Marriage was simply a transaction. And if the balance favored him, he was not entirely to blame. Still only a completely unfeeling brute would take her from this place of warmth and give her mere cold status in return.
Brute he may be but, unfortunately, he was no longer unfeeling. Not when it came to Katherine.
He angled his body and crossed his legs, intending to focus on what remained of the sermon. However, motion caught his eye. Julia’s lips moved without sound. He stretched in order to follow her gaze. Everyone in the congregation faced the rector but a young man toward the back. The young man’s lips moved in answer—behind the posting stable.
Bromton sat forward and adjusted his cravat.
Nothing good came of an assignation behind a posting stable.
Julia could be truly harmed by such a meeting. Reputation was a fragile thing.
Certain strictures were, of course, taken to extreme, and women were—he glanced to Katherine—perhaps unfairly, permitted fewer missteps. But trust was the currency of Society—meted out in shillings meant to be gathered, protected, and stored. Men were held to standards of honor. And young ladies were expected to have chaperones for very good reason.
Men like him, for instance. Men who would wile their way into a brother’s good graces to meet their own ends.
He glanced to Markham, whose gaze was fixed on the rector with a half smile of polite, encouraging interest. Markham had all the makings of a fine peer, but for all Markham’s future gravitas, the Stanleys remained a young, parentless bunch, more vulnerable than they could conceive, despite their insulated world.
And they’d been parentless and vulnerable for a very long time.
A thought from the prior day returned—someone should look out for them.
His gaze moved to Katherine. A pang rang in the vicinity of his heart.
She’d done her best to keep them safe and afloat. Despite her scandal—or maybe because of her scandal—she’d transformed herself into a steward for Markham and a mother for Julia. But even shoulders as strong as hers could use help to ease the burden.
Someone would look out for the Stanleys. And that someone would be him.
Because he owed Katherine for her future sacrifice, of course. And not at all because of the fierce-yet-tender feeling welling up inside his chest.
…
Katherine’s difficulty concentrating had nothing to do with the ubiquitous sound of chalk on slate. Everything she understood had been called into question. She was a stranger in her home, in her body, and in her mind. And the first time since she had begun teaching the village children, she had to force her mind back to her review of Tommy’s work.
His letters were stronger than before, and he’d misspelled fewer words. The Royal Primer hadn’t been a waste after all. Tommy had improved in only two days.
“Very good, Tommy,” she said. “Just one more line.”
Tommy beamed. “I practiced at home!”
“Did you?” Katherine’s heart swelled. “I’m so glad.”
Tommy bit his lip and resumed scratching the sliver of chalk Katherine had provided against Julia’s old writing slate. See? She nodded with satisfaction. Not all her efforts ended in complete disaster.
Drawing comfort from the sound of children writing, she wandered to the east window. Outside, the village matrons gathered around Bromton, squawking like a nosy badelynge of ducks. Bromton—Katherine raised a brow—encouraged their interest with a forward lean. If she were not mistaken, his solicitous expression bore a strong resemblance to one Markham often employed.
But that was unfair, wasn’t it? A man like Bromton did not need lessons in listening—not from Percy Stanley, anyway.
No, Bromton was simply performing the part of a consummately charming aristocrat.
Searching Bromton’s face, she could no longer discern the villain she had originally imagined. Perhaps he was a charming aristocrat. Even so, instinctively, she distrusted charm and had come to question the feudal authority of the aristocracy.
Was she, as he had accused, a radical?
Nonsense. She scowled. To judge based on character rather than birth, to believe these children worthy of education, and to believe she, though tarnished, retained something of value to offer this world was not radical. It was sense.
And, if not yet common sense, one day it would become so.
The ladies’ squawking reached frenzy stage—they truly did resemble ducks—and, instantly, rain began tapping against the roof, slow at first, but with growing intensity. The squawking quieted as the ladies departed for their carriages, one by one.
Yet another reason to suspect Bromton was a weather warlock.
Eschewing Markham, Bromton fell into step with Julia. Julia paused. He offered his arm. Following a brief, inscrutable exchange, Julia—with clear reluctance—allowed Bromton to lead her back to Markham’s carriage.
Katherine sighed. If he’d won Julia over, what hope did she have?
No one had the right to be so handsome. It simply was not fair.
The church bell chimed, signaling the quarter hour.
Katherine turned back to her class and ended her lesson in the usual fashion—listening while each of the students read a section of the Royal Primer aloud. The process was long, and, by the time they finished, the church bell had chimed yet again, the rain had weakened to a drizzle, and the drizzle had receded into mist.
After the last student had filed out of the chapel, Katherine surveyed the empty pews and then began collecting the primers.
“Lady Katherine.” The rector’s voice boomed across the sanctuary.
“Good afternoon, Rector Chandler.”
He remained by the door and quietly folded his hands behind his back. “It looks as if the worst of the storm has passed.”
“Yes.” She placed the final primer in her basket and joined him.
“The marquess,” he ventured carefully, “seems like a fine gentleman.”
She arched a brow. “Nothing has been settled.”
“And yet, he praised Southford—you in particular.”
