The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE REBEL BRIDE

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1979, 1994 by Catherine Coulter

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1061-1

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Signet and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  To my wonderful sister,

  Diane Coulter,

  The second time around for this Baby

  Thus in plain terms; your father hath consented That you shall be my wife . . . And, will you, nill you, I will marry you.

  Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well, Thou must be married to no man but me . . . .

  —Shakespeare,

  The Taming of the Shrew

  1

  Julien St. Clair, earl of March, flicked a careless finger over her white belly, lay back on the large canopied bed, and gazed beneath half-closed lids at the dancing patterns cast by the firelight on the opposite wall. He felt a sort of lazy satisfaction that, for the moment, relieved his boredom.

  “I have pleased you, my lord?” She twined her fingers in his fair hair, her own body languid from the pleasure he had given her.

  “Of course, Yvette,” he said, annoyed that she disturbed the silence he wanted.

  There was a flash of anger in her doe-brown eyes. She knew full well she had pleased him but a short time before, and it galled her now to see him again remote and withdrawn. But from her long experience with noblemen, she realized that reproaches would gain her nothing. She let her face soften into an inviting expression and lowered herself onto his chest, pressing her breasts against him. She slid her arms around his neck and gently tugged until he turned his face to hers. She smiled knowingly as he brought his arms lazily from behind his head downward through her chestnut hair and began to explore her back and knead her hips.

  To Yvette’s surprise, she soon felt a quiver run the length of her body, and she sighed, a low moan of pleasure.

  In a graceful motion Julien rolled over on top of her. He took her mouth. He would give her what she wanted. His hands stroked her body, teasing, caressing, feeling the soft flesh of her buttocks.

  He watched her eyes widen when his fingers found her. Her lashes fluttered and her mouth worked, making her look very real, very human. A dull flush began to creep over her cheeks, and her body trembled. She urgently willed him to enter her, and he drew up so she could guide him into her.

  Though his body responded with rhythmic motion, Julien felt strangely detached from the very soft, giving woman beneath him, unable to let himself feel the passionate intensity of her need. Yet he felt his breathing quicken as she reached her final tensing. He drove deep, heard her cries of release, and let his body respond.

  He allowed himself to be locked to her for one long moment before falling full length on top of her, his head beside her face on the pillow.

  Yvette calmed, becoming relaxed and still beneath him. She was certain this time she had pleased him. Her own pleasure she discounted. She waited for him to utter some slight words of endearment, but he lay quiet above her, his breath becoming even.

  Her body began to protest against his weight, but she didn’t move, for fear of disturbing him.

  “Yvette, what is the time?” he asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

  “It lacks but a few moments until ten, my lord,” she said with definite edge to her voice.

  “Be damned.” He rolled away from her. Yvette watched him rise from the bed and briefly stretch his tall, muscular body. As always, she was unable to look at him without admiring him. For months she had called him her golden god. But now, she thought bitterly, he was a fickle god, leaving her with scarce a backward thought.

  Her frustration grew as she racked her mind for a charmingly turned phrase to catch his attention. Finding herself unequal to the task, she sighed and raised herself up onto the pillow, pulling a cover over her body.

  He drew on his white ruffled shirt and turned to look at her. “I must leave, Yvette. I am promised to meet Blairstock at White’s and am already late.”

  “When am I to see you again, my lord?” she asked with controlled sweetness, half-rising to go to him.

  He halted her progress with an impatient wave of his hand and replied with only casual interest, “That is difficult to say. I’m meeting friends in the country for hunting and shall be absent from London for some time.”

  She sucked in her breath, now wary. He had not told her of his imminent departure from London.

  He shrugged himself, not without some difficulty, into a coat of superfine blue cloth that was molded exquisitely to his broad shoulders, and strode over to her.

  “I trust you will find sufficient to amuse you during my absence,” he said, and she could hear the warning in his voice. “I only ask that you not be too indiscreet while you are still in my keeping.” A faintly sardonic look passed over his handsome face, making his gray eyes cold and hard.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Her face drained of color even as she spoke.

  “Oh, don’t you, Yvette? How very strange. I had thought you would know exactly what I meant. In any case,” he continued with careless emphasis, “we shall discuss the matter upon my return.”

  He picked up his cane and pulled his many-caped cloak around his shoulders and walked to the door. As he let himself out, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t, whatever you do, underestimate your value, my dear. You’re as fine a possession as any man could wish.”

>   He closed the door quietly behind him and was gone. Yvette could hear his retreating footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time.

