Destined to Last

by Alissa Johnson

  “You’re the sister of a wealthy earl and the daughter of an influential countess. People are always watching you,” he returned, lifting his head and neatly sweeping her into another turn. “Tell me, do you find it disconcerting to have so many following your every move?”

  It wasn’t so very many, in her opinion. And she was quite certain her “every move” was a considerable exaggeration—he was the only person she felt looked at her too often and with too great an intensity—but since she was determined not to display any ruffled feathers, she let both matters go.

  “I do sometimes wonder what people are thinking while they watch others dance,” she told him.

  He tipped his chin toward two austere-looking matrons whispering behind their hands at the edge of the dance floor. “Just now, I imagine the majority of them are wondering why you’re dancing with an upstart and known rake.”

  “Are you a rake?” she asked before she could think better of it. She might have asked even if she had thought better of it. She’d heard rumors that Mr. Hunter had seduced legions of widows and opera singers, but what was fact and what was…well, rumor, it was impossible to say. It was equally impossible to say why she cared, except perhaps that she was a bit more curious about the man than she realized.

  He carefully led her around an elderly couple exiting the dance early. “Would my being a rake make me more appealing in your eyes?”

  “No, it would simply make you a rake.” She studied him for a moment as he laughed. “Do you know, I don’t believe you are.”

  “Oh?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never once heard a rumor of you seducing an innocent young lady.”

  “That merely suggests I’m not a debaucher of innocents.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “Is there a distinction made between being a rake and being a debaucher?”

  “There is by men of sense,” he informed her. “Only the latter is liable to end with dueling pistols at dawn.”

  “Oh.” She considered that. “The distinction is purely selfserving, then? Morality isn’t factored in at all?”

  “We are discussing rakes and debauchers.”

  That was true. And how very strange that they should be. And how exhilarating. No other man of her acquaintance would ever think to have such an unconventional conversation with her. A gentleman simply did not discuss rakes and debauchers with young ladies. And young ladies were not to discuss them at all.

  She looked about at the other dancers. If anyone was listening—

  “You’re safe, Lady Kate,” Mr. Hunter assured her. “No one can hear.”

  He was right, of course, they were speaking too softly to be heard over the music. Still…“It really isn’t a discussion we ought to be having.”

  “Should we change the subject?”

  They should. They really should. And she would, in another minute. After one more quick scan about her, she lowered her voice and asked, “What of men who seduce other men’s wives? Are they rakes?”

  “Cuckolders.”

  “I see.” She bit her bottom lip a moment and nodded. “But equally likely to find themselves on the field of honor, I imagine.”

  “Depends on how the husband feels toward the wife, and his honor.”

  “So a rake pursues only certain kinds of women, such as actresses and opera singers?” She thought about that. “Doesn’t that make every man a rake?”

  “Not every man. England doesn’t have that many theaters.”

  She laughed as he swept her into another turn. “Tell me this, if a man pursuing a married woman is a cuckolder, what is a woman who pursues a married man?”

  “Welcomed, generally.”

  “Certainly not by the gentleman’s wife.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He nodded toward a middle-aged man standing near the doors to the veranda. “Lord Renort’s wife encourages him to visit his mistress as often as possible.”

  “Really?” Kate glanced at Lord Renort and thought about what she knew of his union to Lady Renort. It was a second marriage for both and had been heralded among members of high society as a most sensible match. The gentleman had obtained a fortune, which would certainly be of use to a man with two sons and three daughters, while the lady had acquired a title—the accompanying benefits of which would no doubt be of value to herself and her two children. In truth, the vast majority of marriages within the ton were arranged purely for financial and social gain, but that fact didn’t make Lady Renort’s plight any less regretful in Kate’s eyes.

  “It’s very sad,” she remarked with a sigh.

  Hunter’s dark brows winged up in mild surprise. “Do you think?”

  Kate’s brows lowered in confusion. “Do you not?”

