by Lily Reynard
"I have no objections, Kit," she assured him. "But I must advise you to leave London for at least a fortnight, until talk of the duel dies down. His Majesty generally ignores the ban on dueling if no one is killed, but still, it would be best not to be seen for a while."
Kit nodded, but his fingers tightened on her shoulders. "I hate to leave you unprotected, my lady, but you're right. And in any case, I have concluded my lord Thornsby's business, and must return his horse to his estate. And fetch my daughter."
"I will miss you," she said, suddenly compelled to study the hem of her gown.
"And I you," he said. "My beautiful Antonia." He captured her chin. "Don't move," he whispered.
She couldn't have moved even if she had wanted to.
Her pulse began to pound as he stroked her lower lip with his callused thumb. She leaned towards him, wanting more, and he bent to kiss her, a slow tender exploration.
His fingertips grazed the line of her jaw, moving across the sensitive skin of her neck, and then went lower. Her breath caught as he traced delicious patterns over her collarbones and the base of her throat, and then, boldly, followed the edge of her bodice across the tops of her breasts.
His mouth followed the path his fingers had taken, until she was clutching him shamelessly, her fingers digging into his arms, her entire body aching for more.
She was dizzy with sensation when he finally drew back.
He looked as dazed as she, and they stood close for a long while, their hands clasped.
Finally, she said, "Will you come with me to see how the earl fares?"
Kit inclined his head. "He acquitted himself bravely this morning."
"When...when will you go?" She hated to ask, hated the thought of spending days, weeks without seeing him, without hearing his voice, or touching him.
Kit looked no happier than she at the prospect. "I'll depart at dawn. Do you think a fortnight will be long enough?"
She nodded, gathering her skirts in her hands, already counting down the precious hours that remained before he left.
An invitation to share her bed tonight rose in her throat, but she found she couldn't speak the words.
Good women don't fornicate, she told herself. But that wasn't the only reason she hesitated.
She was afraid. Afraid of losing her dignity, her reputation, and even herself in the temptation he offered.
Chapter Fifteen
I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,
Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal
What law does vouch mine own.
—Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well, Act II, Scene v
Without his wry humor and warm admiration to leaven the round of her duties, the days following Kit's departure proved tedious for Antonia despite the whirl of gossip and gambling at Court, and the various small crises of estate-management at home.
More than once, she found herself in the Queen's Presence Chamber, composing a clever observation about this nobleman or that scandal, only to realize that Kit would not be waiting for her at the Whitehall boat stairs that afternoon.
It was unseemly—and humbling—to realize how much she missed him. She waited daily for word of his return, even as she tried to avoid thinking about the decisions she would have to make once he was under her roof again.
As she had expected, the duel occupied most of the conversations at Court for the next two or three days. Antonia swallowed her embarrassment, and met all questions with a shrug and a small smile.
To her relief, neither the king nor the queen deigned to acknowledge the duel, and no further action seemed imminent.
Young Lord Chelmsford seemed quite cheerful about the boost to his reputation, and called upon her three days after the fight, armed with a book of poetry and a pair of rose-scented gloves.
They took tea, and chatted pleasantly, and Antonia's lingering displeasure began to melt under his eager charm as they spoke of horses, tennis, and the war against the Dutch.
Then, to her relief, the courtiers' attention turned to other scandals, and talk of the duel faded away like last season's playbill.
* * *
Julian called upon Lady Cranbourne a week after the duel, bearing an armful of roses and what he hoped was a deeply sympathetic mien.
She received him as courteously as always, but without her usual flutter of abashed attraction.
With a sinking heart, he noted that even a lingering kiss pressed to her hand evoked none of that shyly expressed interest she had previously shown him.
Was her sudden coolness the result of his having fought as Chelmsford's second?
He offered his apologies for wounding the earl, and bolstered by her gracious assurances that her nephew was healing rapidly and the matter was best forgotten, he lingered until she invited him to stay for supper.
But despite his determined charm and store of witticisms over the courses of oyster stew, eel pie, and a venison pasty spiced with pepper, she ate little, spun her wineglass restlessly between her fingers, and seemed distracted.
Only a chance question about Kit Fitzgeorge's whereabouts roused a spark of real interest in her.
Julian had expected to hear that Kit had left London in the wake of the duel, but his blood froze when he heard that Kit had returned to Thornsby Hall to fetch his daughter.
Did Kit decided to renege on our deal? And what will my creditors do if they hear that my marriage plans have suffered a setback?
Julian could not afford even the slightest whiff of doubt, or the whole delicate structure of hints and rumors he had fostered among them would dissipate like smoke.
But why would Kit betray him? Julian cast his mind back to the night of Cranbourne's ball, and wondered whether the stub-faced Dowager Countess was actually bedding Kit.
He tried to dismiss the notion as ridiculous. Not only was Lady Cranbourne a staunch Puritan, with the requisite ice water running through her veins, but it was inconceivable that she would reject a titled peer in favor of a common swordsman!
But still, the notion took root and refused to wither.
He would have the truth soon enough. If Kit refused to tell him, well, it was impossible to keep secrets in a household the size of Cranbourne House, especially with a little silver to loosen the servants' tongues.