  “Damn you,” she shouted at the closed bedchamber door, wishing for something to hurl. “All those fine lords, damn them, arrogant crowing peacocks.”

  As her anger lessened, a frown creased her white brow and she pursed her lips, now annoyed at herself for her own carelessness. She should have guessed that her capitulation to Lord Riverton would send his boasting, vain lordship to proclaim his triumph. It was a mistake she should not have made, a stupid, ill-timed blunder that had lost her, she was forced to admit, a very generous protector.

  She pushed back the covers and rose slowly, her body aching from her exertions. She sat at her dressing table and began to brush out her tangled chestnut hair. She paused a moment to examine the undeniably alluring face and felt cheered. Lord Riverton was a rich man and appeared to enjoy her lisping English and her views of life in England, as well as the voluptuous attractions her body offered.

  She sighed, momentarily cast down. She was fond of Julien, and he was after all an earl. And dreadfully rich. She found herself gazing wistfully at her elegantly furnished room. She would miss this charming apartment and also, she reflected, a man very nicely skilled in the art of lovemaking—and only a few of those skills had she taught him. No, when she’d first come to him, he was already a man of pleasure, a man who wasn’t selfish in the giving of pleasure, despite the fact that she was his mistress. He could still surprise her by his ability to make her forget herself, make her forget all her own wiles for giving him pleasure.

  She rose from her dressing table, blew out the candles, and took herself back to bed. As pragmatic as she was passionate, she realized that it was just as well that Julien was leaving for the country. It would give her time to assess Lord Riverton’s intentions.

  It did not take her long to devise a plan which pleased her, and she fell asleep confident that she could part the pinch-penny Lord Riverton from some of his precious guineas.

  Outside the red brick house on Curzon Street, Julien hailed a hackney and directed the driver to make all haste to White’s. He sat back against the rather worn cushions and stretched his long legs. The old wooden cab swayed precariously as the horse clip-clopped on the uneven cobblestones, and Julien had to steady his position by holding the frayed leather strap. He felt now only slightly irritated that he’d shared Yvette with another man while she was under his protection. In all honesty, he knew that he had given her scant attention these last few months, his visits infrequent and for only one purpose. He had used her body to escape for brief periods of time from his growing restlessness. Yvette had been his choice recently over the lovely Lady Sarah, as he had found it increasingly difficult to speak with any sincerity at all the words of endearment and affection required of such a liaison. With Yvette he could behave exactly as he wished, for it was her duty to please him. He thought of her unsuccessful attempt at perfidy and felt faintly amused. He had no doubt that she would take care of herself; like a cat, she was, soft, purring, and quite able to land on her feet. He sighed and closed his eyes. He wished Yvette luck in her pursuit of Riverton.

  When the cab drew to a halt in front of White’s on St. James Street, he alighted quickly, paid the driver handsomely, and gave Yvette not another thought.

  “Good evening, my lord.” He was greeted at the door by one of White’s renowned retainers, who, after straightening from his low bow, deftly relieved Julien of his cane and cloak.

  Julien nodded briefly. “Is Sir Percy here, Henry?”

  “Yes, indeed, my lord. I believe him to be in the card room.”

  Julien made his way through the dark, wood-paneled reading room, his steps muffled by the thick plush carpeting. Rich vellum-bound books lined the walls—books scarcely ever opened, truth be told—and well-read London papers lay in neat stacks on the heavy mahogany tables. He stopped a moment and thumbed through the Gazette, his eye caught by the latest bit of news of Napoleon’s incarceration on Elba, an island he now ruled as he had France, the little bastard. At least now he was a tin god, his power stripped away.

  “It is shocking, is it not, my lord, that the pompous Corsican held Europe so long in the palm of his hand?”

  “Indeed it is,” Julien said, as he turned and proffered a slight bow to the arthritic duke of Moreland.

  The duke looked pensively down at the paper and continued in his slow, painstaking way, “It is quite beyond me how that upstart little toad achieved such power.” He gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders that brought a grimace of pain to his face. “But the French, you know, have always suffered from political untidiness. Yes, they’ve always been an unsteady race.”

  Julien said gently, “Perhaps it isn’t so unfathomable a turn of events, your grace, when one considers the terrible plight of the French people even after the beginning of the revolution.”

  “I hope you are not becoming a republican, my boy. That is surely something your late father would find most abhorrent. He was a stern, perhaps overrighteous man, though, as I suppose you know very well.”

