by Liz Carlyle
It had been but the first of his many cautions. About his character. His unknown past. And yet she had not listened. Indeed, she was not even sorry she hadn’t listened!
Good Lord, what was she coming to?
In the passageway but a few days past, Kate had told him that she did not know Ned Quartermaine. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? She had known him all along. She had known him intimately. She had gone to his bed knowing his character was questionable, for he’d told her so. And given half a chance, it seemed she might do it again.
Mrs. Peppin sighed deeply. “Can you not find it in your heart to forgive Lord Reginald, then?” she said. “I know, miss, that you don’t love him, and that he’s riddled with fault, but—”
“But I should settle?” Kate interjected. “Oh, Peppie! Not you, too?”
“Not settle, lovey.” Mrs. Peppin set a hand between Kate’s shoulder blades and rubbed it in little circles as she’d done so often in Kate’s childhood. “But Heatherfields has been in the hands of Lord Reginald’s family for nearly as long as Bellecombe’s been in yours. Besides, I know you want children. And how else to get ’em if you will not go to London, and you will not have Mr. Edward?”
“Have Edward?” Kate could feel the warm weight of tears threaten. “He … Heavens, Peppie! He has not asked me. And … my God, a gaming hell owner? After all Bellecombe has been through? Is that not the very antithesis of what we need?”
Mrs. Peppin merely grunted. “I’d say it’s time some money flowed uphill to Bellecombe instead o’ trickling down,” she said dismissively. “Wentworth men, if you’ll pardon my saying, are mostly good at the down. Besides, ’tis no one’s business save your own.”
But it was not just Kate’s business, was it?
Even if Edward were interested in her, what of Nancy’s prospects? Nancy, who wished so desperately to be a rector’s wife. Mightn’t a scandal ruin that prospect? And what about Aunt Louisa with three young daughters yet to bring out? And Uncle Upshaw’s certain outrage?
Aurélie’s antics were trouble enough to Lord and Lady Upshaw, but should Kate—the titular head of the Wentworths, and the one they depended on to behave rationally—oh, should she make such a scandalous match …
Well, it was out of the question.
As she had just said, Edward had not asked her, nor would he. The very notion was mad. Besides, there could not possibly be any place in such a man’s life for marriage, let alone children. But he was still every inch a man—and quite a lot of inches there were, too, if she was any judge. And while even a green fool could see Edward was not the marrying kind, mightn’t he—with a little coaxing—return to her bed?
Must the rest of her days be not just barren, but something worse?
Kate thought again of the shimmering dress her mother had brought from Paris; of the low neckline and the way the too-snug bodice pushed up her breasts. Heavens, if that wasn’t coaxing, she didn’t know what was.
Then, realizing the perilous path her thoughts were taking, Kate shut her eyes. Good Lord, gambling and wickedness had impoverished her childhood and the entire estate. Did she now mean to literally climb in bed with it?
But last time, she had not climbed, had she? Edward had urged her down into the softness of the bed linen, crawling over her like some lithe, golden predator …
“In any case,” said Mrs. Peppin, as if reading her thoughts, “that one’s as fine a man as ever I’ve laid eyes on—and I’ve seen him naked, mind. No real charm, o’course. But charm won’t keep a woman warm at night.”
“Peppie,” said Kate tightly, “you’re not helping me.”
“Well, the Lord helps them as help themselves,” said Mrs. Peppin, “and if I were young as you, miss, I might be helping myself to that man.”
“Peppie.” Kate clasped a hand over her eyes. “This is scandalous.”
“Yes, mayhap,” said the housekeeper, “but don’t tell me, miss, you weren’t thinking it.”
Kate did not tell her. Instead, she set a spanking pace for home.
So everyone expected her to do the sensible thing, did they? To marry Reggie, and be glad the scoundrel would have her? Well, they could all go to the devil. She was getting tired of being dependable and predictable and sensible.
She was going to go home and try on the dress—without the fichu.
She was going make a fool of herself.
Again.
BELLECOMBE’S ILLUSTRIOUS PARTY numbered a lively twelve for dinner that evening. It being customary for the great house to entertain the local gentry on such occasions, several neighbors had been invited. And Aurélie, of course, had again demanded the put-upon Anstruther’s attendance.
