The Lady Who Broke the Rules

by Marguerite Kaye

  There! She had said it. Kate forced herself to turn from the window, but Virgil’s expression was quite unreadable. ‘I’ve shocked you,’ she said, seeking a reaction, but Virgil was not to be drawn.

  ‘Are you saying that this became public knowledge? That’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how? You would surely not have—do you mean he made it public knowledge?’

  She could have no doubt of his feelings now. Virgil looked utterly astounded. ‘He denied it, but it could only have come from him. When I broke off the betrothal he was furious, you see. Anthony has almost as high an opinion of himself as my father.’

  ‘But what of your father? He is the Duke of Rothermere. Surely if he denied— You’re his daughter, for God’s sake. Didn’t he stand by you?’

  Kate laughed, a bitter little sound, and threw herself down on an adjacent sofa. ‘My father wanted me to marry Anthony. When the whispers started he could easily have quashed them, but he chose not to, thinking that I would choose marriage over infamy.’

  ‘And your aunt?’

  It had taken until today for her to realise just how much hurt her aunt’s failure to take her side had inflicted. Kate swallowed hard, and dashed a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said, lacing her fingers tightly together in an effort to regain control. She hated to cry.

  ‘She took your father’s view,’ Virgil said flatly.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was tear-filled, but when Virgil looked as if he would comfort her, she shook her head. If he touched her— She could not risk tears. They had been so long pent-up, she was afraid she would not be able to stop them, and besides the fact that she did not wish Virgil to see her as a watering pot, she was horribly conscious of the fact that they could be interrupted at any moment.

  ‘Kate, why did you break it off? You said you discovered you did not suit, but if things between you had become so intimate—you must at one point have believed you were in love?’

  ‘Not in love, I told you it was an alliance. Compatible, I suppose is what I thought. I don’t know what I thought, really. I was nineteen. I was curious. With hindsight, I think I was never sure that Anthony and I would suit, but at the time…’ Kate sighed and rubbed her eyes. ‘At the time, I believed that anticipating our vows would bring us closer together. I wanted affection from my husband, Virgil. I wanted him to care for me. He said he did. He said that it would be proof that he did, if I allowed him. But he didn’t force me, not at first. I was stupid. Misguided. And I wanted to please. Anthony. My father. My aunt. I know you will think me weak-willed, I think it so myself now, but at the time…’

  ‘At the time you were nineteen years old! What does anyone know of caution at that age?’ Virgil exclaimed.

  His angry tone grabbed her attention. ‘You sound as if you speak from experience,’ Kate said.

  ‘I was nineteen when I spearheaded the rebellion which led to my being sold. I remember what it was like to be so sure of yourself that you can’t see past your certainties. If someone had cautioned me…’

  His eyes glazed as his voice faded. He was obviously lost in the past. Kate waited nervously. It was the first time he had confided in her without prompting, the first hint he had given her of the darkness which was his past. His expression hardened, then he blinked, and she could almost see him packing up whatever images he had conjured back into the boxes where he stored them. ‘You said he did not force you at first,’ he said, and she knew the moment was lost. ‘What did you mean, Kate?’

  She cleared her throat. Better to get it over with. ‘He never forced me, not physically, but I did not enjoy our encounters as he seemed to, and when I tried to refuse him he told me I had surrendered the right to do so by consenting and that if I didn’t want him to stray before we had even said our vows that I must…’

  She resumed the pleating of her sash and spoke hurriedly, determined to get her confession out of the way, though with every word she felt herself diminishing, not just in Virgil’s eyes but her own. ‘It was that, you see. His threats. I realised then what being married to him would mean. If he could coerce me into this, what else would he wish from me? It is such a one-sided bargain, marriage. I would not have the right to gainsay him and I could not trust him.’

  ‘He blackmailed you.’

  The anger in Virgil’s voice gave Kate courage. His anger made his skin seem stretched too tight across his face, emphasising the beauty of his bone structure, the strong jaw, the slanting lines of his cheeks. His eyes were dark, fierce. He looked like a warrior, a predator, frighteningly powerful, terrifyingly, fatally attractive. And he understood. At last, someone did understand. ‘Yes,’ Kate said gratefully.