  “Yes, your grace. My father was those things and, naturally, more. And, being an Englishman in a country where all men are treated with at least a modicum of justice, I don’t think myself at all republican to comment with truth on the stupidity and blatant greed of the past French monarchs. Surely they were more than simply untidy.”

  “Well said, my boy, well said.” His grace beamed, having forgotten his earlier criticism.

  “If your grace will excuse me—” Julien said, as he took the old duke’s hand in his.

  “Off with you, my lord. Do not forget to pay my compliments to your dear mother. I do hope her fragile health hasn’t faltered.” The duke added more to himself than to Julien, “It is difficult to keep up with one’s friends nowadays, so many of them gone, either dead or just, well, gone.”

  “My mother will be pleased, your grace.” Julien smiled, not without a good deal of affection, at the duke before turning and continuing his way to the card room.

  He made his greetings to other acquaintances in his casual, easy manner as he progressed the length of the reading room. But he didn’t stop, reflecting with a grin that poor Percy would in all likelihood be mad as hell at him for having his dinner so very delayed.

  A footman opened a great paneled oak door to the card room and quickly closed it behind Julien so as not to disturb the more sober club members in the reading room. The card room was ablaze with candles, in marked contrast to other, more sedate rooms in White’s. It was a glittering company, loud and boisterous. Footmen seemed to be everywhere, scurrying from group to group bearing silver trays laden with quantities of drink that would bring many aching heads on the morrow.

  Julien gazed around the room at the various tables until his eyes came to rest on Sir Percy, sitting slouched with one elegantly clad leg swinging to and fro over the leg of a delicately wrought satin-covered chair.

  He stood quietly for a moment behind Percy, noting with a shake of his head the small pile of guineas stacked in front of him. As Percy shoved most of the remainder toward the faro bank, Julien dropped a light hand on his shoulder.

  “I see your luck is quite out tonight, Percy.” He seated himself in a momentarily vacant chair next to his friend.

  Sir Percy Blairstock turned a pair of pale-blue eyes to Julien and said with a grunt, “Well, Julien, what other choice do I have but to game away my fortune? I suppose you were in the arms of one of your fair Cyprians and quite forgot our dinner engagement.”

  Julien smiled broadly, even white teeth flashing. “Quite accurate, old boy, but as you see, I did not forget. Just a bit late, that’s all. Your humble servant.”

  “You conceited dog. You aren’t anyone’s humble servant, March. Bedamned, I’m nearly done in.” Sir Percy pushed back his chair and gathered up his few remaining guineas, stuffing them into his coat pocket.

  “It appears
that I’ve saved you from total ruin. Perhaps you owe me some words of thanks.” Julien grinned and at the same time shook his head in refusal at a footman who offered him brandy.

  “Ho, March! You do not play tonight?”

  Julien turned away from the footman and Percy and calmly surveyed the dissipated face of Lord Devalney, who appeared to be already deep in his cups. He had never liked the man, but he had been a friend of Julien’s father’s, and therefore, in Julien’s code, deserving at least of civility.

  He gave a rather thin smile and said easily, “As you see, sir, I am otherwise engaged with Blairstock here.”

  “And I for one am famished,” Sir Percy broke in. “Do come, Julien, let us try some of Pierre’s delicious fish.”

  Julien shrugged his shoulders, rose, and bowed to Lord Devalney. “You will forgive me, sir, I must see to the pressing needs of Blairstock before he takes me to Hounslow Heath at dawn. Your servant, sir.”

  Lord Devalney waved a thin, darkly veined hand and returned his attention to the faro bank.

  “What a reckless old fool. Never liked him above half.” Sir Percy looked back over his shoulder as he spoke. Julien merely tugged on his sleeve, and the two friends made their way from the card room.

  “Tolerance, Percy, tolerance.”

  “But that wig, Julien . . . and he still paints his face. Did you see that ridiculous patch by his mouth?”

  “A relic, Percy, just a relic who still breathes and still walks. Just imagine how he must regard us with our elaborate cravats and artfully disheveled hair.”

  “My father used to tell me that wigs were full of lice,” Percy said, stubborn as a goat chewing on a boot.

  Julien laughed but said only, “I fear if you dwell on that thought, Percy, you might well lose your appetite.”

  It was well after midnight when Julien and Percy left White’s. There was a full moon. Since the night wasn’t overly cold, Julien cajoled Percy into walking to Grosvenor Square to the St. Clair town house. Their comfortable silence was broken only by the clicking of their canes on the cobblestones until Julien said pensively, “You know, Percy, I grow quite tired of the fair Yvette. Can I depend upon Riverton to take her off my hands?”