They sat down to dinner in good spirits, with Edward finding himself situated between Lady Julia and Squire Cockram’s wife, whom he’d met only briefly, the day he’d embarrassed Kate in her drawing room. As usual, the pug lay under the table at Mrs. Wentworth’s feet, occasionally rising to snuffle about on the floor. Edward was beginning to grasp the means by which the lady preserved her svelte figure.
Throughout the meal, he listened attentively to Julia’s chatter but found himself bored, and incapable of keeping his eyes from cutting down the table in Kate’s direction. He had become accustomed, he realized, to her simple mode of dress—and if asked, he would have said he much preferred it.
But that was before he’d seen the gold and green confection that bared her lovely shoulders, wrapped her slender waist like a second skin, and … well, there was no peace to be had in observing what it did to the rest of her fine attributes.
He was not alone in admiring it. Even before the party had sat down to dinner, Lord Reginald had alternated between allowing his gaze to drift lazily—almost possessively—down Kate’s length, and shooting dark glances across the room at Edward.
Reggie’s snit was the least of Edward’s concerns; the fellow was nothing but a nuisance so far as he could see. But then the party reunited in the drawing room, and Lady Julia leaned into him in a cloud of too-sweet perfume.
“Will they make a match of it, do you imagine, Mr. Quartermaine?” she murmured, making a discreet gesture toward the pair who stood alone together in a private corner. “De Macey thinks not, but Sir Francis has wagered him twenty pounds.”
Edward felt his spine go rigid. “I beg your pardon?”
Lady Julia’s grin deepened. “Lady d’Allenay and Lord Reginald,” she clarified. “I was warned off, you know, by her mamma, before we’d even left London. I assume the family hopes for a reconciliation. Indeed, I collect the poor girl has had no other suitor these last many years.”
“If that is true,” he said tightly, “then it is doubtless by the lady’s choice.”
“Do you think so?” asked Lady Julia, snaring a glass of madeira as Jasper passed with a tray. “It is said she wishes to marry. The barony needs an heir. Her mamma hoped, I think, that her position toward Reggie had softened.”
Just then, amidst much cajoling from Nancy Wentworth, a neighbor sat down at the pianoforte and struck up an exuberant tune. In a trice, Mrs. Wentworth ordered the rugs rolled up, and soon one of the gentlemen was leading Miss Wentworth out in a lively country-dance. Mrs. Wentworth attempted to drag Anstruther onto the floor with them, but the big man shook his head.
The lady turned her attention to de Macey, who cheerfully obliged her.
“How quaint! A country entertainment.” Julia edged her elbow in Edward’s direction. “Shall we show them how it’s done in Town, Mr. Quartermaine?”
“I think not,” he said laconically. “Try Sir Francis.”
The dark-eyed Sir Francis was indeed approaching. Lady Julia cast Edward one last, faintly pouting glance, then abandoned him for the better offer, pressing her untouched glass into his hand.
Edward gave an inward sigh of relief, then wondered why he did so.
Lady Julia was precisely his sort of woman; a beautiful widow with enough knowledge to entertain him in bed, and enough prac
ticality to know he would never marry her.
It should have been ideal. And for a moment, Edward actually tried to persuade himself to go after her. Forcing his gaze to follow her as she dipped and swayed, her eye flashing prettily, Edward sipped Julia’s wine and considered what he was giving up in not pursuing the lady’s hints. But then his attention caught on a flash of emerald green, and the thought was lost.
Her lips a little tightly compressed, Kate was allowing Lord Reginald to lead her into the dancers. He felt his ire stir, then reined it back. He was jealous, and had no right to be so. Reggie was duplicitous and lazy, but not, he thought, precisely evil.
As gentlemen went, there were worse. Much worse.
The truth was, Edward disdained most of his clientele. Decent gamblers—men like de Macey, with whom one might actually sit down and enjoy a drink and some intelligent conversation—were rare. Worse, they were unprofitable. Until now, he had simply viewed Reggie with his usual contempt. But he was coming to actively loathe the man.
