by Julia Quinn
“And I am not a snob,” Hugh continued abruptly. “I only meant that it’s just as well Captain Oakes is besotted of Miss Peyton. He and Georgie would never suit. Never.”
And with this apparently the final say on the matter, he took himself off.
Chapter 13
At dinner that evening, Neill waited while Miss Emily Mottram and her great-aunt and chaperone, Lady Diane Nibbleherd, were seated before taking his place between them. Kate, who’d avoided Neill while the guests had gathered in the drawing room before dinner, had yet to make her entrance in the dining room. She was probably still lecturing poor Finchley on irrigation systems.
His first meeting with her had not gone as planned. He certainly hadn’t expected to come upon her in the arms of another man, her head tilted invitingly for his kiss. Had she shown the slightest reluctance to be in the bastard’s arms, things would not have gone nearly so civilly. But she hadn’t, and so he had simply removed the fellow, dutifully conscious of the role damn Peyton had thrust him into but far more conscious of the surging jealousy coursing through him.
And after he’d dealt with the man—who’d turned out to be his hostess’s brother—he’d looked down into her face and for one wondrous moment her eyes had widened, and her mouth had essayed the beginnings of a smile and he had felt that now, finally, after four years at war, he had come home. It had taken all of his self-restraint not to take her in his arms and kiss her.
But even as he gazed hungrily into her lovely, fey countenance, he had seen her recall the circumstance that had led to their estrangement, and her expression had grown masked and impenetrable. It was disconcerting. The Kate he’d left had never hid her emotions behind a polished façade; she hadn’t owned one. But she did now, and highly polished it was. The slight girl had become a striking woman, her cheekbones seemed higher, her nose more delicately fashioned, her eyes larger and darker and mysterious.
When she did arrive at the table, she would be placed between Albert Hunt and Louis DuPreye. As the affair between Albert Hunt and Lady Fourveire—seated farther down the table—was an open secret, and Louis DuPreye was a married gentleman, this suited Neill very well. He would not do well having to watch eligible bachelors ogling his Kate.
And she was, and always had been, his Kate—despite how badly, nay, how disastrously he had mucked things up four years ago. He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been. But then again, thinking back, perhaps he could. He’d been an arrogant, brash young ass. He’d always assumed he’d marry Kate—though he’d never made mention of the fact to her, waiting for her to grow up as he had—but with her sixteenth birthday, he’d began noting the way the other lads watched her and deemed it time to claim her for himself.
He’d applauded himself on the noble deference he’d shown her. He hadn’t even kissed her, let alone declared himself. He’d been a model of propriety. He had said and done nothing to her with which her father could take issue. Indeed, he’d been in a self-congratulatory mood the day he’d gone to see Mr. Peyton to ask his permission to court her. He certainly hadn’t anticipated Marcus Peyton’s refusing him. Why would he? Neill was intelligent, well made, healthy, and his family was old and noble and very rich.
He had been humiliatingly wrong.
Marcus Peyton had been blunt. He considered Neill “ramshackle,” “loose in the haft,” “irresponsible and reckless,” and while he had “some hope” that time would “make a man” of Neill, he did not consider him there yet. But the charge that had stung most had been that he, Neill, “had, at best, no more than a passing acquaintance with the concept of personal honor.” Neill had many sins to account for. He had never denied that. But his honor was possibly the only thing he had never hazarded.
His father’s lack of personal honor, demonstrated by his public display of grief while mourning Neill’s mother at the same time he was getting ready to install his mistress in her place, had instilled in Neill a deep sense of loathing for all such dishonesty.
But if Peyton considered him dishonorable, so, too, must all of Burnewhinney. It was eye-opening, to say the least. Moreover, Peyton did not think Kate had seen enough of the world to choose so “unpromising a young devil when she might have an earl or even a marquess.”
Mr. Peyton had gone on to explain, quite pleasantly, that Kate deserved all those things her mother would have wanted for her had she lived, and that included gaiety, frivolity, a proper debut in society, a few seasons in London, and a wide choice of suitors. As her father, he intended that she get them.
