The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  She turned her head back to look at him. “I thank you, my lord, for waking me.” Her voice was dry and crackling in the silent room, like fragile autumn leaves falling from branches.

  “I’ll stay with you now, all right?” He reached out his hand and lightly touched her damp cheeks.

  She whipped her head away as if his touch repelled her or frightened her. “No! No, my lord, please. I promise you that I’m quite all right now. I’m sorry to have awakened you. Forgive me. I won’t do it again.”

  “Bloody hell, that’s quite enough.” He sounded angry to her, and she closed her eyes tightly, turning back within herself. But there was only a vast, lonely emptiness there. She heard him rise from her bed. She could feel him looking down at her as he stood beside her. Dear God, what was he thinking? Would he go back to Lady Sarah? What would he do?

  “Good night. You know very well you have but to call if you have need of me.”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, and so she lay in stiff silence until she heard his retreating footsteps. She opened her eyes, and unbidden tears welled up and rolled silently down her cheeks. She tried yet again to piece together the nightmare, but as always, it escaped her, drifting in vague shadows back into unknown depths of her mind, waiting there; she felt it would never be gone from her. She took an edge of the covers and wiped the tears from her face.

  Sleep didn’t again come to her, and she pushed back the covers. She eased her feet into her slippers and padded to the windows. She curled up in the window seat, her face pressed against the blue-brocade curtains.

  It was some hours later that Eliza found her, huddled and shivering, asleep in the embrasure.

  32

  “Dammit, Julien, you’re a fool, and if you weren’t my friend—and a better shot—I’d bloody well call you out.”

  Hugh looked just as angry, only his anger was cold and still. He said finally, “I’d be his second—if he were a better shot.”

  The three men stood outside White’s, their overcoats buttoned high to their collars to keep out the blistering winter wind.

  “You must have known that Constance Haverstoke would take the first opportunity to fill Kate’s ears with Sarah. And you, damn your hide, you had to parade her in front of everyone onto the dance floor!” As a gust of wind threatened to whip Percy’s beaver hat from his carefully pomaded locks, he momentarily shut his mouth.

  “It’s quite true, Julien,” Hugh said. “Kate’s so young, you should have realized that she would find out and what she would feel.”

  “Kate assured me that she quite understood my motives.” But he knew it was a lie, he bloody well knew he’d hurt her badly, but he hadn’t meant to.

  “Besides being young, she is quite proud.”

  Julien threw up his gloved hands. “All right, that’s enough from both of you.” He raised haughty brows and added sarcastically, “You’re acting as if Kate were your sister. I was on the point of telling you both, before Blairstock here ranted at me like a madman, that I intend to leave London with Kate on Friday. We go to St. Clair. Does that satisfy your chivalrous meddling?”

  “And Sarah?” Percy said, his eyes dark, for once undaunted by Julien’s show of sangfroid.

  “Neither of you has further need to trouble yourselves about that lady.”

  “Ah, so you came to an understanding with her when you took her outside to the balcony, is that what you’re telling us?”

  Julien jerked his head around. “It appears that my actions are quite common knowledge.”

  “Lord, Julien. You may be a fool, but Kate isn’t. As I told you last night, Lady Constance gave her an earful. And enjoyed every minute of it, the old besom.”

  Julien’s anger died as he pictured Kate in the dim morning light, silent and withdrawn from him. He raised weary eyes to his friend and said quietly, “The matter is settled. Do not, I pray, call me out, Percy,” he added with a glimmer of a smile. “Now, I suggest, if you gentlemen are quite through telling me what a fool I am, let’s go inside and have a glass of sherry.”

  It was strange, Hugh thought, as they were divested of their greatcoats in the cloakroom of White’s, how very serious life had become since Julien had got himself wed. And to see Percy so impassioned over something that didn’t involve his personal pleasures made him wonder uneasily if he knew more of the situation than he had disclosed earlier that morning when he unceremoniously burst in, most effectively dampening Hugh’s appetite for his breakfast. He gazed from beneath hooded lids at Julien and noted the tense lines about his mouth and eyes. No, he decided, finally, Julien was too closemouthed and, like Kate, too proud to unburden himself to anyone.

