Dr. Thrushborne was the next to cross her threshold. He was thrilled to find her awake and lucid. He examined her wound and declared it healing well. Pleased, he congratulated her on her forthcoming nuptials, teasing her on the anticipated date of her first confinement. As he was a favorite, Kit let him off with a glare.
In reply to her query, he agreed she could leave her bed, on condition she remained within the house and took care not to overtax herself.
Which was why, when Lady Gresham and Amy arrived that afternoon, she was lying on the chaise in the back parlor.
“Amy!” Kit sat up with a start, simultaneously remembering her wound and that she’d no idea how much Amy knew. Did George confide in Amy? Kit hesitated, just long enough for Lady Gresham to sweep in.
“Don’t get up, Kit, dear.” Her ladyship bent, offering a cheek for Kit to kiss. “The whole county knows how pressed you’ve been with Spencer so ill. I take it he’s improved?”
Kit nodded, fervently hoping Spencer was still keeping to his rooms. “Greatly improved, I’m pleased to say.” That, at least, was the truth.
While Lady Gresham settled her skirts in an armchair, Kit smiled at Amy, still wondering, but her friend only returned the smile gaily, apparently oblivious to any deeper currents. Perhaps George was as secretive as Jack.
“Well!” Lady Gresham smiled beatifically. “We called last week and again yesterday, as I hope they’ve told you. The first was simply to see how you were coping but, of course, we heard your news on Sunday and simply couldn’t wait to congratulate you.”
Kit tried to disguise her stare. What news? Sunday? The suspicion she’d just set foot in one of Jack’s webs grew.
“It was such a shock to hear the banns read out.” Amy put a hand on Kit’s arm. “Lord Hendon made your excuses quite beautifully, didn’t he, Mama?”
“So accomplished,” sighed Lady Gresham. “And so thrillingly handsome. Why—he’s his father all over again.”
Kit waited for the room to stop whirling. She could have told her ladyship just how accomplished Lord Hendon was—and how thrilling his handsomeness could be. “What was his father like?” She asked the question to gain time to gather her scattered wits and shackle her temper. If she screamed, she’d never be able to explain it.
But banns? Damn it, how had he managed that?
Her ladyship’s reminiscences on the previous Lord Hendon were tame compared to what Kit knew of the present incumbent. But by the time Lady Gresham had recalled to whom she was speaking and curtailed her ramblings, Kit was in command of herself once more.
The rest of their visit was spent in joyous discussion of her wedding, on which subject Kit invented freely. What else could she do? She could hardly tell Lady Gresham that the banns had been read without her consent. Even if she did, they’d probably put the outburst down to exhaustion consequent on nursing Spencer. And no matter how angry Jack made her, she wasn’t about to deny a betrothal. He’d made it perfectly plain how he saw that point. No—she was trapped. She might as well smile and enjoy it.
When she finally found solitude, in the peace of the gazebo with the red banners of sunset flying the sky, that attitude was close to the summation of her thoughts. She’d little choice but to marry Jack, Lord Hendon. Short of creating an almighty scandal, there was nothing she could do to avoid it. She’d made her decisions—her own mistakes; this was where they’d landed her.
Would marrying Jack be such a black fate? Settling on the seat, Kit couldn’t suppress a smile. The prospect of being Lady Hendon was not entirely grim. Her physical satisfaction was guaranteed. Jack was a magnificent lover. Moreover, he seemed very interested in teaching her all she would ever wish to know. But she was not a dim-witted miss, entranced by a handsome face. She knew Jack too well. His autocratic tendencies, his habit of command, his determination to have things his own way—all these she’d recognized from the first. They’d been bad enough in Captain Jack but in Lord Hendon, her husband, they could well prove overwhelming.
That was what worried her.
Kit crossed her arms on the sill, sinking her chin into her sleeve. Her stomach knotted every time she tried to imagine how Jack would behave once they were married. In recent years, her freedom had become precious. As her husband, Jack would have more right to control her than anyone had ever had. And he’d served notice on her freedom—if not directly, then indirectly. Marriage to him would leave her with only as much freedom as he deigned to allow her. Could she tolerate such a situation?