Neill, shocked and embarrassed though he was, had still argued his case and argued it passionately. Eventually, he had gained one small concession: Peyton would not unequivocally say “no” to his suit if Neill promised not to pay court to Kate, or attempt in any way to engage her emotions—which he considered childishly susceptible—until after she had made her bow and reached her eighteenth year. He would give Neill a chance to prove he was indeed, an honorable man. And if Neill refused? Mr. Peyton vowed to ban Neill entirely from the premises.
Angry and humiliated, Neill left Bing Hall and promptly went off to get drunk. Except Kate had ambushed him on his way. He could still see her face, impish and flirtatious and wholly desirable. And as he’d stared at her, he’d realized that he not only wanted to marry her because he’d always assumed he would but that he truly loved her.
He hadn’t any notion of what to say or how to say it or even what his own promise to her father left him to say. His honor, the one thing he had never risked in his short but brilliant career as a rakehell, insisted that he abide by Peyton’s rules. So he had done exactly nothing.
Until she’d kissed him.
It had taken every ounce of will to keep from swooping her up and simply carrying her to his father’s stable. But … This was Kate. If he took her in his arms, if he told her of his love, hell, if he even asked her to marry him, he would lose her. And he did not want her for a kiss or an hour’s kisses or an afternoon, or a night, a week, or a year. He wanted her forever.
The war between willful youth, used to having his way, and emerging man, willing to sacrifice his immediate desire for a future goal, was never so silently or savagely fought. He shuddered under her innocent young kiss; he broke into a sweat at the feel of her hands splayed so carelessly over his chest; he ground his teeth in frustration, as for the first time in his young life he realized what his black reputation might cost him. He could not let that happen.
But he couldn’t stay nearby for two years, either, always wanting and never having, unable to speak as boys, then men, clustered around her, always wondering if she was kissing someone else. There was only one thing for it: He must join the army. And that is what he’d blurted out, then made it worse by being unable to explain that he must leave because he loved her and could not yet court her. When he tried to hint at his reasoning, he’d only made it worse by calling her a child.
She’d told him to go to hell.
And in a sense he had; he’d bought a commission in the cavalry and gone to fight in France.
He hadn’t meant to be gone so long but, as though to make up for taking so long to emerge, his sense of duty would not be gainsaid. He must see Napoleon defeated. It was his atonement. It was his obligation. It was who he had become. But each letter from one of Kate’s brothers had set his hand trembling as he opened it, afraid to discover if she had become engaged.
Now, finally, the little Corsican had been well and truly trounced and he was free of obligations and responsibilities and he’d kept his word to her father and finally he could speak except … except that Fate and damn Tom Peyton had stuck him in the role of Kate’s chaperone, and honor, that ever-exacting bitch, demanded he not importune her while she was under his protection. And by God, he would be honorable. He would not give her father any excuse to refuse his suit.
“Are you thinking of the war, Captain Oakes?” the pretty brunette beside him asked.
“Pardon me, Miss Mottram?”
“Ah,” he said. Young ladies liked to hear tales of heroism and derring-do. He wished that was all there was to war. “I was, indeed, thinking of a battle.”
“And did you win it?” she asked, wide eyes bright with hero worship.
“I did not,” he answered.
“Oh,” she said, looking disappointed.
“I was ordered to leave the field.”
“Oh,” Miss Mottram repeated, as Kate appeared on Mr. DuPreye’s arm. Kate’s color was high, and there was just a hint of disquiet in her manner that most people would have missed. But he was attuned to every aspect of Kate’s countenance and the unspoken vocabulary in her gaze and gesture. He could only think that he was the cause of her ill ease and felt guilty for depriving her of her enjoyment in the party.
“… unhappy. I suppose one must follow orders, however.”
“Excuse me?” He’d forgotten his manners, so intent on Kate he’d only heard the last words spoken by Lady Nibbleherd, Miss Mottram’s great-aunt.