  They drank their sherry in silence, each feeling acutely strained in the others’ company. Hugh thought the sherry tasteless.

  “It’s like you could cut the air with a blade,” George said behind his immaculate white-gloved hand to Mackles, a young footman who had just received a blistering set-down from a usually polite, calm master.

  “It ain’t so much ’is lordship,” Mackles said after ruminating over George’s comment for several moments. “It’s ’er ladyship. Like a ghost she’s been, so pale and quiet-like, if you know what I mean.” He glanced sideways toward the breakfast room, thankful that the door was firmly closed.

  George knew very well what the footman meant, but he was suddenly aware that such a conversation, even though it be with a superior servant, was unseemly. “Well, just never you mind about all that, my boy,” he said formally, bending a stern eye on the hapless Mackles. “You just help Eliza with her ladyship’s trunks. His lordship and ladyship should be finishing their breakfast shortly and will wish to leave.”

  On the other side of the breakfast-parlor door, Julien was sitting across from his silent wife. “Do at least try some of your eggs, my dear. It will be a long time before luncheon.”

  She nodded, her head down. She didn’t feel at all well this morning, and the thought of the eggs made her stomach churn. But as she didn’t want him to know, she raised a morsel to her mouth, chewed with her eyes closed, and forced herself to swallow.

  “Your gown is very smart. Madame Giselle?”

  Kate nodded, thinking privately that the dove-gray dress emphasized her pallor and the dark shadows under her eyes. She looked dowdy and sallow. She’d pulled the gown from her wardrobe to the sound of Eliza’s disapproving clucking.

  “How long do you intend to remain at St. Clair, my lord?” She asked, seeing her husband frown at her nearly full breakfast plate.

  “If it pleases you, at least until the new year. You do have a say in the matter, you know.”

  She knew the look she shot him was disbelieving, but she only nodded. She could remember no occasion when any opinion of hers had affected his decisions. Indeed, she had learned but two days before that they would be leaving for St. Clair.

  Not many minutes later, the earl and countess of March said hasty good-byes to the assembled servants in the marble entrance way.

  “Have a safe journey, my lord, my lady,” George said in his superior butler’s voice as he opened the front doors.

  “I’ll keep you informed as to the date of our return, George,” Julien said.

  Kate looked with something akin to dread at the open carriage door. “Maintain a smart pace, Davie,” she heard Julien say to their coachman, “We’ll stop at the inn in Bramford for luncheon.”

  “Yes, my lord,” David said, giving the earl a smart salute. He shot a smug smile at the gimlet-eyed Bladen, who was not to accompany the earl on this trip.

  Julien assisted Kate into the carriage and handed her two fur rugs to wrap about her legs. Then he swung in and after settling himself comfortably, tapped the roof with his cane. He briefly looked out the carriage window to ensure that the other carriage, containing Eliza and Timmens, was also in motion.

  Satisfied, he sat back and stretched his long legs diagonally across from him. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes, my lord M
arch,” she answered, not turning her head to face him.

  “So formal, sweetheart? Shall I call you ‘my lady March’?”

  She watched Grosvenor Square disappear behind them before saying with a forced smile, “If it suits your fancy. With all those servants at your command, it seems more natural for you to be a Lord March, and not a simple Julien.”

  “They’re also your servants,” he said, steadily regarding her.

  “Very well. As you will, Julien.”

  Not a very auspicious beginning, he thought glumly, watching his wife from the corner of his eyes.

  As the carriage rumbled through Hounslow Heath, Julien said, “It looks quite barren, does it not?” He directed her attention to the forlorn leafless trees set against a gray, fog-laden landscape. “Our most famous highwaymen have frequented this place, and still do, for that matter. I myself was stopped here some years ago.”

  “You were robbed?” she asked incredulously.

  “Well, not precisely. I had to send the Bow Street runners for two of them, and the other fellow managed to escape with a bullet in his arm.” He chuckled. “You should have seen Davie. Foolishly brave he was, waving his blunderbuss about and screaming curses at the villains.”