“Did he?” she asked lightly. “I find that hard to believe. I tried to force him to leave.”
The rector chuckled. “He must appreciate a woman of spirit, then.”
Was she a woman of spirit? Resilience, certainly, but spirit? “Or,” she said, “by providing a contrast to my bad behavior, he intended to excoriate me.”
“Oh,” the rector replied dismissively. “Distrust of a new acquaintance is not at all unusual, and perfectly reasonable.” The rector’s gaze grew unusually pointed. “I would be more than happy to see such a jewel as yourself in a setting fit for a marchioness.”
“You’ve known me since I was born.”
“Your tone suggests that our long acquaintance should make your unsuitability obvious.” Mr. Chandler searched her face and then sighed. “I know that my son—”
She inhaled sharply.
“I,” he softened, “I merely wish to point out that the young often possess very stringent ideals.” He cleared his throat. “Untested ideals. I, for one, am proud of the person you’ve become and never once doubted your goodness or sincerity.”
Katherine’s limbs grew heavy as the rector’s meaning dawned—Septimus had doubted. She knew he had, of course. What she hadn’t known was that he had maligned her to his father. She sunk into the support of the wooden pew.
“There now,” Mr. Chandler continued, as he sat by her side, “I intended to reassure you.” His kindly eyes held far too much understanding. “Septimus’s choices were his own, and his illness a consequence of his work. You are no more to blame for his passing than I.”
She bit her bottom lip. Hard.
His shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “It would be a great comfort to me to see you wed.”
Wed. The word on the rector’s lips made her fate feel inevitable.
“Lord Bromton and I have only just met.” True. “There is not likely to
be an understanding.” Not as true. Panic bubbled up in her throat. “How could I even imagine leaving Southford? I’ve built my life here.”
“Built? Past tense?” he asked gently. “Come now, you are not so old as that.”
Her eyes slid toward the long rows of cemetery stone just beyond the window. “I feel ancient.”
He covered her hand with his. “And yet, I look at you and see all the possibilities of youth.” His hand came back to rest on the Book of Common Prayer. “You’ve many gifts. If you are given the chance to share them beyond our little town, will it not be your duty to do so?”
She hadn’t thought of leaving in quite those terms before.
In wanting to stay safe and restricted—“constricting her wants though she may live on a barren heath”—had she also been refusing to heed a call?
“Humility is good,” the rector continued. “A lack of courage, on the other hand…”
She blinked away a sting in her eyes. “Who would teach the children?”
“Ah,” he said. “We have come to the reason I wanted to speak with you. I—I have asked the bishop for recommendations.”
She stiffened. Unlike many rectors, who used their portion of tithes to hire a curate or vicar, Mr. Chandler had always performed his duties on his own, with an ever-present, kindly smile. Just the thought of having someone else preach a sermon or stand by the door…
“Are you planning to leave us?” she asked.
He shook his head no. “I will remain, but I feel it best—for continuity, you understand—that I share the blessings of the parish. The time has come to employ a vicar. I,” he continued, “not only feel ancient,” he laughed gently to himself, “I grow closer to the distinction every day.”
She placed a hand over her lips. “Are you ill?”
“Nothing like that, child,” he reassured, “but none of us are immortal. There comes a time we must relinquish even things we hold most dear.”
He tilted his head. She responded with a wobbly smile.
“Will you,” she asked, “introduce the likely candidates?”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “There is one candidate in particular I find of special interest.” Another hesitation. “He ran a daily school at his last parish.”
“Oh,” she said, followed by a second, “Oh,” in an entirely different tone.
His eyes searched hers. “Would you be amenable to giving up your duties?”
“Amenable.” The bridge of her nose burned. She forced a breath. “A proper tutor would be good for the children and the parish.”
He patted her shoulder. “I knew you would understand.”
“Yes.” She lifted the basket. She had to be gone. Now. “Of course, you should do what’s best.”
“Why don’t you leave those here with me? They will be safe.” He grinned. “Not to mention dry.”
She handed him the basket. It felt ridiculously akin to relinquishing her last hold.
“Lady Katherine,” he said, “you are worthy of happiness, no matter what you believe. Perhaps the arrival of the marquess has been most providential.”
Unable to find words, she nodded. They rose together and left the church, pausing on the stairs. He squeezed her shoulder one last time before heading toward the parsonage.
She watched him disappear into the brick house, filled with a hollow loneliness she’d never before experienced. Seeking solace, she unlatched the cemetery gate and stepped inside. The mist, pungent with the scent of spring, filled her lungs. Within the mossy stone walls, she found quiet. After years of rocking in a dead-calm sea, overnight, everything had changed.
The last time that had happened, she almost hadn’t recovered.
Slowly, she approached a monument. Its distinctly carved letters were yet unmarred by wear, lichen, or moss. She touched the cold, rough sandstone, tracing the letters.
S-e-p-t-i-m-u-s C-h-a-n-d-l-e-r.
Her inhale caught against a spongy mass in her throat.