“I said you looked none too happy at being ordered to withdraw from the field,” the old tabby said.
“I was most unhappy at the time,” he said slowly, fully aware that Kate, despite the fact that her head was turned toward her dining companion, was listening. “But I understand now that I was not ready. I was too young and too impetuous, quite full of myself. Indeed, had I taken the field, I might well have lost all.”
“You mean your life and those of your men.” Miss Mottram nodded wisely.
He did not answer her and caught a frown puckering Kate’s pale brow.
She had always looked like some confectioner’s fantasia, a wee thing created of spun sugar, gossamer light, pale and shimmering, so fragile she might melt away in the morning dew. The years had made her seem even more unearthly. Yet, she looked older, too, riper, no longer sprite but faerie queen. Regal, self-sufficient, a woman who knew what she wanted. Her white blond hair glowed with the same health that brushed a rosy hue across the delicate cheekbones and in her full lips. Everything about her was brighter, clearer, lighter. Everything but her eyes. They had darkened into something more complicated, deeper, more intense and intoxicating: pansies in shadow, the Cretan sea at midnight.
She cast a quick, annoyed glance at DuPreye. He was leaning too close to her and when her gaze moved from him, his own dropped to her cleavage. He caught Neill’s glare and only shrugged, unembarrassed. Neill’s jaw tightened, and DuPreye turned his attention to his other companion.
“I believe you know Miss Peyton,” Lady Nibbleherd said, marking Neill’s interest.
“Yes. Our families own adjoining land.”
“Your father is Sir John Oakes, is he not?” Miss Mottram asked. “I heard he is doing poorly. I’m so sorry.”
Neill’s father was, in fact, doing very well, but had given out poor health as the reason he had removed his young wife and adolescent sons to more convivial Italian climes, leaving the farm in Neill’s hands.
“Thank you, miss,” he replied. “He is as well as circumstances allow.”
“So, you have known Miss Peyton all her life?” Lady Diane continued.
“I have.” And loved her through half of it.
“Tell me,” Miss Mottram said, “was she always so … sensible?” Then hastened to add, “Not that she isn’t absolutely charming, but she makes me feel most jeune fille, and I believe I am her elder.”
“But by a few months,” Lady Nibbleherd hastened to put in, and from the quick startled glance Miss Mottram cast her, Neill assumed the few months were more likely a few years.
“Really?” He cocked his head. “How does she do that?”
“Well, she doesn’t talk about fashion,” Miss Mottram said with evident relish. “Not much, anyway. She isn’t intimate with any of the pinks of the ton or the very fashionable ladies. She hasn’t been to the theater or the opera even though she’s had two full seasons. And yet she is so confident and so … dry. She quite talks to the gentleman as if, well, she was a gentleman. One could almost forget she is a young lady.”
At this, Neill nearly laughed. He doubted anyone could forget for an instant that Kate was a woman. Certainly not if they’d ever seen her with her eyes flashing and her hair rippling in the wind, laughing as she had on the manor steps that afternoon.
“She is very young,” Lady Nibbleherd said, pursing her lips knowingly. “Often the very young affect an air of certainty to cover up their uncertainty. But if she hopes to find a husband, she would be better served by admitting her vulnerabilities. Gentlemen do not like a strong-willed, exuberant woman.”
“Do they not?” Neill asked, trying hard not to smile. He loved Kate exactly because she was headstrong and … exuberant.
“No,” Lady Nibbleherd said. “I have been married four times, and I know what gentlemen like.”
“I am sure you are most knowledgeable.”
“Well, I am.” She sniffed, mollified. “I will say that Miss Peyton conducts herself in a more genteel manner now than she did when she came out. I daresay she wouldn’t have received any proposals that first year except for her father’s wealth.”
Neill’s interest sharpened. “She received marriage proposals?”
“You didn’t know?” Lady Diane asked.
“Of course, he didn’t, Auntie,” Miss Mottram cut in. “He was away fighting the Frogs.”