He didn’t deceive himself as to why. But he knew on that same breath that it would not do; that he could not help Kate in any meaningful way save to keep his distance.
Kate danced as she did everything else, with grace and competence, and few flourishes. The confection she wore, with its bold colors and plunging bodice, was made for no debutante. It was a daring gown for a bold woman; one who knew what she wanted.
Did Kate know what she wanted?
Did she want Lord Reginald Hoke? Had she once loved him?
She wished to be married, Julia had suggested. Was it true? Kate had hinted otherwise to him; that marriage was a risk she had rather not take. He wasn’t sure he’d believed her, even then. He was ever more confident he didn’t now.
Edward watched her until the music tinkled to a halt, remembering how she had moved beneath him in bed with that same lovely grace and sense of purpose. And for an instant, he felt that same aching sense of loss; the feeling of having slid into something deep, from which he might never extract himself.
Since regaining his memory, he had struggled to become himself again. Cold. Aloof. Outwardly civil, but ruthless inside. Yet it sometimes felt as if his very nature was trying to shift like loose gravel beneath his feet.
He knew the sensation would not last; that he was what he was, and that even his affection for Maria had not changed him. Nor would his feelings for Kate—whatever they were. He would as soon not analyze them too thoroughly.
Reggie had caught Kate’s hands and was spinning her about the room. Well. A husband. She needed one, he thought. Deserved one. A kind and good man.
But she didn’t deserve him. No, it would not do.
And she certainly deserved better than Lord Reginald Hoke.
When the music ended, Kate stepped back from Reggie, her face flushed pink. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Aurélie Wentworth circled an affectionate arm around her younger daughter, and whispered something. Nancy laughed, drew away, and snatched Reggie by the arm to drag him near.
The three of them looked very gay, as if they shared a happy secret that he could never be a part of. Here at Bellecombe, even Mrs. Wentworth evoked something of that sense of domestic contentment he had enjoyed during his recovery. Before he had known who and what he was.
Now he was just another outsider looking in; a hard man who had lived a brutal life. He didn’t belong here in this paradise with its quiet and beauty. Grace was wasted on the likes of him, however he might yearn for it. Or yearn for her, the epitome of grace.
He paused in his pathetic musings to glance back. Kate had vanished—through one of the windows that gave onto the formal rose garden, he suspected, for the draperies covering it still stirred. Suddenly he felt an intense warmth at his side, and turned to see Mrs. Wentworth at his elbow, her seemingly irrepressible smile curling one corner of her mouth.
“Ça alors, Mr. Quartermaine, you do not dance?”
“Rarely,” he said. “Are you inviting me?”
She laughed, a light, trilling sound. “Vraiment, sir, the word invite seems far too benign to be applied to a man with so grim a gaze. Does one invite a lion to dine?”
“You did,” he pointed out.
She giggled as if he were the cleverest creature on earth. “This is true,” she acknowledged. “Ah, I see Fitch has dealt with your stitches! Now you have only a scar to lend character to your handsome face.”
“A man of my ilk,” he said blandly, “should probably take his character where he can get it.”
Mrs. Wentworth shrugged, then set her head coquettishly to one side. “C’est bien,” she murmured, studying his forehead. “You were too handsome, I think, before.”
Edward took a long, slow sip of the wine he held, and carefully considered his next words. “Mrs. Wentworth,” he said quietly, “are you by any chance flirting with me?”
She laughed, but it was uneasy. “And if I were?”
“Then I would thank you for the compliment you pay me,” he said, setting Julia’s glass down with a sharp chink, “and tell you that perhaps it’s best I went on my way back to London.”
Her beautiful eyes widened with alarm. “Non,” she said, seizing his arm. “You must not go! Not yet!”
“Must not?” He looked down at the thin, pale fingers curled around his coat sleeve like beautiful talons. “Those are strong words, madame.”
She released his arm. “Perhaps, but I think you tease me,” she said, her lashes lowered. “You will stay, oui? I see a reluctant willingness in your eyes. I am grateful. I have need of you, sir.”
“I can’t think why,” he said. “You have a coterie of admirers, madame.”