* * *
"Papa!"
As Kit rode between the weathered stone pillars marking the entrance to Thornsby Hall, a small figure in the strawberry patch dropped her basket and waved frantically. "Papa! Papa!"
Kit slid down from his horse, each hoofbeat of the journey from London imprinted on his weary muscles.
Like new skin stretched too tightly over a wound, he felt every mile separating him from Antonia.
Some of his heartache dissipated as he saw his daughter. God, how he had missed her!
Margaret came running towards him, her long white apron and loose smock fluttering. She looked healthy and bright-eyed, already freckled from the sun, her mouth smeared with sticky red fruit.
He gave his daughter a hearty kiss, and swung her up in an embrace. "Margaret! I missed you, sweetheart!"
"I missed you, too, Papa," she said, burying her face in his neck. "I've been picking strawberries."
"I saw that," Kit said, his arms tightening around her. He kissed the top of her head. "Are you well? Are they treating you kindly?"
"Oh, yes," she assured him, wriggling out of his arms. "Sarah taught me how to card wool, and I pull lots of weeds in the herb garden, and I get to pick strawberries. Cook says she's going to make strawberry trifle for dessert."
Margaret raised her half-filled basket to show him her harvest.
"I like strawberry trifle," Kit replied, smoothing her hair where it hung below her cap.
"Me, too! Papa, you're not going away again, are you?"
Kit took her hand. "I've come to take you back with me to London, little mouse. Now, go fill the rest of your basket while
I speak with Mrs. Jones and fetch your things."
Once back in the city, he would have to confront Julian and tell him that their bargain was canceled.
Best to get the unpleasantness over with as soon as possible, Kit thought, with a chill of apprehension.
* * *
Three Days Later
"So, you've returned at last." Julian drawled, trying not to betray his excitement as Kit entered his apartments at Whitehall Palace. "And I hear you've been back to Thornsby Hall. I trust you had a pleasant stay?"
Julian had managed to keep his creditors at bay for the past few weeks with hints of an impending match, but they were beginning to press him again. He urgently needed the wealth that Lady Cranbourne would bring to their marriage.
Once wedded and bedded, he would exile her to one of his houses in Kent, where she could pray and preach to her heart's content. If she bore him healthy sons into the bargain, so much the better.
Kit strode into the paneled chamber and gave a curt bow. Gone was the ragged, half-starved scarecrow who had arrived on his doorstep scarcely six weeks ago.
Why, his brother—half-brother, Julian corrected himself—looked confident and downright prosperous.
And grim.
Kit's firm mouth was set in a straight line, his blue eyes, so like Father's, were steely. "My lord, we must talk."
"Indeed, I was thinking the same thing," snapped Julian. "Time's a-wasting, Kit. Lady Cranbourne must trust you by now, especially with the gallant duel you fought on her behalf. Just when do you intend to use that trust to abduct her?"
"Never. I changed my mind," Kit said bluntly.
Julian felt as if he were abruptly falling into empty air. "You—you—" he sputtered. "Changed your mind?"
Kit nodded, warily, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
"You whoreson, you've ruined me!" growled Julian, lashing out with his fist.
Kit deftly dodged the blow and caught Julian's wrist, immobilizing it. His expression went from determined to coldly angry. "You insult my mother's memory, Julian."
As if Julian gave a fig about Kit's lightskirt mother!
"You will address me as 'Lord Thornsby'!" He freed his arm and glared at Kit, imagining how it would feel to slice his insolent face to bloody ribbons. "You took my money and now you're intent on ruining me!"
"I'm no thief," Kit said, icily.
Kit dug in his belt-pouch and produced four gold guineas and several smaller silver coins. He thrust them at Julian, who took them with fingers stiffened by shock.
Kit said with great formality. "My lord, here is the entire sum you advanced me. Your horse has been returned to your stables at Thornsby Hall. I apologize that I cannot complete your commission."
"But why, Kit?"
How can my miserable bastard brother fail me now, when everything depends on securing a match with Lady Cranbourne?
Instead of answering Julian's question, Kit said, "I thank you for your good care of my daughter, and will reimburse her food and clothing, if you like."
"And where have you suddenly acquired all this money?" Julian sneered. "You hadn't a farthing to your name when last we met."
Kit raised his chin. "I came by it honestly, my lord. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
"No!" Julian snapped. "You'll not leave this room until you tell me why."
Kit considered for a long moment. "The countess is a gallant and virtuous lady. I had every intention of abducting her for you, my lord, but then, as I spent time in her service, I..." He shrugged. "I could not bring myself to do it."
Suspicion began to gnaw at Julian's vitals, as sharp as a draught of finely-ground glass.
He remembered how animated Lady Cranbourne had become when he inquired after Kit, and there was something about Kit's expression now...
From their shared boyhood, Julian remembered how Kit had always sought to conceal deep emotion behind a mask. The glass in his belly turned to knife-edged shards. "You want to marry her yourself! And thus you betray me!"
"Don't be a fool, my lord," Kit snapped. "Do you really think a countess would marry a penniless soldier-of-fortune?"
