“What do you mean, you’ve bought me clothes?”
“You don’t have that many with you. I do hope you approve my choices. The morning dresses, evening gowns, riding clothes, chemises, ah, let me see, wrappers, nightgowns, and the like—all of them are quite charming.”
“But why?”
“I can’t have you being Lady Godiva, can I? I bought you the clothes because after we’ve suitably finished furnishing your wardrobe, we shall proceed to my rooms, and there you will be dressed in your bridal clothes. Don’t look so surprised, my dear. Could you doubt that I wouldn’t bring at least your wedding gown with me? Promptly at five o’clock we are expected at the embassy, where we will be married by an English divine.”
He’d imagined her screaming at him like a demented fishwife, perhaps cursing him until their French host came scrambling out of his kitchen in alarm. But she didn’t say a word, just sat there, staring at him, her face as pale as her collar, her fingers clutching her butter knife.
She couldn’t look away from him now. He looked completely in control, his power over her limitless. She saw no signs of affection for her, no gentleness, merely a man who had run her to ground as if she were a fox in the hunt. He’d shamed her, lied to her, humiliated her. He probably only insisted upon wedding her because she’d refused him. He wished to own her, to add her as one of his possessions. He was utterly ruthless.
She gathered her scattered remnants of pride together and raised her face to his. She even managed a dollop of contempt. “I’m not a piece of property or a possession to be sold to the highest bidder, my lord. I fear you’ve made a sorry bargain with my father and are now out some guineas. You act as though I were some sort of prized animal, a wretched horse to be sold.”
“Surely not. You’re anything but a horse, but if the simile pleases you, then you must make it accurate. A filly, Kate, a filly.”
He leaned toward her in a conciliatory gesture to take her hand in his, but she snatched her hand away and drew back away from him as far as she could in her chair.
“It was a jest, no more. Come now, at least give me a smile to reward my effort, paltry though you found it.”
She was as silent as her silverware.
“Very well. I have no intention of prostrating myself at your feet. Now, it’s time we got on with your shopping. You wouldn’t wish to be late for your own wedding, now, would you?”
“Damn you to the devil. I won’t go with you, Julien. And you can’t force me, surely you can’t. This is a very public place. Surely if you tried to coerce me, someone would stop you. There are gentlemen in this world, there must be.”
He only sighed. “Very well. Let me outline the alternative for you. If you don’t come willingly with me, I shall take you forcibly to my lodgings, or if you prefer, I shall simply render you unconscious and carry you there. If our host appears at all interested, I shall say that you’ve fallen ill. If you choose to continue in this obstinate manner, I’ll force a certain drug that I now have in my possession down your white throat. It’s very efficacious, I assure you, and will make you very pliant, Katharine, as pliant as a puppet, so pliant and agreeable that you’ll probably take your clothes off in front of me and do a little dance.”
He paused a moment to ensure that she understood his threat.
“Then I’ll dress you myself in your wedding finery and take you unresisting to the embassy.”
“Surely even you wouldn’t do that.”
“Most assuredly I shall, if you force me to. I’ve been remarkably patient, considering what you’ve put me through, but I find now that I’ve had quite enough of your antics.”
Perhaps Hugh and Percy were correct, he thought, I am quite mad. Had someone told him even a month ago that he would force a young lady of quality to marry him, he would have thought it a ludicrous joke. Damn her for forcing him to go to such lengths. Or damn him for wanting her more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything in his adult life. Why the devil wouldn’t she simply admit she wanted him, even if she had to dredge down to her very being to find that caring, it was quite time she did it.
“Damn you, if I were but a man—”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. If you were a man, this conversation would never take place. Now, will you or will you not obey me?”
She felt suddenly very tired. She felt empty and beaten down. Even her fear of marriage to this man, never far away from her thoughts, was now effectively quelled. She raised her eyes to his, perhaps hoping to find some weakness, some uncertainty written there. But there was none. He was implacable and she knew it.
“Very well. I don’t wish to be knocked unconscious nor do I wish you to drug me. The thought of willingly taking off my clothes with you anywhere around at all makes me quite ill. Let’s get it over with.”
He merely nodded, rose, pulled on his gloves, and helped her to rise from her chair. He drew her unresisting arm through his and led her to the door of the cafe.
The owner was rendered almost incoherent with gratitude when the gentleman pressed a louis into his outstretched hand. He stood in the doorway of his small establishment and watched the lady and gentleman step into a hackney. He had thought their behavior odd but, not understanding a word they’d said, had shrugged his shoulders in expressive indifference. The English were, after all, quite mad.
She spoke scarce a word as Julien guided her to various milliner shops and booteries throughout the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. She appeared uninterested, coldly withdrawn, and acquiesced to whatever he directed her to do. It was he who chose the dainty kid slippers and the colorful assortment of bonnets. He decided her hair was auburn, a rich, brilliant auburn, at least in the soft afternoon light. He retained a certain degree of skepticism at her seeming capitulation but allowed himself, for the moment at least, to let his nerves enjoy their first respite in over a week.
