Hugh blinked. How could such a change be wrought by a mere girl in the country? All he could actually remember of her person was that she was quite pretty and had remarkable large green eyes. She also had a dash of summer freckles across the bridge of her nose.
But she wore breeches and that wretched old hat pulled down over her ears. He gazed up at Julien, a frown furrowing his brow. His friend had always been fastidious in all things, and in particular, in his choice of women. All knew it.
What the devil was going on here?
6
Percy was quite satisfied with himself, as his devastating pronouncement had reduced his friends to silence. Having had the last word, he returned his attention to his dinner. What Julien chose to do with his women was no concern of his. He merely hoped that his friend had not been ensnared by some ill-bred, conniving wench. But then, Julien was such a proud, arrogant man. He would never besmirch his noble lineage.
Julien pushed his plate aside and eyed his friends with wry good humor. He wondered if they thought him mad. He found to his own surprise, however, that it had never occurred to him to deny Percy’s comments. If he tried to do so now, he would only appear the more ridiculous. He would also be a liar. He broke the short silence and remarked in a creditably calm voice, “Have I been such poor company, Hugh? Come, Percy, you cannot say that you wish to leave François’s cooking. Haven’t you enjoyed testing his culinary abilities?”
Percy lost all patience and waved an empty fork at Julien, “Dammit, man, I, like Hugh, have no desire to remain and watch you mooning after some girl. It’s unnerving, it’s unworthy of a man of your reputation. Maybe it’s something in the country air. What do you think, Hugh? Is it the damned lazy warm air here? You’re silent as a grave, Hugh. Well, if that’s it, I, for one, certainly do not wish to catch it.”
“Percy,” Hugh began.
“Now don’t you try to insult what little intelligence I have, Hugh. Wasn’t it you who suggested leaving in the first place?” He sat back in his chair and regarded Julien and Hugh with an owlish stare.
Hugh reddened, and a sharp set-down was on his tongue when Julien threw up his hands, his sense of humor overcoming the absurdity of this situation. “Leave him be, Hugh. It’s quite the first time he is able to crow, albeit he resembles more a stuffed peacock than a lean scavenger.”
The tension was broken, and both Hugh and Percy grinned at him good-naturedly.
“I wondered when you’d get your wits back, Julien. Damned glad that you haven’t quite lost all your senses,” Percy said and loaded his fork once more.
“I strive, Percy, I strive.” Julien looked down at his glass and swished the claret from side to side. The deep red reminded him of her luxurious auburn hair. She has bewitched me, he thought, his pulse quickening. He thought of her green eyes and the dimples that danced outrageously. Lord, he was completely besotted. Strangely enough, he found that he was not at all distressed by his condition. It struck him forcibly that he wanted Katharine Brandon not simply as a summer idyll, to end with the coming of fall. No, he wanted her, all of her. He wanted those dimples of hers, and he wanted to take her and hold her and keep her. He wanted her by his side until he cocked up his toes.
He raised his face to his friends and said matter-of-factly, “Perhaps it is better if you return to London. I would find it unnerving to go a-wooing with the two of you smirking behind my back.” Ignoring the startled looks, he concluded with quiet determination, “I intend to return to London with my bride. Oh yes, Percy, her name is Katharine Brandon, and she brandishes pistols and foils and fishes and doubtless will lead me a merry chase. Hugh has met her. You, Percy, will meet her in London.”
Percy’s eyes grew round with wonder and disbelief. Hugh chewed meditatively on his lower lip.
Percy said suddenly, “Now, Julien, you haven’t lost your wits over a simple country maid, have you? No, I can see from the blood in your eyes that you haven’t. Katharine Brandon. A reasonable name, quite charming, really. What does she look like? Shall I like her?”
“I believe so, Percy. She’s really quite—” He paused, frowning into the deep red of his claret. “She’s refreshing and different and utterly charming. Do you not agree, Hugh?”
