Katherine snorted. “I have taken London by storm, and it’s not to be wished.”
“Nonsense!” Miss Watson interjected. “I was young once. And though it may not seem so now, I have seen my fair share of London. If you are shrewd, your past scandal will only serve to embellish your current triumph. You’ve come back from the ashes to claim a wealthy, handsome, titled man.”
“You’ve read too many novels,” Katherine replied.
Miss Watson squeezed her shoulders. “The gossips will eat you alive if you show any uncertainty.”
Katherine nodded slowly. Yes, she knew.
“Now, promise me you will show courage. I know you have it; I’ve seen it time and time again.”
“Very well.” Katherine’s tremulous smile filled with gratitude. “I promise.”
“I have seen the way he looks at you.” Miss Watson patted Katherine’s hand. “If you give the harpies no quarter, I am sure you will prevail.”
They embraced again, and Katherine took her leave. Outside the small cottage, she glanced up at the ominous sky. If she were lucky, she would make it home before being drenched. She started down the road toward the village with a determined stride.
Take London by storm, should she?
Perhaps she could. She hadn’t changed, but her image of the ideal had. Wanting her flaws and all, Giles had set her free. He touched her as if she were the rarest blossom. He had made her feel valued and new. She’d been a disappointment to others, but not, miraculously, to him.
I see my future, he’d said. She saw her future in him, too. He exuded power and vigor, and together, perhaps, they could wrestle both their fates, and win.
Katherine tightened her coat against a sudden gust. One fat raindrop hit her cheek, rolling like a caress over her skin. Another followed, and then another, and suddenly she was standing in the center of a deluge.
Southford was more than a mile off. She exhaled in frustration and turned swiftly down the lane; she headed to the back entrance of The Pillar of Salt.
She swung the back door wide and then struggled to close it against the wind.
“Lady Katherine!” Lizzy grabbed the handle and helped her pull back the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Lizzy,” Katherine said breathlessly, “might I stay in the kitchen until the worst passes? I promise I will not get in your way.”
“Busy night,” Lizzy said, with a glance toward the entrance to the taproom. She bit her lip and then, slowly, she smiled. “We can’t be sending you out in the rain, can we? Come upstairs. We’ve one room left. I’ll light a quick fire, and we’ll get you dry and warm.”
“Oh, thank you,” Katherine said with a swish of her damp overdress.
Lizzy grinned. “Thank me later.”
Chapter Nine
“Free and frolic we’ll couple gratis”—vulgar fun, these drinking songs—“thus we’ll show all the human race…” Bromton stretched his voice to hit the note. “That the best of the marriage state is…Blowzabella’s and Collin’s case!”
Like men surrounding the table on which he stood, Bromton celebrated the end of the song with a deep swig of gin. Ahhh. He cast his arms wide. Had he been bothered by something? He couldn’t quite recall. Blue ruin melted everything into cozy joll—jollity. He smiled at his tankard.
Now that was good reason to cheer.
“Huzz—” He stopped mid-yell, interrupted by a fuzzy, feminine face scowling up at him. Scowl? Why would anyone scowl? Everything was fine. Just fiiiine.
“Enough, my lord,” the woman said. “It is time to get down off the table.”
“Aww, let ’em alone, Lizzy,” said Grizzly.
Bromton grinned at his new friend. But, wait. Grizzly was not his name. His name was Smitty…or Smithy…or, possibly even, Spitts. Then again, Hopkins sort of rang a bell as well. He shrugged. Salt of the earth, whomever the man was. Bromton loved Hopkins-Smitty-Smithy-Spitts.
“Your room is readied,” the grouchy woman said, punctuating her words with a surprisingly strong tug to his breeches.
Hold on a moment—he looked down at his leather riding breeches—one did not tug a marquess. Then again, he was not really a marquess, was he?
Persistently annoying, that realization, and, always intruding at precisely the wrong time.