  ‘And your aunt—did you tell her the truth?’ Virgil said grimly.

  She dug her nails into her palms. ‘I did.’ Her voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘Aunt Wilhelmina said that duty was not always pleasant.’

  ‘She advised you to marry a man who was forcing himself on you?’ Virgil swore viciously under his breath. ‘It must have taken a hell of a lot of guts to break it off.’

  ‘All the guts I had,’ Kate said with a shaky laugh. ‘But I did it, and—well, you know the consequences. Anthony put it about that I was unwomanly. He implied that the decision to call off the wedding was his, but that he had allowed it to appear to be mine because he was a gentleman. Until I met you I believed him. That’s what frightened me this morning, and that’s what made me angry, Virgil. And somehow, when I got angry it was like a release. I realised I was furious with my aunt, and so when the subject turned back on the whole affair this afternoon, I lost my temper and—and that’s what we quarrelled about.’

  She slumped back against the embroidered blue silk of the settee. She felt no sense of relief, only as if all the air had been let out of her. Deflated, that was the word. And tired. ‘I thought I was done with it, and today made me realise that all I’ve been doing is burying it. I’ve been pretending it didn’t matter when it does. My aunt is the nearest thing I have to a mother. Knowing I was right doesn’t stop it hurting. And I behaved so stupidly. It is all very well to say I was just nineteen, but I can’t run away from the fact that I was responsible. I wish I had not—but there is no point in wishing. No matter how hard I try, I can never be the person my family think I ought to be.’ She paused. ‘I wish you would say something, Virgil.’

  He smiled at that. ‘I like the person you are, though I doubt that’s any consolation,’ he said, getting up from his sofa and sitting beside her, putting his arm around her and pulling her against the comforting shelter of his shoulder. ‘Before you say it, I don’t give a damn if Lumsden walks in.’

  His fingers stroked the exposed flesh between the puffed sleeve of her evening gown and the top of her kid gloves. The superfine of his coat was rough against her cheek. Kate let herself relax against him, closing her eyes, relishing his strength, his solidness, the smell of wool and linen and soap and deliciously musky man.

  ‘It’s been eleven years.’

  He spoke so quietly that she thought at first she had misheard. ‘What has?’

  ‘You asked how long it’s been since I made love. Eleven years, that’s how long.’

  Kate sat up. Virgil’s eyes were dark, bleak. Her heart contracted. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I lost someone.’

  ‘Oh, Virgil, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No. I don’t want your pity. I just wanted you to know. This morning, you weren’t the only one to worry about it being too much. I don’t mean it was the same. It could never be the same. But I guess we both underestimated the strength of our attraction. I guess that was it.’

  It could never be the same. That hurt, but did it also make sense of how she felt? ‘Do you mean—is it possible to be so attracted without it meaning anything?’

  Virgil’s brow cleared. He smiled down at her, his mouth curling sensuously in a way that made her belly clench. He touched the skin below her ear, and she felt the pulse flutter under hi
s fingers. Her breathing quickened. ‘I think we’ve already proved that, don’t you?’

  ‘I thought it was different for women. One of the things which has always seemed to me most unfair is the way the world takes it for granted that men indulge their appetites. I assumed it was so because women are different.’

  ‘It’s not different. Didn’t you ever—with that man?’

  ‘Never.’

  As Kate felt the flush creeping over her cheeks, Virgil’s smile became positively devilish. ‘It would be different with me. You can trust me.’

  She was tempted, but it was too much. Kate jerked herself free and got to her feet. ‘Can I? I don’t think I’m the trusting type. And besides, you’re leaving soon. I shan’t see you again.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’

  ‘I don’t know what the point is. This morning you were as happy to call a halt as I. Tonight you seem to have changed your mind. I don’t know whether I am on my head or heels.’

  She made for the door, but Virgil grabbed her before she could open it. ‘You’re not the only one who’s confused. You’re not the only one with scars. Remember that.’