“Hm,” Lady Diane said. “Well, Miss Peyton did receive a few offers. And a few more this last season, which leads me to believe she might finally be developing a feminine comportment. If she hopes to snag a—become a countess, she will have to. Briarly might not be very exacting, but his sister advises him—or so I am told—and she is.”
Neill frowned. Kate had been quite anxious for him to apologize to Briarly, and later she’d been very eager to promote herself to Lady Finchley. And through her to the earl? Would his Kate have worried so much over appearances? He did not think so. Perhaps, he realized, she had changed. Perhaps, his heart pounded dully in his chest, she was no longer his Kate.
“Well, I think Miss Peyton is formidable,” Miss Mottram piped in, dragging his thoughts back to his present company. “Yes. That’s what I think. She’s a most formidable young lady, and I admire her tremendously even if she does frighten me a bit,” she said, darting a quick glance at Kate, who was surreptitiously watching their exchange.
She could not know what was being said—the table was too wide and the conversation up and down its length too animated—but her interest was evident. DuPreye leaned closer and murmured something in her ear. Her cheeks abruptly flamed with color as Neill caught a brief glimpse of his sleeve brushing Kate.
The bastard had touched her.
Fury boiled up inside him. He wanted to lunge across the table, scattering crystal and china, take DuPreye by the throat, and shake him senseless. He did not. Four years ago he might have given in to the impulse, but this was not about him or DuPreye, it was about Kate. She would be mortified to be made the subject of a scene.
So, instead, he carefully folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate, turned to his dining companions to excuse himself, then rose. He strolled down the length of the table and around to the opposite side. The dinner service had not yet started, and several people were still standing in conversation, so his movement was not remarkable. He made his way toward Kate, who turned her brightly colored cheek away from him, fearing no doubt he was about to haul DuPreye from his chair and hurl him across the room. He would have liked to.
But, he only smiled and set his hand on the back of DuPreye’s chair. Leaning down and pitching his voice so only DuPreye could hear him, still smiling, he said, “If you cause Miss Peyton so much as one soupçon of discomfort, if the shade of her cheek changes by as much as a degree, if you touch her, any part of her with any part of your person, I promise you I shall brea
k every bone in your hand. Do I make myself clear?”
He did not wait for DuPreye to answer. Instead, he straightened, clapped DuPreye on the back in an overt display of bonhomie, and returned to his seat.
Throughout the rest of the dinner, the creamy purity of Kate’s complexion remained unchanged.
And DuPreye’s remained white.
As the party finished their dessert and waited for their hostess to lead the ladies out, Kate glanced for the hundredth time at Neill. She was entirely too aware of him for her peace of mind, too aware of the changes time had wrought in him. His face, once so easy to read, was guarded by a smooth and somber expression. The animation that marked his movements had vanished, leaving him still. He was changed. Too changed?
She’d been trying not to look at him all evening, certain others would note it if she did. But then he’d become deeply engaged in conversation with Miss Mottram and she’d found herself staring and all of a sudden her mind’s eye was filled with memories of their last meeting, of the taste of his lips, the rock hardness of his chest, the wild, hunted expression in his eyes. She’d fled back to her home from that purloined kiss and spent the next two days sobbing silently into her pillow, pleading illness rather than providing her family with explanations.
Neill had written; she’d torn the letters to shreds, unopened. He’d appeared at the door, demanding an interview; she had him sent away, knowing that even Neill wasn’t going to break into their home uninvited. Though part of her wished he had. Why would he? Only a man madly in love would do such a thing. Neill, had he been madly in love, certainly would have. He would have stormed the castle and breached the dragon’s den. But Neill wasn’t madly in love.
But he would be.
When she’d done crying and abusing him, when she’d given up trying not to love him, when it had become clear that her heart was profoundly loyal and that once given it could not be taken back, she had rallied and vowed that when Neill Oakes returned, he would return to a woman. Not a child. One with experience—which her two London seasons had garnered her—one who’d been kissed—which she had. In other words, a woman who was his match.