He waited for the usual sense of shame to din his senses. His mood did not dim. Was it the worst thing in the world not to be a marquess? Hopkins-Smitty-Smithy-Spitts here seemed to be doing well, thank you very much.
And since Bromton had given up airs and decided to join the other men, he’d been having a marrrrvlelous time.
He felt another tug to his breeches. The serving woman—he drew his brows together—Lizzy! Her name, he remembered. He smiled. She was serving-woman-Lizzy-who-brewed-fine-tipple, and, her lips were moving. He concentrated until her message penetrated his gin-soaked brain. Ah, yes. His room was ready.
A pint, a room, and a basin. That’s why he’d come into The Pillar in the first place. He’d accomplished the pint part. Accomplished? No, he’d obliterated that goal. He closed his eyes, imagining the sensation of splashing warm water against his skin. Yes, indeed. On occasion, he had the best ideas. But to get upstairs he’d have to first get down off the table.
He put his hands on his knees and leaped down. He tottered for just a moment but managed to stay upright—much to the glee of his newfound friends. They hoisted their tankards.
“Huzzah for the Marquess of Bromton!” Smitty-Spitts said.
“Huzzah!” the men answered.
“Huzzah!” he repeated, before tossing back his last swallow. Part of it, anyway—his shirt absorbed the better amount.
“A good rest will do you.” Lizzy looped her arm through his and then led him to the stair. “I assume you want to get nice and clean before you return to your betrothed.”
Damn. His betrothed. His betrothed was decidedly something—someone—he should not have forgotten. He hadn’t forgotten. Not really. He could never forget Katherine. Not after the rain-drenched kiss they’d shared. He’d just drowned out the curse that had been ringing in his ears.
Lizzy stopped at the base of the stairs. He swayed a moment and grasped the baluster for support.
“Absolutely, Lizzy. Mussst get back to my be-betrothed. Observant you are.” He leaned close to Lizzy’s ear. “She told me I was observant.”
“His betrothed?” asked Smitty. “You’ll be in right trouble if there’s a betrothed involved.”
“Leave him alone, Smitts,” said Lizzy.
Smitts. Ah, that was it. He nodded toward Smitts.
“I’m not in trouble. Why-shud-I-be?” Funny how the words all ran together. He tried again. “Why-shou-I.” Hopeless. “Lady Katherine doesn’t even,” he hiccupped, “know I have returned.”
“Ohhh, Lady Katherine!”
“Better luck than the other gents.”
He frowned. Had that man even been present a moment ago?
“You’ll need it.”
The clank of tankards sounded on all sides.
Bromton shook his head no. “Shouldn’t talk about the lady like that.” His threatening advance was halted by Lizzy.
“Leave ’em be,” she said. “You are all drunk. Now, up to the room with you.”
“Felicitations,” Smitty called.
See? He’d known that one was a good fellow.
When they reached the top stair, Lizzy turned him toward a long corridor.
“Lizzy, you have fine hospitably…hostility.” That certainly wasn’t right. “Well, you know.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I know.”
She guided him past several doors before stopping at the one farthest from the stairs. He leaned against the wall for support while her keys jangled.
His brain had gone right mossy. He frowned. Yesterday, he’d gone to London to obtain a special license and a ring. He patted his waistcoat pocket to a reassuring crinkle. This morning—he scowled—this morning he�
��d made a dreadful mistake. And now…
Now, he’d soused himself to shake his mother’s curse.
Another mistake, clearly. Although he’d liked spending time with the men below—shocking—but what he really should have been doing was finding a way to make certain his mother’s curse would not come true. But how?
“Lizzy,” he slurred, “p-pardon my asking, but what makes a good husband?”
Lizzy chuckled. “A good income, of course.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not en-nuff.”
Lizzy’s smile turned saucy. Her gaze dropped to the fall of his breeches. “You have what it takes, I imagine.”
He blinked.