  He flung open the drawing room door and strode out into the marble hall, startling Lumsden, who had been dozing in a chair. As the butler stumbled to his feet, Virgil made for the staircase which led downstairs, obviously intent on escape. Exhaustion hit Kate. She wanted nothing more than the comfort of her bed.

  * * *

  Despite having walked for over an hour round the grounds, Virgil was wide awake. He paced his room, then tossed restlessly in bed, going over the day’s events. He had to admire Kate for her courage in confronting all that had happened head-on. It went against the grain with her to confide, he could see that, but that hadn’t stopped her dealing with some very painful facts. She had real guts. And she was loaded down with guilt. That, too, he recognised.

  How he’d like to get his hands on Lord Anthony Featherstone. The bastard deserved a hiding for what he’d done to Kate. And as to her family. That father of hers, who spent all his time these days hiding in his room and nursing his wounds instead of facing up to reality. And her aunt—she was the worst. She at least should have understood. The more he thought about it, the more he realised how much strength of will it must have taken for Kate to stick to her guns in the face of such opposition.

  He hadn’t asked what her brothers had thought of the matter. But five years ago both Giles and the dead heir, James, would have been abroad fighting. And the other one, Ned, the one whose name Kate could not say without crying. Most likely he’d been away, or too young to help. They were a patriotic lot, the Montagues. Shame they did not think to look closer to home for their battles. Though they had a hell of a fight on their hands now. Virgil had not given much thought to the implications of the dowager marchioness’s claim to the dukedom on her son’s behalf, but he suspended his anger long enough to wish the woman well. It would serve the Montagues right to have an heir foisted upon them.

  It was dawn. Virgil sat on the window seat watching the early-morning mist swirl over the lakes. They were both confused, both scarred, he and Kate. Neither of them trusted their feelings. Neither of them wanted to feel, yet together there was such passion between them. What he felt for Kate was nothing like what he’d felt for Millie. Not love, but a desire so strong it had overwhelmed him yesterday. Too exhausted to pretend, he had to admit that he was tempted. He knew she was, too, though she would not trust him enough to admit it. And why should she, when he had given her no cause?

  Worse. She had shown him her scars, and he had given her almost nothing in return. He’d met her courage with a blank wall. His fingers traced the brand on his arm, shadowing how Kate had touched him. He reached behind him, feeling the welts of the whip marks beneath his linen nightshirt. He thought more of her, not less, for what she had revealed. But the mere thought of telling her all made him sick.

  Outside, the mist had lifted. A slight figure dressed in white slipped like a wraith from the fishing pavilion and stood on the edge of the upper lake. Virgil opened the casement window, straining his eyes. The figure was poised, slim and female. His body knew, before his brain assimilated it, that he was watching Kate. She stretched her arms to the grey sky, then to his utter astonishment sprang into the air and dived into the water.

  He was still fastening his buckskin breeches over his nightshirt as he ran barefoot down the curved corridor, where Kate’s ancestors eyed him askance from their gilded frames. Down to the gloomy entrance hall, where the marble pillars were like a regulated forest in the shadowy light. Without caring who heard him, Virgil yanked open the locks and bolts on the heavy front door and sprinted towards the lake.

  He couldn’t see her. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought that she must have gone under, but then he remembered that graceful dive. She could obviously swim, but where was she? His feet sank into the mud, which oozed between his toes. The water was icy. There was an island about four hundred yards out, but it was a wild tangle of trees and bushes, impenetrable to the naked eye from here. A faint splash caught his attention. He would get a better view from the bridge, but if she needed help, then he’d be further away. He was being irrational; she could swim, she would be perfectly safe, Virgil told himself as he waded through the reeds until he was thigh-deep and dived in after her.

  The cold took his breath away. His feet had stirred up mud and leaves, making the water cloudy. He came up for air spluttering, heading half blind towards the island. He had learned to swim in the creek at the plantation, where the water had been a delightfully refreshing relief from the summer humidity. The Castonbury lake was fed from water which originated in the Peaks. The cold gripped him like a vice, making his breathing painfully sharp. The water soaked the leather of his breeches, dragging his body downwards to the murky depths.