  “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “Oh, no. Merely late for Lady Otterly’s drum.” He didn’t add that the lady who was accompanying him flew into the most damnable hysterics.

  “It must have been quite exciting,” she said, her voice wistful. “I’ve never met a highwayman.”

  “They’re a most unsavory lot. Not at all dashing or romantic, as the stories puff them up to be.”

  She shivered.

  He leaned forward and tucked the rugs more securely about her. “Are you cold?”

  She drew back. “No, no, I was merely thinking of Harry, and hoping he’s unharmed.”

  The carriage lurched over an uneven stretch of road and Kate gritted her teeth against a wave of nausea. Even as she closed her eyes tightly and prayed that she wouldn’t be ill, she was forced to say in a strangled voice, “Julien, please stop the carriage. Oh dear, I’m going to be sick.”

  He took one look at her strained, pale face and drove the head of his cane hard against the roof of the carriage. The carriage pulled to a halt, and Julien threw open the door and jumped to the ground.

  “Give me your hand, quickly now.”

  She stumbled toward him, her handkerchief pressed hard against her mouth. He took a firm grip on her arms and swung her to the road beside him. She leaned heavily against him, the world spinning unpleasantly about her. He let her slip to her knees at the side of the road and held her shoulders as she retched violently. He silently cursed himself for forcing her to eat what little breakfast she’d had. The retching eventually subsided into dry-heaving spasms that shook her whole body. Julien ruthlessly pulled off her fashionable bonnet so she could rest her head on his thigh, and drew his greatcoat around her to protect her from the blowing west wind.

  “My lord,” Davie said quietly, “perhaps her ladyship would feel a mite better with some of my medicinal brandy.”

  “Thank you, Davie, the very thing.” Julien took the flask from his coachman, wet his handkerchief, and gently wiped her mouth. “Come, sweetheart. This will make you feel much better.” His calmness steadied her, and though she was now consumed with embarrassment, she slowly raised her head and allowed Julien to put the flask to her mouth. She took a long draft and felt the fiery liquid burn its way down her throat. Her stomach churned anew at the unwelcome intrusion, but to her profound relief, it quieted after a moment.

  She felt too weak to struggle when her husband lifted her into his arms. Nor did she protest when, once inside the carriage, he held her firmly on his lap, her head resting against his chest.

  “My lord, is her ladyship well enough to continue now?” Davie poked a concerned face through the carriage door.

  Julien took quick mental stock. “How far are we from Carresford?”

  “But a mile or so, my lord.”

  “Good. There’s an inn there, The White Goose. I think the countess should rest there before we think of continuing. Drive slowly, Davie,” he added, tightening his hold about her shoulders.

  Kate burrowed her face against Julien’s chest. Between bouts of the wretched dizziness, she felt there could be no greater shame than being vilely ill in front of someone else.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

  “It’s just a touch of something, I think. Nothing to worry about, truly.”

  He felt inordinately guilty that he hadn’t guessed that her unnatural silence and pallor reflected more than her unhappiness. He frowned above her head, wondering why the devil Eliza hadn’t told him.

  “If you had only told me, we could have delayed our trip to St. Clair.”

  “Oh, no. That is, I didn’t want to stay in London.” He felt her tense.

  “Hush, sweetheart, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter.” He let his chin rest on her hair. “If you’re not feeling better this afternoon, I’ll send Davie back to London for a physician.”

  “Please don’t, Julien. I shall be fine, you’ll see. I don’t want to cause you any more inconvenience.”

  “It’s not an inconvenience to want my wife to be in good health, dammit.”

  She sighed and was silent.

  33

  The White Goose was a staunch red-brick inn nestled amid elm trees across from the village green. The landlady, unused to Quality visiting her humble establishment, quickly wiped her large hands on her apron and bustled forward, waving imperiously at two of her sons as she did so.

  “Be quick about it, Will. Open the carriage door.” A large, ambling boy of about seventeen years hurried forward.