  “I might,” he admitted after a moment’s thought, “if Lady Renort had desired, or expected fidelity from her husband. But in this instance, the union was strictly a business transaction, and by all accounts, the terms of that transaction were readily agreed upon in advance by both parties.”

  “I…” In advance? She couldn’t decide if that sort of heartless union was more, or less sad. “It’s still very sad.”

  He glanced over to where Lady Renort was smiling and giggling with a small group of friends. “She appears a happy woman to me.”

  “I suppose she does,” Kate conceded, though in her opinion, it was still very sad. The woman had traded the chance to love for a title. “Would you care for that sort of match?”

  “Would I be comfortable in Lady Renort’s slippers, do you mean?”

  The picture was enough to make her laugh. “Or Lord Renort’s boots.”

  “Absolutely not,” he replied. “I’d not abide infidelity in my marriage.”

  “And what of the terribly businesslike quality?”

  Hunter shrugged. “I’d no more want an impractical union than I would a faithless one.”

  “Why assume a marriage based on…” She trailed off as a more pressing question occurred to her. “How could you possibly know the details of Lord and Lady Renort’s marriage?”

  His lips curved up once again. “Any rake worth his salt keeps apprised of which women of his acquaintance might be open to a spot of debauchery. Lonely wives are generally a fair bet.”

  “I…” Her eyes widened in shock a split second before they narrowed in suspicion. “You’re making the lot of this up as you go along, aren’t you?”

  “Not the whole lot,” he assured her and grinned as she laughed.

  In truth, she really didn’t care if it was the whole lot. It was still a most intriguing conversation. She’d have liked to continue it, but the musicians were playing the final notes of the waltz, and before she knew it, Mr. Hunter was leading her off the dance floor.

  “Shall I escort you to your mother?” he inquired.

  Kate glanced to where her mother stood in a small gathering of her friends. Several gentlemen were standing nearby, quite obviously waiting for Mr. Hunter to deliver Lady Kate into her mother’s care.

  “I think perhaps I could use another glass of lemonade,” she declared.

  “You must be exceedingly uncomfortable by the end of these events.”

  She glanced up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How much food do you have to consume in your little ruse to keep the gentlemen at bay?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again. Was there nothing the man missed?

  Mr. Hunter steered her around a small grouping of chairs. “Are you going to tell me I’ve mistaken the situation?”

  She thought about it, and decided there wasn’t any point. They’d both know she was lying. “It isn’t necessary that I consume it,” she replied with a shrug. “I need only be near it.”

  “That’s it?” he asked with a quick look at the men standing near her mother. “They’re as easily frightened as that?”

  For some reason, she felt the need to come to the defense of her suitors. “Occasionally, I have to actually hold something.” She smiled as t
hey reached the refreshment table, remembering a ball in her second season. “I chased off Sir Patrick Arten with a cream pastry once.”

  He laughed softly and lowered his arm. “As much as I would like to hear the details of that spectacle, I’m afraid I’ve engaged another young lady for the next dance.” He bowed low. “Lady Kate, it was a pleasure.”

  He turned and walked away, and it took an enormous act of will for Kate not to gape at his back. Good heavens, had she just been dismissed?

  Yes, she realized as he crossed the room without a single backward glance, yes, she had been. Kate frowned after him. She’d never before experienced dismissal from a gentleman, and wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. After a moment’s consideration, she came to the conclusion that her pride and confidence were still perfectly intact, but she was rather disappointed.

  They’d shared a lovely waltz and one of the most entertaining conversations she’d ever had with a man, and then he’d simply walked away…to dance with someone else. How disheartening.

  Mr. Hunter was allowed to dance with whomever he chose, of course. She certainly didn’t expect him to stand about speaking to her the entire night. But would it have killed him to give some indication he’d enjoyed the dance as much as she? True, he’d said it had been a pleasure, but everyone said that. She’d even said it to Mr. Marshall, and he had a tendency to spit when he spoke.