“Of a certainty she is all those things and much more. You will find her immensely likable, Percy. She is quite lovely.”
“It’s a dashed shame that I had to spend so much time directing François. If Julien hadn’t needed my culinary advice, I could have judged her as well. Well, nothing for it. I suppose I’ll have to trust your taste in this matter, Hugh.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said, his voice as dry as his dinner sherry. “Yes, I have yet to see her equal. An altogether unforgettable young lady.”
He was aware that Julien was regarding him with an amused grin.
“Hmmm,” was all that Percy said to this glowing, albeit ambiguous description. He stroked his chin and sighed deeply. Julien being leg-shackled was in itself an appalling thought, for it meant that their gay bachelor evenings would come to an end. But perhaps, he thought, the new countess will be fond of entertaining, and that will mean many delicious dinners prepared by François. Percy’s blue eyes brightened at this prospect, and in sudden good humor he rose and thrust his glass forward.
“Come, Hugh,” Percy said, “let us congratulate Julien here. A toast to the new countess of March. May she meet all of our expectations, as well as Julien’s.”
Hugh was quick to follow Percy’s lead, and the two men turned to Julien, clicked their glasses together, and drank deeply.
Julien rose slowly. The last week and a half compressed itself into but a moment. A toast to the countess of March. He silently bid farewell to a life that now seemed inordinately boring, downed his own glass, and in a burst of excitement demanded another toast.
Two vintage bottles of St. Clair claret were consumed before the three men finally separated and shakily departed, each to his own room.
It was quite late the following morning when the three friends finally emerged, their eyes blurry and their heads heavy.
Under the efficient command of Mannering, mountains of luggage were assembled in the hall and strapped onto Percy’s great carriage.
“An altogether unforgettable stay, Julien,” Hugh remarked lightly, as he shook his friend’s hand.
“Lord, Hugh, you are never to the point.” Percy brushed a speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve. “I’d say it was a deuced unsettling experience. Women can find you anywhere, even in the damnable bowels of the country.”
“Rest assured, Percy, that the next week will be far more unsettling for me,” Julien said, a confident grin belying his words.
Percy leaned out of the carriage window and shouted to their receding host, “Wish you luck, old boy. If you need help, Hugh and I will be more than willing to serve as your faithful emissaries.”
A ghost of a smile flitted over Julien’s face as he stood watching the carriage rumble down the graveled drive and disappear into the park. He had no doubt that the most difficult part of entering into the married state would be surviving the jokes of his friends.
He retraced his steps and made his way to the library. As he passed by several portraits of past earls of March, he chanced to look up. Their painted eyes seemed to regard him with approval, their faces no longer accusatory. If he had been wearing a hat, he would most certainly have proffered them an elegant bow. As it was, he merely grinned and let his thoughts turn most willingly to Katharine. Katharine St. Clair, countess of March.
His footstep was light as he entered the library and eased himself comfortably into the large chair beside the fireplace. He pursed his lips and formed a sloped roof with his long, slender fingers, tapping them thoughtfully together as he contemplated his strategy.
It was but a short time later that he uncoiled gracefully from his chair, tugged the bell cord, and ordered that Astarte be saddled.
“I do wish you didn’t have to leave so soon, Ha
rry. You know how wretched it is here without you.” She was plainly unhappy and her shoulders drooped pitiably.
“Now, Kate, it will not be long, only until Christmas. I’ll come and we’ll enjoy ourselves, you’ll see.” Harry clumsily patted his sister on her shoulder.
“Aye,” Kate said, reverting to her Scottish mother’s tongue, “but it’s still over four months away, Harry. Four months with just Sir Oliver. It’s an eternity.”
Harry searched his mind for sage words, reassuring words, for he was, after all, her elder brother. He could think of nothing except the warning that he had given her many times before. “Don’t forget to take care that father does not find out about your escapades during the day. You know as well as I what he would do.”
