servants had left, Kitty said, “We’ve been speaking of dances and balls, Dauntry. When Isabella’s mourning is over we must arrange some—here or perhaps in London.” She dangled that as bait, but Isabella didn’t twitch.
“Of course,” Braydon said. “And presentation at court.”
Isabella stayed silent, eating tiny morsels perhaps as a reproach to hearty appetites. Kitty reminded herself that the girl’s father and brother had died. Her mourning wasn’t false.
“We can do nothing as long as you’re in your blacks,” she said to the girl. “But when you’re in half mourning, we could host a small social gathering here. Don’t you think, Dauntry? Perhaps a musical evening.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“And if there were to be a little spontaneous country dancing, nothing more than a hop, Isabella could join in. I never had the advantage of such social events, but I believe that young ladies often do host parties to practice before going to London.”
Isabella spoke at last. “Grandmama would not approve.”
“She may not be here to be disturbed. She and I spoke of her moving to Bath.”
Isabella’s jaw dropped. “She’ll never leave the Abbey!”
“She might find she’d like a change,” Kitty said cheerfully, and ate more of the excellent pork pie. “Would you want to move with her?”
“No!” The girl’s cheeks flushed. “I mean, this is my home.” She looked at Braydon. “You can’t send me away. You can’t!”
“Of course not,” he said. “Kitty meant that you are free to leave with your grandmother, if you wish.”
Kitty hid a smile as she poured more tea. He’d caught the idea.
“I don’t,” Isabella said. But then she added, “And nor does Grandmama.”
“Wherever you choose to live,” Kitty said, “you’ll be able to visit Town in due course, and perhaps Brighton as well.”
“Brighton?” Isabella did a good job of delivering it flatly, but the flicker of excitement in her eyes was a breach in the citadel.
“And eventually Almack’s,” Kitty added carelessly. Young men spoke of the Almack’s Assemblies as an arduous duty, but for a young lady, attendance was heaven. She asked Braydon, “Will Isabella have the entrée there?”
“Of course, though whether she’ll wish to go, I don’t know. Your large portion could attract fortune hunters, Isabella.”
“But true admirers as well,” Kitty said, playing along. “She’ll have her pick—earls, marquesses, and even dukes.”
“I may not like such attention,” Isabella said, but her eyes were fixed on her plate.
“It will be as you wish,” Braydon said, “but at the least you must be presented at a drawing room.” He looked at Kitty. “So, of course, must you.”
“Me!” She looked at Isabella. “I’ll have to take lessons with you.”
Isabella looked up then. “I have already been well instructed,” she said, and rose. “Please excuse me.”
She went to the door, but at the last minute turned and sank into the sort of deep curtsy required at court, then rose again with impeccable smoothness and a triumphant glin
t in her eye. Then she left.
The saucy minx. But Kitty liked her better for it, and she saw Braydon did, too. That hadn’t been rehearsed.
Isabella had left the door ajar. Was she hovering in hopes of hearing Kitty complain of her? How would she like being forgotten?
“I never thought of having to be presented at court,” Kitty said. “How will it be arranged?”
“Easily enough once the court recovers from mourning. A suitable lady will present you.”
“What suitable lady?”
“An excellent question. Not one of my sisters.”
“Are you so very at odds?”
“No, because we rarely meet, but they wouldn’t add to your consequences, neither having a title. I could, I believe, summon a duchess or two.”
“A duchess?”
“They’re not quite as rare as unicorns.”
But near enough. Being presented by a duchess would definitely add to her consequence, but it would also make her a center of attention and curiosity. Kitty had never expected to want anonymity, but the thought of being an object of attention before the critical eyes of the fashionable world turned her off her food.
She moved the talk to household matters, including food and the servants’ ball, and only slowly realized they’d rediscovered their ease. He still knew things about her she’d rather he not know, and she’d revealed her warrior side, but they had both put all that aside. They’d worked together smoothly in dealing with Isabella. This marriage could work, as long as she was careful.
As they finished the meal, Braydon asked if she’d object to his riding out on estate business. Is he not as comfortable with our situation as I thought? She pushed that worry down and gave him permission. They both rose. Then, instead of leaving, he tilted her chin and kissed her in that soft, warm, promising way.
This time she responded, as she should, but also as she wanted to. Whatever their problems, the desire was honest. She put her arms around him and kissed him back, unabashedly suggesting that he escape his burdens in another way. She thought she’d won, but then he gently put her away.