Later in the afternoon, their shopping completed, he led her, still unresisting, to his lodgings.
“This is your room, Kate.” He led her inside, felt her stiffen suddenly beside him, and watched her eyes as she stared at the large bed in the center of the room. She took a step backward, but he stopped her with his arm against her back. He chose for the moment to ignore her gesture. “Ah, here’s your maid, Anne. She’ll help you bathe and dress. If there’s anything you require, you have but to ask.”
He turned to the maid and gave her instructions in a low voice. He nodded to Kate and left her room through an adjoining door.
He stood quietly for a moment in his own room. He wasn’t displeased by the fear he had seen on her face. He knew he was a skilled lover, and he felt confident that he would make her forget her natural virgin’s fear. He had, after all, felt the quickening response of her body whenever he was close to her. His main problem would be not her fear but her pride. In all likelihood she would view pleasure at his hands as a final capitulation to his dominance over her. And that was the sticking point, he thought. He supposed he could always challenge her to a duel. He imagined that if he won, then and only then would she consider being reasonable.
Kate forced herself to turn away from the bed. She felt sweat on her forehead and rubbed her damp hands on her skirt. She watched the maid Anne bustle toward her after giving Julien a deep curtsy as he left the room. In sudden panic she started toward the door, only to realize that she wouldn’t get beyond the stairs.
With a dragging step she returned to the waiting maid, who was regarding her with some astonishment. She stood silently as the maid helped her out of her dress and into her bath.
It seemed that but a moment had passed when she heard Anne say with a good deal of enthusiasm, “How beautiful you are, my lady.”
“I’m not a lady.”
“I’m French, you know, and my English is excellent, but I understand you not at all. You will soon be a countess. Isn’t that a lady? What matters if you are not the real lady until five o’clock?”
“It doesn’t matter.” For the first time that afternoon, she focused her attention on the maid’s words and looked to see herself in the long mirror. She stared at her reflection as the maid smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the skirt of the white-satin-and-lace wedding gown. She wasn’t a vain woman. On the other hand, she’d never seen herself gowned so exquisitely, her hair fashioned with such elegant style. She had to admit that she looked quite nice, and her fear grew. Julien too would think her beautiful.
She thought of the drug he had in his possession. She now had no doubt that he would use it if she again attempted to escape from him. Tears welled up and rolled unheeded down her cheeks. She turned her back to the mirror, hating herself for the weakness, but unable to stop the damnable tears.
“Give me a handkerchief.”
Julien entered just as Kate finished dabbing the tears from her face.
He turned to the maid. “You may go now, Anne. You have done very well.”
He strode to where she stood. He saw the wadded handkerchief in her hand, wet with her tears. He smiled at her gently and held out his arm to her.
“Come, it’s time. We’re expected at five o’clock.”
As she raised her pale face to his, he said, “My love, you must trust me. I do what is best, you must believe that. Please, Kate, give me, give us, a chance.”
Her expression didn’t change, and without a word she placed her hand on his arm.
They were welcomed at the English embassy with all the deference accorded a peer of the English realm. Mr. Drummond, the English divine, was properly effusive in his compliments to the bride. He was well aware that his consequence would be enhanced by officiating at the wedding of such prominent personages. He hoped the earl would remember him in the future.
As he had been led to expect, the earl of March was indeed an elegant and charming nobleman. He seemed to radiate an aura of quiet confidence. The priest wondered, however, at the pallor and unremitting silence of the bride. She appeared withdrawn, even uninterested in the proceedings, surely a very strange reaction to such a momentous event.
As Mr. Drummond reached his final words, he gave the earl a signal, and Julien turned to Kate. “Give me your hand.”
Mr. Drummond felt growing alarm as the lady hesitated for what seemed an eternity before finally extending her hand. He watched with relief as the earl withdrew a narrow gold band from his pocket and slid the ring onto her third finger. It was a very tight fit, and it took him several moments to work it over her knuckle.
With dramatic emphasis Mr. Drummond pronounced them man and wife. Julien leaned down to kiss his bride. Her lips were cold, but she was unresisting. He wondered fleetingly if such a drug as the one he had threatened her with really existed. If it did, he couldn’t imagine that it would render her any more deadly cold than she was now.
* * *
Katharine St. Clair, the countess of March, nodded silently to the footman, gathered up the train of her wedding gown, and seated herself across the table from her husband. They were in the small sitting room that adjoined Julien’s bedchamber, waiting for the sumptuous wedding dinner Julien had ordered.
The renowned chef Monsieur André, a rather startling vision all in white, was seen to follow closely behind his creative efforts. Consigning a flunky to serve less important persons, Monsieur André served the earl and his countess himself, his voluble presence preventing any conversation between them.
She observed with a feeling of vague ill-humor that Julien seemed to be enjoying himself, his fluent French blending with that of the small, dark, mustachioed chef. She didn’t particularly find favor with the innumerable references to la belle comtesse and remained silent and aloof, her lips curled disdainfully. The two men laughed. In all probability, they were exchanging ribald jokes. No, she thought quickly, Julien would never do that. Somehow she simply knew that.