It gave Harry a start to see her woebegone expression vanish and a curiously cold and hard look take its place. “Do you take me for a simpleton, Harry? Of course I know what he would do. He would beat me within an inch of my life. We both know it is quite a habit with him.”
Harry was appalled that she could speak with such hardness. The picture of Kate as a child rose in his mind; her laughter, her openness, Kate tugging on his coattails, begging to be included in his games.
“Lord, Kate, why does he hate you so?”
His voice shook with impotent fury. He had argued with his father on several occasions, in an attempt to draw Sir Oliver’s anger onto himself. He felt a miserable coward, for he seldom succeeded, and when he did succeed, it never lasted long. Just until Sir Oliver again recalled the existence of his daughter.
“When Mother was alive, he was not so cruel,” he said, to himself more than to his sister.
Kate cut him short, her voice grim. “No, Harry. He became so toward me before mother died. Of that I am certain. But why does he hate me? I don’t know. Nor do I believe I really care now, not anymore.”
Harry grasped her shoulders and in a sudden protective gesture pulled her against him. She was alarmingly stiff. He thought back to his mother’s funeral and felt a stab of pain. He had been at Eton that year and had been home rarely, savoring his freedom and his image of himself as being quite grown-up. It was after the funeral that he had sensed a change in his father.
Kate relaxed against him but didn’t speak. It had been many years since Harry had held her, and he became aware that he was holding not just his little sister, but a woman. Maybe that is the reason, he thought. Maybe Sir Oliver finds it painful to be with Kate because she so closely resembles our mother.
Kate drew back from the circle of Harry’s arms and looked out over the poorly kept lawn. She despised herself for her weakness, such damnable weakness. If she lost her pride, she would have nothing else.
“It’s that damned religion of his,” Harry said between clenched teeth. “I wish I could burn all those ridiculous musty books. They’ve rotted his brain and turned him into a monster, at least where you’re concerned.”
To his surprise, Kate turned back to him and gave a mirthless laugh. “Do not curse his religion, Harry, for I, in truth, find it many times my salvation. You know, he is scarce aware of my existence, at least during the day. Even Filber dares not disturb him in his theological studies.”
Harry’s lips tightened in disdain as the memory of the stern lecture he had received from Sir Oliver only an hour earlier came back to him.
“Damnation, the only thing he can think about is his infernal wages of sin. And adjuring me to be a son worthy of his father’s honor, whatever the devil that means. What claim does he have to any honor?”
Kate’s eyes brightened for a moment in tender amusement. “What, dear brother, do you mean that you don’t intend to become a Methodist?”
Kate was rewarded, for Harry gave her a twisted grin, the frown fading from his forehead.
“Hold a moment, Marcham,” he called out, seeing his valet emerge from the stable with their horses.
At that moment Kate felt immeasurably older than Harry. She looked at his blond curls, brushed and pomaded into what he had stiffly informed her was the latest style. His breeches and waistcoat were of severe, somber color, but she knew that before he arrived at Oxford he would change into the florid yellow patterned waistcoat he had shown her one evening after Sir Oliver had retired.
“My dear, poor Marcham is sadly weighted down. Are you certain that you intend to be gone only four months?” Her voice was sweet and light as she tugged on his sleeve.
Harry replied to her jest with a perfunctory smile. Despite his best intentions, he was impatient to be gone, and in truth, he didn’t know what to say to her, nor what he could do about her future. He knew that Sir Oliver was encouraging the suit of that provincial oaf, Squire Bleddoes. It was altogether ridiculous, for Kate was far too well born for such a marriage, and besides, she had told him she would have nothing to do with that “miserable, boring windbag.” This he had understood, but when she had blithely informed him that remaining her own mistress did not seem at all a bad thing, he was frankly shaken. She knew very well that his fondest wish was to join a crack cavalry regiment; she must also realize, he thought despairingly, that it would be impossible for her to accompany him.
Lord, what a mull. What a miserable situation. Perhaps when he returned for the holiday at Christmas, he and Kate would think of something.