Thoughts of Amy surfaced, bringing their childhood vow to mind. She’d marry for love or not at all. Did she love Jack?
Kit’s brow creased. How to tell? She’d never been in love before—but she’d never felt for a man what she did for Jack. Was that love?
With a disgusted snort, she shrugged the question aside. It was irrelevant. She was marrying Jack.
Did he love her?
An even greater imponderable but far more to the point. He wanted her—not for a moment did she doubt that. But love? He wasn’t the sort to make such an admission of weakness. That was how many men saw love, and who was she to deny it? Every time she thought of Jack, every time he kissed her, she felt weak. But the idea of Jack reduced by love to a weak-kneed state was simply too much to swallow.
Could she make him love her? He might be in love with her, but how would she ever know if he could never bring himself to admit it? Could she make him admit it?
A challenge, that.
Kit’s brows rose. Maybe that was how she should approach this marriage—as a challenge. One to be grasped and made into what she wanted it to be. And before she’d finished, she’d make sure she heard him say he loved her.
The gentle breeze had turned cool, wafting the last of the perfume from the roses. Kit stared at the full blooms as they merged with the dusk. It was nearly time for dinner—time to go in and face her future.
A smile twisted Kit’s lips. Undoubtedly, running in Jack’s harness was going to try her temper to the limit. But there’d be compensations—she was determined to claim them.
“I might have guessed.”
Startled, Kit swung about. Jack lounged in the doorway of the gazebo, his shoulders propped against the frame. With the last of the light behind him, she couldn’t be sure of his expression.
“Elmina said Thrushborne told you to stay inside the house.”
Kit’s natural instinct was to ask who dared question her. But Jack’s tone was not aggressive—was, in fact, close to tentative, as if he didn’t know how she’d respond. Kit held her own features to impassivity as she rapidly considered her options. If she was to live with this man for the rest of her life, she’d do well to start practicing a little tact. According to Lady Gresham, a little of that commodity could go a long way in domestic affairs.
“I was miles away,” she said, and watched his jaw harden in an effort to stifle his demand to be told what she’d been thinking of. Kit bowed her head to hide her smile. “It’s getting rather chilly. I was about to go in.”
She made to rise, and, instantly, he was there, by her side. Kit was glad to let him take her hand. She made no demur when his other arm slipped supportively about her waist. It was, she decided, quite pleasant to be treated like porcelain—at least, by Jack. As they walked through the darkened garden, whiffs of sandalwood mixed with the floral fragrance. That was something she should have picked up. An aroma of sandalwood had clung to Captain Jack, yet it was a rich man’s scent. But the fragrance was so familiar, it hadn’t registered as odd.
The warmth of the large body so close to hers was both comforting and distracting. Even in her weakened state, she could still feel the excitement his presence generated, s etting her pulse beating in double time. She felt his gaze, still worried, scan her face. His arm tightened, almost imperceptibly. Kit knew that if she glanced up, he would pull her to him and kiss her.
She kept her gaze level. She wasn’t ready for that yet. When he kissed her, she lost her wits
. She became his, and he could do anything with her he wished. She needed time to adjust to the fact that in three weeks, that would be her permanent state.
As she went up the steps on Jack’s arm, Kit wondered if she would be strong enough to be Lady Hendon—and still be herself.
Chapter 24
The wedding of Jonathon, Lord Hendon, and Miss Kathryn Cranmer was the highlight of the year in that part of Norfolk. Women from miles about crowded the yard of the tiny church in Docking that had served the Cranmers and Hendons for centuries. Maids from the surrounding houses jostled with farmers’ wives, vying for vantage points from which to Ooh and Aah. All agreed that the bridegroom could not have been more handsome, in his bottle green coat and ivory inexpressibles, his brown hair, tied back in a black riband, glinting in the sunlight. He arrived commendably early and disappeared into the church, accompanied by his friend, Mr. George Smeaton of Smeaton Hall.