She’d felt a certain comfort carrying out her daily life close to the place of his eternal rest. She’d never understood why. Today, she’d accidentally uncovered the answer. Since the Brummell incident, she’d been living the life she and Septimus would have lived together—tutoring, managing, comforting—trying to be the wife he had wanted, the lady he had believed she could become.
That is, before she had so deeply disappointed him.
One day you’ll be beautiful—if you learn to behave.
Her suppressed sob turned into a hiccup.
The other Katherine—the wanton, impulsive Katherine—had been lying in wait all along. There was nothing proper about the way she had behaved toward Lord Bromton. Nothing refined or dignified about the way she’d melted into his embrace.
She suspected if she closed her eyes, Bromton—and the sensations he aroused—would be present. The temptation was too great. She found the marquess in the darkness behind her lids replete with his half smile and his searching look.
A feathery sensation wafted down across her cheek, a lock of hair, serving as his phantom finger. And then, her senses re-created the shimmering memory of his kiss—the sensation of drifting atop pillowy heat, anchored by his iron arms and solid chest.
Heaven.
“I am sorry, Septimus,” she whispered.
What did she know of Lord Bromton? What did he know of her?
She touched Septimus’s name one last time, and then she turned. The real Lord Bromton leaned against the gate, his rain-damp hair clinging to his angled cheeks.
Her breath caught between the past and the future. A raindrop snaked beneath the twisted fabric of her fichu. She could struggle all she wanted, but, in the end, she could not deny—Bromton, for better or for worse, was her destiny.
She did not know if he were punishment or gift—or, perhaps, a bit of both.
He was dizzyingly beautiful, with an undeniable allure. His elegant clothing was neither too ostentatious, nor too refined. It simply served to communicate sartorial assurance of his consistency, and, of course, to accentuate his features. His black cravat set off the strong line of his chin, emphasizing the light, mysterious color of his eyes.
Gray. His eyes were most certainly gray.
And they were locked on her own with unabashed proprietary intent, looking straight into the center of her soul.
Chapter Six
Bromton’s carefully orchestrated ambush awaited just outside the gate—a performance constructed of masculine ingenuity meant to serve as evidence of his loyalty and care: one beloved sister rescued from the clutches of indiscretion and youthful folly. But once he’d set foot inside the cemetery, everything had changed.
Only Katherine remained—the single breathing thing amidst an eerie garden of stone. Her wet eyes, clouded with bewilderment and loss, filled with sentiments so strong they struck him behind his knees. He’d sought the trunk of the nearest tree, just to help him stand.
He didn’t need to see the stone to know whose life it marked. Grief for parents, while excruciating, was a loss that was part of the natural way. This grief, the grief that rounded her shoulders with bone-breaking sorrow, was a grief born of having been stunned. Shattered.
Her palpable grief forced him to face the truth—love was real.
Only love, the mythic force captured by poets, could bludgeon with a force strong enough to render his hellion so small and alone.
In his mind’s eye, a young man he’d never met shimmered in angelic perfection, a man decidedly unlike himself. Bromton would always be a brute, the likes of which she despised.
Chandler, by contrast, had been pious. So pious, an earl had granted him the hand of his eldest daughter. Such a man would never have questioned the existence of love. Such a man would have been the rock of his family, the heart of his father’s hopes.
Bromton hated Septimus Chandler. He hated him for being everything he could never be—a good man, a legitimate gentleman who had a rightful claim to Katherine’s devot
ion.
Bromton hadn’t such a claim, nor had he ever been the object of anyone’s devotion. Raw humiliation took the form of his most painful memory, a memory with talons that time had failed to dull.
“Giles!” His mother gathered him into her arms, smelling of air and lavender and sunshine.
“Let the boy go, Lady Bromton,” the marquess boomed. “He’s no longer a mindless infant for you to coddle.”
His father slapped his walking stick against the wall. Giles ducked behind his mother’s skirts. He was no stranger to that stick. Its sting hurt like the devil.
“I said, let him go.”
Giles clung with all his might, but his mother pried away his fingers. She looked not at him but at his fath—the marquess. The marquess pointed to the door. She would not—she could not—but she did.
Without a word or a backward glance, she left him alone to his fate.
“You,” the marquess placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, “will permit no one—not even the marchioness—to call you anything but your title. You are, by courtesy title, the Earl of Strathe, and Strathe you will remain until the day you take my place.”
Knowing his mother had left him to the marquess’s care, even though he’d belonged to her alone, only worsened his sense of shame. The spasm racking his heart never reached his face. Instead, his wet hair made cold slashes against his cheeks.
A gentleman would leave Katherine to her mourning.
He was no gentleman. He was a bastard with the audacity to call himself Bromton, and he refused to cede ground to a ghost.
Covetousness spread out about him like a greatcoat in the wind. He’d never wanted anything not his due. But, damnation, he wanted Katherine. His want unfurled in waves strong enough to shake the earth beneath his feet.
That was before she turned her gaze on him.
At first, her gaze held shock, then bewilderment, then, strangely, her eyes pled. Ribbons of her want tangled with his, looping into messy knots they’d never be able to untie.
So be it. He was nothing she needed, but, for what it was worth, he vowed to give her everything he had.
Scandal in Spades Page 8