"But you don't deny you've conceived a passion for her?" Julian pressed.
"And now I shall take my leave of you, my lord," Kit said.
He took a step backwards.
"Admit it!" Julian said, furiously. "Admit that you want to steal my prize! Willing to ruin your own flesh and blood!"
"My lord Thornsby," Kit said. "If you so desperately require a rich wife, why not do your own wooing? There are many citizens who would happily trade their well-dowered daughters for your title."
"I need no counsel from you in regards to polluting a noble line with common stock!" Julian fought the urge to close his hands around Kit's throat and squeeze until Kit turned the color of ripe plums. "Get out!"
"Very well." Kit gave a bow that was scarcely more than a nod, then turned sharply on his heel.
A short while later, as Julian sat slumped in his chair, staring out his window at the large paved courtyard outside, he saw Kit striding toward the nearest archway.
In a few moments he had vanished, and Julian was left alone with his thoughts.
Why would Kit choose service in the countess's household over the rich reward I offered him?
What did that woman promise him? What has she already given him?
Julian growled. It grated on him that he might be getting his half-brother's leavings...
Once Lady Cranbourne was in his power, he'd discover the truth quickly enough. If his suspicions proved true, he'd punish her for daring to favor a penniless bastard over a peer of the realm.
As he sat, lurid images of Kit and Lady Cranbourne playing in his thoughts, a plan began to form.
He'd have the countess to wife before the end of summer.
And he knew exactly how to win her while extracting revenge for the blow Kit had dealt him.
Chapter Sixteen
A good reputation is more valuable than money.
—Publius Syrus (42 B.C.)
Antonia had been home from Court scarcely an hour when a footman came upstairs to announce that Mr. Fitzgeorge and his daughter had arrived.
Mall gave Antonia a disapproving glance as Antonia sprang to her feet and her embroidery slipped off her lap in a tangle of threads.
"Oh Mall," Antonia said, breathlessly. "I must put on some powder! And what shall I wear?" She peered anxiously into her limewood mirror. "My hair has come loose from its pins."
"Milady," Mall said, exasperated. "I will re-pin your hair, but for goodness sakes, don't put on one of your Court gowns in order to receive Mr. Fitzgeorge and his brat!"
Antonia froze, then sank down on a padded stool. "I suppose there's already enough gossip about me."
"No, milady," Mall said, picking up a comb. She began to repair Antonia's coiffure. "But I know you better than anyone else, I reckon, and I've seen how it's been since he left."
Antonia had no reply to this.
After a moment, Mall said, "Do you know why my mother let Jemmy follow me into service here? And why you don't lose many servants, nor have many problems with them?"
Startled by the apparent non-sequitur, Antonia shook her head. "No, I just assumed—my late husband always paid well, and so do I."
"Well, that helps," Mall said dryly. "There's plenty who look to themselves first, and wear velvet while their valets starve. But that's not why."
"Why then?"
Mall picked up a ribbon and began to gather up the mass of Antonia's hair.
"Because many folks, especially here in the city, talk of running a sober and godly household, but very few really do. Milady, those in your service stay because you expect only the best behavior, and because you live that way, too. The maidservants never worry about suffering impertinence from the men, and the footmen are proud to wear your livery."
"But—" Antonia began to protest, embarrassed.
"It's true, milady. Who
else would have given me leave from my duties to tend to Jemmy? And you paid me for those days."
"Jemmy was trying to protect me," Antonia said. "It seemed only fair."
Mall nodded, her hands still busy with the ribbon. "Most of the Quality wouldn't have seen it that way, though. I know I'm speaking out of turn, but I've been worried. Mr. Fitzgeorge may be gallant and brave, but he's still only your servant."
"So, you think I'll make myself the laughingstock of London—the countess and her fencing master?" Antonia asked bitterly.
Mall tucked in the last strand of Antonia's hair, and took the liberty of giving her mistress's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Of course not, milady. You're wiser than that. Just...be careful."
* * *
When Antonia entered the parlor, she saw a little girl sitting on Kit's lap and staring with obvious fascination at Sweetheart on his perch.
And there was Kit, tanned and graceful as a leopard
in travel-grimed linen and dusty breeches. His smile filled her heart like sweet, cool water rushing down the throat of a parched traveler. How she had missed him!
Rising to his feet, Kit swung his daughter up and around with a flourish before settling her on her feet and bowing. Antonia offered her hand, and he took it, his callused fingers gripping hers more tightly than etiquette dictated, his lips warm against her skin.
"My lady." He made the formality a verbal caress, wordlessly asking, Are you well?
Now, I am. Welcome home, she replied silently, though an observer would not have seen more than a slight inclination of her head.
The sheer delight of his presence was heady and burning, like aqua vitae. All she could think about was kissing him again.
The memory of Mall's words sobered her in the midst of her happiness. Was she destined to be a scandal?
"May I introduce my daughter Margaret, my lady?" he asked.
"Hello," the little girl said, without shifting her gaze from Sweetheart.
Kit placed a hand on Margaret's head. "Make your curtsey to the countess, sweetheart."