Harry drew on his gloves and leaned over to kiss Kate lightly on the cheek. It occurred to him that there might be danger from another quarter.
“Kate,” he said earnestly, his blue eyes narrowing, “don’t forget the earl of March. You can’t be sure that he won’t tell Father of our escapade. Most probably he’s prouder than Wellington himself and thinks very highly of himself. Lord, we can’t tell what he might do.”
Kate looked at him and smiled, saying in a reassuring voice as if talking to a child, “I’ll be careful, Harry. Don’t worry yourself about it. I don’t think his lordship would ever stoop to such paltry and petty behavior.”
Harry was a bit put out by her calm assumptions about the earl of March. It was at times like this that Harry wished Kate were more docile, more accepting of her older brother’s advice and counsel. He had the nagging doubt, grown stronger in the past several years, that he was no match for her quick tongue, that it was she who had the stronger will.
Harry shook himself free of this not-altogether-pleasing image of himself. After all, it was rather stupid of him to regard his sister, a mere girl, as a possible superior to him. Was he not to be Sir Harry Brandon of Brandon Hall someday? And if Kate had not yet married upon the demise of Sir Oliver, it would be he, Sir Harry, who would arrange her life and give her direction.
Seeing the rather benign smile on her brother’s boyish face, Kate thought that she had succeeded in keeping their leave-taking as unemotional as possible. She said, “I think the horses grow impatient, my dear. You may rest assured that I shall avoid Sir Oliver assiduously, as well as that alarmingly persistent suitor of mine.”
Harry was immeasurably relieved. Kate was acting her usual self again. He quieted his conscience with the thought that before too many more months passed, he would find a solution to her problem.
She added, green eyes twinkling up at him, “Do read at least one book this time, and not, I pray, one of those young gentlemen’s turf books.”
“Well, don’t you kill anyone with your dueling pistol.”
There was a sudden sound behind them, and Kate whirled about. It was only Filber, the Brandon butler, come to wave good-bye to Harry. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Sir Oliver would openly condemn brother and sister spending too much time together. It was strange, she thought suddenly. It was as if their father thought her a bad influence on Harry.
“You did say good-bye to Father?” she asked nervously, still expecting to see his tall, gaunt frame appear at any minute in the open doorway.
“Oh, yes, not to worry, m’dear. Now, I must be off. Do keep out of trouble, old girl.”
She watched Harry swing himself onto his h
orse and signal Marcham to do the same. He kissed his fingers to her and whipped his horse about. He turned and waved once again before disappearing from sight.
Kate raised her own hand in silent reply. She had certainly succeeded in cheering him, and she supposed now that she should feel quite noble. After all, it was not his fault that he was a male and therefore free to go and do as he pleased. But it seemed a cruel twist of fate.
She turned away, feeling sorry for herself.
7
She stood unmoving, striving to control such uncharitable thoughts. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair. Unaccountably, she found that her thoughts turned to the earl of March and the delightful morning she had spent fishing with him and Lord Launston at St. Clair lake.
Her depression unaccountably eased. In an unconscious gesture she pulled at her outmoded gown. His lordship had shown himself to be witty and entertaining, his descriptions of the sights and activities of London stirred her imagination. She had jokingly told Lord Launston that the earl might as well be telling her of the Taj Mahal, for London, to her, was just as remote.
The corners of her mouth lifted. She remembered his laughter when she spoke whatever was on her mind. He was a delightful companion, willing to cross verbal swords with her. Perhaps she had found a friend. But for how long? The earl of March never stayed at St. Clair for any extended period of time. She knew from Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw that this was his first visit in five months. As a matter of fact, even now he might have already returned with his friends to London.
She turned slowly and walked back into the hall. Her spirits plummeted. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Probably not. She was a provincial dowd, nothing more, as unsophisticated as the trout she’d pulled enthusiastically from his lake with his fishing pole. He was simply amusing himself. Ah, but she did want to see him again.
The Rebel Bride Page 6