“Don’t you worry, my lord.” She patted his arm. “You’re safe. Lady Katherine’s my friend.” She flung open the door and winked. “And I think you’ll find your answer inside.”
She nudged him into the room and then closed the door. Her laugh echoed down the hallway as she returned below stairs.
An answer? In the smallest chamber of a coaching inn?
He was no more enlightened on this side of the door than he had been on the other.
What did make a good husband? When he’d set out to woo Katherine, his qualifications hadn’t been his concern. Did he have what it took—male parts aside?
Julia had given him a clue, hadn’t she? Kindness. He’d always been responsible, but, unfortunately, responsible was not the same thing as kind. Then again, he’d never tried to be kind, had he?
He’d never downed illegal gin with a group of farmers before today, either. He could try to be kind…for Katherine.
Somehow, she’d become more than just a means to an end. She was like…like seasoning on supper, an addition that made everything taste good.
…And without her everything would again taste bland.
Terrible thought.
He stepped closer to the warm glow emanating from the hearth and rubbed the haze out of his eyes. Most of the room was in shadow, but a single candle lit a steaming basin on a stand. He swayed over to the stand and leaned forward, allowing wet heat to curl fingers of steam around his face.
He hadn’t meant to stay at The Pillar so long…or drink so much. Rayne and Farring were probably enjoying the company of his betrothed right at this moment. Farring was effortlessly kind. He scowled. And Rayne could charm the garters off a spinster with a single smile, if he were so inclined.
Best not be absent for long.
He peeled of his coat and waistcoat and tossed both in the vague direction of the bed. He peered into the mirror. Wind-burn and gin left his cheeks scoured. A splash of hot water soothed. He scrubbed off whatever dirt was left from the road and then, slowly, he stretched his neck from side to side. An improvement, yes. But not quite enough. He undid his cravat and loosened his ties. Then, he pulled the voluminous linen over his head.
A feral hiss sounded from the recesses of the room.
He finished shrugging out of the shirt and then turned. Firelight cast otherworldly hues in strange ribbons of light. He blinked. And then blinked again. In the far corner of the room sat his betrothed—a vision in a plain, white shift.
“Katherine?”
She emerged from the shadows, her shift fluttering as she moved.
He squeezed his eyes closed, shook his head. Then, he opened his eyes again.
“Are—are you an apparition?”
“Like a ghost?” she asked.
“Like an angel.” She must be an angel. An angel hovering just beyond his reach.
She stepped close enough for him to catch her scent.
“You, of all people, should know I am no angel.”
Blue ruin’s drunken web held him captive in the strange sensation that she was, indeed an angel. He stood, dead still, awaiting absolution. But even an angel couldn’t absolve him of his lies of omission, or the taint of his blood.
I pray for the poor child you intend to wed.
The woman standing before him was most certainly not a child. Her auburn hair cascaded in clouds over her bare shoulders. She lifted her face to his with a hazel gaze that no longer held any secrets, a gaze as pure as mountain spring water. His fingers itched, yet he did not dare touch. What he touched he ruined.
I pray for the poor child…
Katherine had emerged from her scandal nearly unscathed, only to be trapped, with a little help from her brother, by a scoundrel. His actions suddenly struck him as grossly unfair.
“Angel,” he whispered, half-broken.
“Giles,” her voice was heart-meltingly gentle, “I am neither angel nor ghost.”
No. She was a beautiful woman. And he was a scoundrel—a scoundrel in love.
Good God, love. Love was the feeling sweeping through him like a current, tingling on his fingers and toes. Love was the reason he was coated in both terror and desire. And love was the light that bathed Katherine, making her appear angelic.
But she wasn’t an angel. She was his.
Tentatively, he reached out. Heavens, her skin was soft. She pressed her cheek into his hand, closed her eyes, and sighed.
“I want to hold you again.” And again. And again. His voice came out ragged and pleading.
“Ah well,” she said. “A marquess must have whatever a marquess wants.”
He lifted his other hand and cupped her precious face.