The subsequent interval was easily filled with satisfying gossip. The groom, with his military career as well as his natural heritage as a Hendon, provided much of the fare. The only stories known of Miss Kathryn dated from schoolroom days. While these were wild enough to satisfy the most avid gossip, all agreed the lady must have left such scandalous doings behind her. When she was handed down from the Cranmer coach, a slender figure in a cloud of ivory lace, beaded with pearls, the breath caught in every throat, only to be let out, a moment later, in the most satisfied of communal sighs.
The murmur which rose from the congregation behind him told Jack that Kit had arrived. He turned, slowly, and looked down the aisle. She’d paused just inside the church while a teary Elmina resettled her long train. As he watched, Kit started her walk toward him, her hand steady on Spencer’s arm. Behind her veil, she was smiling serenely, her chin tilted at that particular angle he knew so well. As she neared the end of her walk to his side, Jack met her gaze. His lips curved in a slow smile, quite impossible to deny. She looked superb. There were pearls about her throat, others dangled from her ears. Pearl rosettes held the heavy train on her shoulders. Even the headdress that held her delicate veil in place was composed of pearls. None, in his eyes, could vie with the pearl the dress contained.
The service was short and simple. Neither of the chief participants had any difficulty with their vows, uttering them in firm accents perfectly audible to the many guests squeezed into the church.
And then they were running the gamut of well-wishers, lining their route to the Hendon barouche. Jack handed Kit in, then jumped in behind her. “To the Hall, Matthew.”
To Kit’s astonishment, the coachman’s head turned to reveal Matthew’s lugubrious features. “Aye,” he chuckled. He nodded a welcome in her direction before giving the horses the office. A pair of high-stepping bays, they quickly drew the carriage free of the crowd.
Bowling along the country lanes, through shadows shot with sunlight, they had little chance to talk, too occupied with acknowledging the waves and wishes of tenants and other locals lining the way. Only when the carriage turned into the long Cranmer Hall drive did Jack get a chance to settle back and cast a knowledgeable eye over his bride’s gown.
“How did you manage that?” It occurred to him that the gown was a feat bordering on a miracle, given the short notice she’d had.
“It was my mother’s.” Kit glanced down at a lace sleeve, closed with pearl buttons. “She was particularly fond of pearls.”
Jack’s lips twitched. He hadn’t associated his Kit with anything so feminine as jewelry. He wondered how she’d look in the Hendon emeralds. They were somewhere in the Castle. He’d hunt them out and take them to London to be cleaned and reset; their present heavily ornate settings would not suit Kit’s delicate beauty.
They’d decided on a ceremony late in the day, to be followed by a banquet and ball. As the evening wore on, Jack sat at the high table and watched his wife enchant their acquaintances. There was, he reflected, nothing to complain of in Kit’s social graces. Ever since that evening when he’d found her in the gazebo, she’d behaved perfectly. Her demeanor had supported the fiction of their arranged marriage; even the most sharp-eyed observer could find no inconsistency in her manner. So successful had she been in projecting the image of a woman well pleased that Spencer now behaved as if the arrangement had always been in the wind. She was confident and serene; while her attitude held no overt maidenly modesty, neither did it suggest she was aware of her husband in any intimate way.
All of which, of course, was the most complete humbug. But only he knew that the elegant Lady Hendon stiffened slightly whenever he was near, clamping a stubborn hold over her normal responses to him. Only he was aware that she avoided meeting his eyes, using every feminine wile under the sun to accomplish that feat.
He wondered whether she knew what she was doing.
Since that night in the gazebo, he’d not so much as kissed her. She hadn’t given him a chance, and, wise enough to guess at her lack of enthusiasm for their union and the reasons behind it, he hadn’t gone out of his way to create one. Time enough, he’d reasoned, to reel her in once they were married.
Now they were married, and he was rapidly losing patience.