  Confused by his sudden lack of interest, and her sudden increase in interest, she continued to watch as he made his way to a small group of young women standing at the edge of the ballroom. Recognizing the women, Kate clenched her jaw in annoyance.

  If he had given up an opportunity to discuss rakes and debauchers with her in order to dance with Miss Mary Jane Willory, she was going to…Well, she couldn’t think of anything she could do, actually, except staunchly refuse to ever dance with him again. Miss Willory was a malicious creature. A nasty, selfish, snobbish, cruel and—

  She broke off her mental diatribe when she recognized the young woman Mr. Hunter led to the floor not as Miss Willory, but Miss Rebecca Heins. That changed things entirely.

  Kate didn’t mind being dismissed for the likes of Miss Heins. She was a tremendously sweet young woman with an unfortunate propensity for underestimating her own worth. That propensity and its accompanying shyness had consigned Miss Heins to the position of wallflower since her first season.

  As Mr. Hunter and Miss Heins began the first steps of their reel, Kate remembered something her brother’s wife, Mirabelle, often said. The very best gentlemen were those who made a point to dance with at least one wallflower at every ball.

  Did Mr. Hunter dance with a wallflower at every ball? Having taken pains not to pay attention to the man, she couldn’t say. But he was dancing with one now, which counted for something—

  “He’ll notice if you keep staring.”

  Kate snapped her eyes away from the dance floor to find her cousin, Evie, standing next to her. Petite but curvaceous with light brown hair and dark eyes, Evie was a lovely woman despite a thin scar than ran from her temple to her jaw, and a barely perceptible limp, both acquired in a childhood carriage accident.

  Evie was also an extraordinarily clever young woman with a well-honed talent for ferreting out other people’s secrets. Ordinarily, Kate admired and benefited from that skill. At the moment, however, she rather wished her cousin had taken up watercolors instead.

  Kate reached for more lemonade. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Evie merely raised her brows and waited.

  Kate winced. “I loathe when you do that.”

  “Yes, I know. Wouldn’t be nearly as effective otherwise.”

  She gave up the pretense. “I was only looking at him,” she grumbled.

  “Nothing at all wrong with that,” Evie replied. “He’s very nice to look at.”

  “He is handsome,” Kate admitted.

  “And quite charming.”

  “He’s exceedingly charming.”

  Evie titled her head at her. “If you’ve an interest in him, why do you avoid him?”

  “Because…” Frustrated, she turned back to look at Mr. Hunter yet again. “I’m not certain what sort of interest it is. There’s something about the man…”

  “That niggles at your memory,” Evie finished for her. “Yes, you and Lizzy have mentioned it before.”

  “It’s not just that,” she replied with a shake of her head. “He’s…I don’t know. He’s too charming, when he’s not being impossible. I don’t trust him.”

  “You hardly know him.”

  She looked at her cousin again. “You’ve spent some time with him.”

  A little over a year ago, Evie had spent a considerable amount of time with Mr. Hunter and three others—including her future husband—at a coastal cottage some distance from Haldon. She’d been secluded away in an effort to protect her from a man who’d threatened her life.

  “Yes,” Evie replied with a nod before turning to study Mr. Hunter. “I think…I think he’s a good man, at the core.”

  “At the core?” Kate frowned thoughtfully. “What of the rest of him?”

  “He has some darker spots, I’ll admit.”

  “You make him sound like a piece of fruit on the verge of going bad,” Kate said on a laugh.

  “No, just one with a few bruises.”

  “Pity they can’t be carved out like the soft spots on an apple.”

  “Pity apples can’t mend,” Evie countered, reaching for a sandwich. “Then we wouldn’t have to carve them up.”

  Did Mr. Hunter need mending? Kate looked back at him, considering, and then, because she was doing entirely too much looking at Mr. Hunter, turned her eyes and her attention away.