“Must he?” Once he had believed himself due every honor. In fact, he’d taken his “due” without thought or appreciation. No, he did not have marquess’s blood. But, even if he did, would his blood give him rights others were denied? His mind grasped for some cohesive answer. “I think not,” he answered his own question.
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” she replied. “Have you changed?”
No. Circumstances had changed. But he wanted to change. Form himself into a new answer to an old question. A surge of exhilaration—hope and fear entwined—made him sway.
Terrifying, that.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Whatever for?”
His mind tumbled through many reasons but landed with a thud on, “I’m drunk.”
“Oh,” she said with a wry smile. “I hadn’t noticed.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Are you saying you are at my mercy?”
“I should be…I should be a better man.”
“Should you?” She pondered the question. “That would be unfortunate, I think. A scandal and a paragon could never unite.”
“You are not a scandal.” He brushed the hair from her face and then traced the tresses as they snaked down her throat. “And I am most certainly not a paragon.”
“We are alone in a bedchamber, and you’ve been tiresomely distant.” She curled against his chest as if coddled in an embrace. “You said you wanted to hold me. I suggest you carry on.”
He wrapped her in his arms. Her scent flooded his nostrils and he submerged, head swimming. Her warmth melted the stubborn pain that even gin had not dulled. He could stand like this all evening, feeling her breath, her weight, her softness.
Reverently, he kissed the wayward line of her part. He loved her. How impossible. Somehow, he’d actually fallen in love with his betrothed.
The organ thumping in his chest unfurled like a flag and a lightness entered his being. The feeling united with a word—gratitude. Had he known how light gratitude could make one feel, he would have attempted the emotion long ago. Then again, pride, guarded by pomp and circumstance, left little room for appreciation.
How sad.
He’d never live that way again. He would find another way.
He ran his knuckle down her cheek. “Katherine, my love, I promise I will be a better man.”
…
Impossible to reconcile this being with the man who’d nearly ravaged her on top of her brother’s billiards table. That man was no gentle soul. He was forged of fire, hard and fierce. This man called her an angel, but that man was seraphim—a warrior angel who kindled flames that could either purify or consume
.
This man was flesh, and he held her as if she were something infinitely dear.
This is what she wanted—had wanted for longer than she could recall. But what this was, she dared not explore. For now, it was enough to be ensconced in the marquess’s arms.
It was as if she’d been a lamp wick burning low and he, the enclosing glass. Light that had been dim, wasteful even, was now brilliant incandescence. Her ears were alive to sound and each inhale was suffused with scent. He took her face back into his hands and stared into her eyes with a raw mix of longing, struggle, and awe.
“Is this my brute?” she asked.
As he shook his head no, the muscle in his back rippled under her hand. Temptation overwhelmed. She kissed the flesh of his shoulder.
“Mercy,” he breathed.
She caressed his spine to the narrow V of his waist. He trembled under her touch.
“I won’t,” he said haltingly, “dishonor you.”
“Mmm,” she hummed noncommittally as his chest hair tickled her cheek. “Is it your office to decide?”
“Yes.” A solemn vow.
So solemn, in fact, she had to suppress a laugh.
Men.
They fancied themselves the only ones capable of interpreting and defending the moral order. And although she balked at authority, had she not been complicit in their scheme whenever she’d looked to Septimus to define what was good and right?
The question gave her pause. She reconsidered her past with new eyes.
Septimus had relished the false mantle of his superiority and had lashed out when they had both fallen short of his ideal. But Septimus had been as much to blame as she. How could she have been solely responsible? She’d had no experience, only a desire that matched his own.
Her grief and shame—once impenetrable—cracked.
Giles had never pretended to have answers. In fact, he’d challenged her for being so very sure of her own. They were just two beings—flawed, imperfect—struggling to master this thing between them that had seized control the moment he’d touched her hand.
“So,” she queried, “are you telling me my honor, and yours, are safe?”
“Yes.” Another vow.
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