“It is not a coterie that I need,” she said, cutting a sidelong glance at Reggie. “I fear, sir, that I have brought a serpent into my daughter’s house. Perhaps you might help me—zut, what is the phrase? Guard the wicket?”
Edward crooked one eyebrow with a look that usually sent his customers and staff scurrying. Mrs. Wentworth was made of sterner stuff, and merely batted her lashes.
“Explain yourself,” he said.
The lady swallowed hard, her swanlike throat working. “It is Lord Reginald,” she whispered. “He persuaded me to bring him here with tears and pledges of adoration. But now I learn—ma foi!—he has lost everything, or near it! Worse, he has lost Heatherfields. To you.”
Edward beheld her for a moment in stony silence. “I took it fairly, madame,” he finally answered, “and in accordance with gentlemen’s terms. Do not be so bold—or so foolish—as to ask for my sympathy. You will not get it.”
“Mais non, I do not,” she replied, the words rushing out. “I ask merely for your—”
At that moment, Reggie glided up beside him. Over his shoulder, Edward could see Nancy Wentworth looking at her mother with dismay.
“Careful of this one, Quartermaine,” said Reggie silkily, hooking his arm through Mrs. Wentworth’s. “In Madame Heartbreaker, even you may have met your match.”
The lady smacked him almost playfully. “Reginald!”
He smiled, and leveled his gaze to Edward’s. “Oh, she may pet over little cubs like Sir Francis,” he said on a chuckle, “but she eats wicked men for breakfast.”
“I think,” said Edward, “I can manage.”
Then he gave Mrs. Wentworth a taut bow at the neck, and left. He circled around the room, noting as he did so that the lady’s head was bent to Reggie’s as if they shared some confidence.
What had Mrs. Wentworth meant? Was it a ploy on behalf of Reggie? Or was she genuinely concerned? The lady seemed the last person on earth to behave altruistically. But then, what did he know of her?
In that moment, he scarcely cared. He slipped behind one of the heavy velvet draperies, and pushed open a door. The garden was shaped like a circle, in the center of which stood a massive marble urn that spouted rainwater into the rose beds. This was surrounded by a sort of circular bench that, in summer, would hav
e provided a marvelous view.
Just now, all it provided was the opportunity for frostbite. He found Kate shivering there amidst the dying roses. “You’re going to freeze to death out here,” he said, stripping off his coat, “and utterly crush Reggie’s dreams.”
Kate gave a hysterical bark of laughter. “It is Reggie who drove me out here, blast him.”
“My, what language,” said Edward blandly. Gently, he furled the coat around her shoulders. “There. Warmer?”
“Thank you,” she said on a snuffle.
“Now,” he gently pressed, “what has Reggie done?”
She threw up her hands. “Oh, he begs me to dance, to stroll in the moonlight, to play piquet and talk about what used to be,” she said. “In short, he wishes me to still care. And I will not—which he finds most disobliging. And that makes him testy. I wonder how much money he owes. It must be a quite desperate amount.”
Edward was certain she was right, but he didn’t say as much. Far be it from him to drive home the sad truth of Reggie’s indebtedness.
On a sigh, Kate sank down onto a bench behind her knees. Left with no alternative—and no real wish to do otherwise—Edward joined her. Certain he’d regret it later, he circled an arm around her shoulders, and drew her to his side.
Kate tucked close, and her shivering eased. The chill was born, he feared, as much from fatigue as cold.
“These people,” he said darkly, “are wearing you out.”
“Oh, Edward. It is not that. I am not so faint of heart.”
“Then Lord Reginald Hoke,” he replied, “is wearing you out. I’d like to take my riding crop to that impudent dog.”
“Oh, never mind Reggie,” she said. “I’m just tired. I was having a difficult day even before he started in with his whinging.”
Instinctively, he tightened his embrace. “What happened?”
She gave the curious laugh again. “I drove Peppie into the village for errands,” she said, “to find the entire populace speculating whether I would finally marry Reggie.”
“I fear the villagers do not know you as well as they think,” Edward murmured, “if they imagine you a rug to be trod upon.”