When Monsieur André finally bowed himself out of the room, an undisguised knowing look in his black eyes, Kate felt the urge to fling her delicate fillet of fish with wine sauce in his face. Damned foreigner. She should have refused to eat, but she was so very hungry.
Julien looked across the table at his wife. She looked exhausted, the shadows beneath her beautiful eyes emphasized by the white satin of her wedding gown. As he savored a bit of the light, flaky fish, he said, more to himself than to her, “It would be interesting to pit Monsieur Andre’s skill against that of François.”
“Yes, it would be a fierce competition. I would hope they’d poison each other, for they’re both French and unbearably conceited. François tried once to kill the kitchen cat at St. Clair when poor Tom stole one of his lamb chops.”
“So, you know about my temperamental chef?”
“Yes, but only through the colorful pictures painted by Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw. Mannering was most upset about Tom. Didn’t you notice that he’s missing a good inch of his tail?” She lowered her head quickly again to her plate. Surely it was a betrayal of herself even to speak to him, to feel even the slightest enjoyment in the kind of banter she’d enjoyed with him so long ago, when he’d pretended to be her friend.
“When we return to London, François can prepare the same dish and you can judge the winner. I didn’t see Tom on my last visit to St. Clair. He always was an ugly bugger, though. Perhaps missing some of that swishing arrogant tail of his improved his appearance.”
She made no answer.
He began to think of how he would approach lovemaking with her. He could not but dismiss the thought after only a moment of weighing her evident exhaustion against his ardent desire for her. Ardent, he thought. What a milquetoast word. What he felt was consuming lust. He wanted her more than he himself could begin to imagine. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to wrap her so tightly against him that they would be as one. Ah, but she was a virgin, an unwilling bride, truth be told, and he imagined that she would likely try to slit his throat if he tried to make love to her.
As if she read his thoughts, she raised her face, and he saw such apprehension in her eyes that any faltering in his determination was effectively stilled.
Once the covers were removed and a bottle of chilled champagne was set in front of Julien, he dismissed the footman.
Kate looked up as the door closed and warily met her husband’s eyes. She simply couldn’t believe she was now married to this man. It seemed as though the footman had locked the door to her prison cell. She had little knowledge of lust and desire, her experience having been confined primarily to the stilted declarations of love proffered by Squire Bleddoes. But she was certain that she read both of these on Julien’s face. Unconsciously her hand stole to her neck.
“Here is your champagne.” Julien handed her a flute. As he could think of no toast that would not in all likelihood upset her, he simply clicked his glass to hers.
She took a long, deep drink of the champagne and barely managed to restrain a sneeze from the spuming bubbles. Julien refilled her glass. She was beginning to think that champagne was not at all the nasty sort of drink she had once believed, and confirmed her new opinion by quickly downing the second glass. The third glass gave her a certain sense of warmth and light-headedness that dissolved the gnawing fear and the shaky feeling in her stomach. She grew quite warm, both inside and out. Her once-taut nerves began to loosen, and the room, indeed even Julien’s face, took on a pleasant blur.
Julien had never before seen her take more than a few sips of any drink, including the mild orgeat at Almack’s, and as he watched her finish her fourth glass, he grew concerned that she would make herself ill. He gently leaned forward and removed the glass from her fingers.
“Surely you’ve had enough. It’s time for you to retire. It’s been a long day, at least for me and my nerves.”
His nerves. She very much disliked being disturbed in her foggy haze, and he’d had the gall to say something about his bloody nerves. Then he was at her side, his hand firmly gripping her arm. He pulled her to her feet. She weaved uncer
tainly from the effects of the champagne and, to her horror, leaned heavily against his chest.
“I can see that you are in need of some assistance. I hope I’ve not married a wife who’s a tippler.” He ignored the slight flutter of protest and swung her up into his arms.
“I’m not drunk. It’s my nerves. Your nerves indeed.”
He smiled at that, as he carried her through the adjoining door to her room and sat her down on a chair. “Try not to fall off the chair,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled the bell cord.
She huddled in the chair and watched tensely as he spoke in a low voice to the maid. But a moment later she curtsied and Julien left the room.
A small voice deep within her told her that now was her chance to escape. She could render the maid unconscious and flee. But her mind seemed strangely befuddled, and the door seemed such a great distance away. But it didn’t matter. She forgot the maid, lurched to her feet, grabbed up the train of her wedding gown, and dashed to the door.
19
The damned maid yelped.
Julien was in the bedchamber in an instant, and behind her in the next, his hands firmly against the door over her head. “If you wished to take a stroll, you should have told me.” Slowly he turned her about and studied her upturned face. “No, I believe you’re too tired for a walk. I wouldn’t want the French watch to arrest you as a drunken bride and whisk you away from me. Come, my dear, let Anne put you in your nightgown. I won’t harm you, I swear it. Nor will I come to you tonight. Will you contrive to trust me in this?”
“I don’t believe you. You’re a man and you do anything you wish to do. I don’t want you near me. I—”
The Rebel Bride Page 17