  “Where is Mirabelle?” she asked Evie.

  “As attempts to change the subject go, that lacked subtlety,” Evie commented, then shrugged. “She’s is in the library having a discussion with Whit.”

  Kate glanced in the direction of the library. “A discussion or a debate?”

  “Well, I didn’t hear any glass breaking when I walked past, so I assume the former.”

  Kate smiled at that. Her brother and sister-in-law displayed a passion for arguing that was only exceeded by their passion for each other.

  “They’re terribly in love,” she sighed.

  It seemed as if nearly all her friends and family were terribly in love. Alex, the Duke of Rockeforte, was happily married to her friend Sophie. Mirabelle was a perfect match for her brother, Whit, and Evie was clearly blissful in her union to James McAlistair. Even Mrs. Summers, her mother’s friend and Sophie’s one-time governess, appeared to have developed an attachment to Mr. William Fletcher.

  It bothered her to be the only one who had yet to find a love match, and it bothered her that she should be bothered. It made her feel small and selfish to be anything but delighted by the happiness of those she loved. And it was ungrateful of her not to be content with the blessings she could all ready claim—a loving family, financial security, a passion and talent for music and the engaging goal of one day being recognized for both. It should be enough. It was enough, she told herself firmly.

  But where was the harm in indulging, just now and then, in a dream of something more?

  Four

  Lord Brentworth’s house parties were not fashionable events. Unbeknownst to the host, they were not merely dull, but famously dull. Most notably for the ladies in attendance. A widower of many years, Lord Brentworth apparently had no notion of how to go about entertaining a houseful of women, and clearly had, at some point, decided that the best solution was to leave them to their own devices while the gentlemen did…something else. Most young ladies who had attended in the past would admit to never having been interested enough to inquire what that something else might be. Because taking into consideration the sort of gentlemen who found the exceptionally boring Lord Brentworth to be good company, they all felt it could be safely assumed that whatever the gentlem
en were doing, it was dull.

  Kate couldn’t have disagreed more. In her estimation, Lord Brentworth’s house parties weren’t dull. They were simply…sedate. She rather liked the sleepy feel of the gathering. It allowed a change of scenery and company without the pressure often experienced at a gathering of the highly fashionable. She could sit in her room and work on her music, or read a book on the veranda, or spend the afternoon with Lizzy, all without being chastised for not being adequately sociable. In addition, Pallton House had a library of enviable size and admirable variety, a lovely pianoforte to play, and a French chef of some renown in residence.

  But to Kate’s mind, the finest quality Lord Brentworth’s house party had to offer was its proximity to the English Channel.

  She adored visits to the sea—the way it smelled, the way it sounded, the way it engendered a sense of serenity even as its enormity and power made her feel small and insignificant. What drew her most, however, was something she had discovered on her first visit as a child—the sea was the one thing on earth that could completely silence the music in her head.

  Kate didn’t mind the string of notes and tunes that so often clamored for her attention. She imagined they were no different than the melodies she heard others go about humming, except that what she heard was detailed, persistent, and hers. They were her melodies, her notes and tunes, and they’d brought her a lifetime of pride and pleasure. But sometimes, just every now and then, she wished for a way to silence the music at will.

  In a way, the sea afforded her that ability. Whenever she walked close enough, any music she might be hearing stopped. She supposed it was because it had a music of its own—the crescendo as a wave grew near, the crash as it toppled onto the shore, and the soft decrescendo as the water slid back out to sea. It held a power and rhythm as distinct as any well-constructed symphony. And yet it wasn’t something one could hope to put to paper.

  Kate very much hoped a spot of quiet would be just what she needed to move past whatever it was that was keeping her from completing her own symphony. It was her first attempt at such a challenging endeavor, and she felt no small amount of pride at having nearly completed the work. And no small amount of aggravation at having nearly completed it for several months now. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, a small section in the third movement remained stubbornly, relentlessly silent.