  Not without some difficulty, Julien alighted with Kate in his arms. “Davie, stable the horses and keep your eyes sharp for the other carriage.”

  “Right this way, my lord.” Mrs. Micklesfield hurried to stand beside the open doorway for Julien to enter. He had to duck his head, for the smoke-blackened beams were perilously low.

  “I require a bedchamber for my wife,” he said, looking about him at the dim but cozily warm taproom. He hoped there would be no bugs in the mattress.

  For a large woman, Mrs. Micklesfield moved with amazing speed up the worn wooden staircase. She opened the door at the top of the stairs to a small but sparkling-clean bedchamber containing only a large old-fashioned tester bed and an ancient oak armoire.

  Kate didn’t particularly want Julien to put her down. She met his eyes as he laid her on the bed. She was a good deal surprised to see a frown of worry furrow his brow, for, in truth, she’d rather expected some sign of impatience at having his trip so disrupted. He leaned over her and plumped the pillow beneath her head. “Now, my dear, Mrs.—?”

  “Mrs. Micklesfield, my lord.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Micklesfield will undress you and tuck you up. I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re doing.”

  “As you will, Julien. But you will see, I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  “Stubborn Kate,” he said, squeezing her hand, and walked from the room.

  Soon Kate lay snug beneath a soft down quilt.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Micklesfield. That is indeed much better.”

  “I should think so, my lady. Now, you just rest and I’ll fetch you some food and a warm chicken broth. It’s just the thing to make you feel right as a trivet.”

  Kate felt dubious about the food, but she was too weary to quibble. She closed her eyes and concentrated on righting her disgruntled stomach.

  Julien stepped out of the taproom a few minutes later to see Mrs. Micklesfield preparing to mount the stairs with a tray of covered dishes in her arms.

  “Ah, my lord, quite knocked up, her ladyship is, but I’ve just the thing to make her feel better.” She beamed at him in what Julien thought to be an uncommonly motherly fashion.

  “But food, Mrs. Micklesfield? Surely—she w
as quite ill but a short time ago.”

  “But of course, my lord. A lady in her condition must keep up her strength. All that racketing about in a carriage unnerved her. It is to be expected. Just a bit of food and she’ll feel better.”

  “A lady in her what?”

  “If I may be so bold as to wish your lordship my congratulations.” Her leathery face softened. “But truly, my lord, as your wife is breeding, you really mustn’t rush her higgledy-piggledy about the countryside, if you will allow me to say so.”

  It took a moment for her words to penetrate Julien’s befuddled mind. Kate pregnant? He felt as if he had just stepped into some bizarre play in which he was the main character and Mrs. Micklesfield his audience, and he had no idea of the lines he should speak.

  As all the tortuous implications of this bizarre situation flashed before his eyes, he found that he was leaning heavily against the door, his eyes fixed dazedly on Mrs. Micklesfield. There can be no greater irony, he thought. My wife pregnant by a wild German lord, who is I. Yet in the same moment he felt a certain sense of masculine pride. He remembered his blithely spoken words to his Aunt Mary Tolford. He’d promised her an heir within a year. It was his audience of one who forced him back to the complexities of reality.

  “Shall I take the tray up to her ladyship, my lord?”

  “No, Mrs. Micklesfield, I’ll take it up.” It occurred to him that Kate might not know she was pregnant. “Mrs. Micklesfield,” he said very slowly, choosing his words carefully, “you didn’t mention her ladyship’s condition to her, did you?”

  “Why, no, my lord, I assumed—”

  “Excellent. I pray that you will not. You see, the countess isn’t quite used to the idea as of yet, and her illness, it’s upsetting to her and I wouldn’t want to see her disturbed any more today.”

  Mrs. Micklesfield nodded slowly. As the earl mounted the stairs, she shook her head, puzzled. Breeding was breeding, after all. Natural it was, she thought, remembering how her own five children had slipped so easily into the world. The Quality were peculiar, she concluded, and turned toward her kitchen, where a freshly plucked chicken awaited her ministrations.