He hadn’t anticipated her degree of social confidence, either. He’d expected her to need help in taking up the role of Lady Hendon. Instead, the mantle had settled easily on her slim shoulders. He now understood why their story of an arranged marriage had been accepted so readily by their neighbors. Kit was the perfect candidate, one who, to all intents and purposes, could be said to have been bred for the position. Her six years in London were the icing on the cake. Aside from anything else, the fact she’d survived those years virgo intacta was the ultimate assurance she was not one of those women he mentally stigmatized as the gilded whores of the ton.
All in all, there was nothing in her manner or morals he wished to change. It was the distance she seemed intent on preserving between them that he could not abide.
Vignettes of memory, drawn from the hours they’d spent in the cottage, flashed through Jack’s mind. With a smothered curse, he stifled them. He took another sip of brandy and watched his wife go down the dance with some local squire. She must know he liked her as she was—would she try to pretend that all the wildness had gone out of her, that by marrying her he’d tamed her?
Jack’s lips twisted in a slow smile. If she thought that, she was in for a surprise. She might try to play the merely dutiful wife, but her fires ran deep. And he knew how to ignite them. Jack glanced at his watch. It was early, but not too early. And who was to gainsay him?
He raised his head and looked over the crowd to where Elmina sat by the door. She saw his nod and slipped away. Excusing himself to Amy, who was seated beside him in deep conversation with George, Jack rose and stepped from the dais.
Kit laughed at yet another weak joke elliptically alluding to her husband’s sexual prowess and expertly turned the conversation into safer channels. There’d been more than one moment that evening when she’d been sorely tempted to let loose the reins of her temper and give her teasing companions the facts. In truth, the facts were far more torrid than anything they imagined.
The music ceased, and she thanked Major Satterthwaite before moving off down the room. Within minutes, she was surrounded by a party of the district’s dames, the ladies Gresham, Marchmont, and Dersingham among them. Their talk was serious, revolving about the redecoration of Castle Hendon. Kit listened with half an ear, making the appropriate noises in the right places. She’d perfected the art of polite conversation during her stay in London. It was a prerequisite for retaining one’s sanity in the ballrooms of the ton. At least the ladies’ conversation was not peppered with allusions to the coming night’s activities. Every teasing comment simply added to her nervousness, which in turn increased her irritation with her own irrationality.
Why on earth should she feel nervous over what was to come? What could Jack possibly do to her—with her—that he hadn’t already done? Images of
them, in various positions in the cottage, rose to torment her. Kit smiled and nodded at Lady Dersingham, and wondered whether her fever had truly addled her wits.
Then she saw him approaching through the crowd, stopping to chat here and there as people claimed his attention. But his silver-grey eyes were on her. Her breathing suspended. That familiar sensation of being stalked blossomed in Kit’s midriff. No, it wasn’t the fever that had addled her brain.
Kit wrenched her eyes from her approaching fate, fixing them on the mild features of Lady Gresham, and desperately tried to think of a reason why it was too early to leave for home. For Castle Hendon.
The instant Jack joined the group, she knew it was hopeless. All the ladies, grandes dames every one, positively melted at the first sound of his deep voice. She didn’t bother trying evasion. Instead, she raised her chin and nodded polite acquiescence to his suggestion that they leave. “Yes, of course. I’ll change my clothes.”
With that, she escaped upstairs, not bothering to haul Amy from George’s side.
In her bedroom, a surprise awaited her. Instead of the new carriage dress she’d ordered Elmina to lay out, her maid was smoothing the full skirts of a magnificent emerald velvet riding habit.
“Where did that come from?” Kit shut the door and went to the bed.
“Lord Hendon sent it for you, ma petite. He said you should wear it. Is it not enchanting?”
Kit examined the severe lines of the habit and could not disagree. Her mind raced, considering the implications. Her initial impulse was to refuse to wear clothes her husband had decreed she should wear. But impulse was tempered by caution. A habit meant horses. Kit slipped the heavy ivory wedding dress from her shoulders and Elmina eased it over her hips. Freed of her petticoats, Kit sat before her dressing table while Elmina pulled the pins from her headdress.
She hadn’t discussed how they were to travel to Castle Hendon, leaving Jack to deal with that as his prerogative. She’d imagined they’d go in the barouche. The riding habit said otherwise.
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