  Virgil struck out with renewed determination. He was panting heavily as he reached the sandy banks of the little island. Chest heaving, water streaming from the tails of his nightshirt and the cuffs of his breeches, he forced his way through the bushes to the other side, just in time to see her at the far end of the lake, next to the bridge, heading back round. Unlike him, she seemed perfectly at home in the water. She swam with effortless grace, arm over arm, her head under the water, then up for air, sleek as an otter, cleaving through the lake with barely a ripple, clearly in no need of rescue. He watched her, thinking that he would be content to watch her for ever, while at the same time feeling excluded, shut out from whatever place it was her mind had gone to, for she seemed to make her way by some other sense than sight.

  As she rounded the corner out of sight again, Virgil made his way back into the centre of the island in two minds. He wanted to call to her, but he didn’t want to disturb what was obviously a customary swim and a private moment. He would wait until she circled back again, then he would make his own way back to shore without her seeing him. He felt foolish now at having come rushing out half naked to rescue someone in absolutely no need of help. There was a clearing in the middle of the shrubs and trees, a little hollow of ground quite hidden from view. A circle of blackened stones had obviously been used for a fire. Around it the ground was bare, packed dirt and sand, where the undergrowth had been worn away from use.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘We used to come here as children.’ Virgil started. Kate was standing in the clearing behind him. He hadn’t heard her approach. ‘It’s one of the few places at Castonbury out of Aunt Wilhelmina’s reach,’ she said. ‘There’s a box down by the beach with wood and kindling—will you help me fetch it?’

  Virgil dragged the heavy chest through the undergrowth, and Kate opened the lid. She took out a quilt and handed another to him. ‘You look as if you need this. I’m used to it, but I expect you found the water cold. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I saw you dive in from the window of my bedchamber.’

  ‘Did you think I needed rescuing?’

  ‘Not once I saw
you swimming. You’re very…lovely.’

  He’d meant to say good or strong or even graceful, but the truth slipped out before he could stop it. The quilt was draped over her shoulders. She wore what looked like underwear, a short, sleeveless cotton chemise and a pair of knee-length drawers. The sodden material clung to her figure, revealing tantalising glimpses of the pink flesh beneath, hugging every contour, from the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips, to the dark cluster of curls between her long legs. Her nipples were hard peaks, clearly visible. Long damp tendrils of her hair had escaped the bun on top of her head and stuck to her throat, her neck, her cheeks. Water dripped from her lashes. It dripped from the ends of the ribbons which tied her drawers at her knees and at her neckline. ‘Charybdis,’ Virgil said with a smile, ‘daughter of Poseidon.’

  He still held the quilt folded in his hands. If he would wrap it around himself, then she wouldn’t have to look at him, Kate thought. Dripping wet. His skin dark, glistening through his shirt. Was it a shirt? It looked more like a nightshirt. She should be cold, but under her skin she felt unaccountably hot. She laughed nervously. ‘That’s not very flattering. Charybdis makes whirlpools to drown men at sea.’

  ‘I know, but she was once a nymph.’

  ‘So it’s a compliment?’ It was the swimming which made her sound so breathless. It must be the swimming which was making her shaky too. She’d overdone it. Was it the swimming which was making her mouth dry? It was definitely the cold which was making her nipples ache. Virgil looked—oh, heavens, there was no getting away from it—he looked magnificent.

  ‘I’ll light a fire.’ Kate hunkered down over the chest, fumbling for the kindling. ‘You’ll catch cold, else.’ It didn’t occur to her to suggest that Virgil would be better getting back to a warm bath and dry clothes.

  ‘Let me.’

  He tended to the fire efficiently and quickly. Of long habit, Kate sank onto the sandy hollow and pulled her quilt around her as the flames took life. Virgil had abandoned his quilt. The ridges of his whip marks could clearly be seen through his shirt. They were vicious, long welts, some overlapping. More than one whipping or one particularly fierce event? He looked as if he’d been flayed. She swallowed the lump in her throat, determined not to show him she’d noticed.