A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  “I promise I won’t ravish her. Or steal her trousers.”

  “Don’t make fun of her, Kit.”

  His eyes darkened. “I’m not. I wouldn’t. But—does she still remember me?”

  “I’m not sure how much she remembers, but as you and I didn’t recognize each other right off, I doubt she’ll place you.”

  “All right.” He shook his head, letting her think he’d given up. “I understand. There are too many people here tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Kit. It’s—”

  “When can I see you again?” he asked her softly. He thought that if he had more time he could spin it out into a possibility—of what he didn’t know. She had given him a chance before. Perhaps it could happen a second time. But he knew he couldn’t lose his dream again without at least a kiss between them.

  “Don’t ask,” she whispered. If he asked her to meet him again, she wouldn’t be able to refuse. “Not now.”

  “Five minutes, that’s all,” he went on, completely ignoring her reluctance. “In the room off the hall where I saw you earlier.”

  “I don’t think I even remember where it was.”

  “Ask a footman to show you to the rose reception room. Only five minutes. I beg you.”

  “I can’t ask a footman to . . .” In her mind she pictured herself walking straight there. Walking straight into trouble’s arms, her aunt would say.

  He straightened in a masterful stance. “There’s so much more that I want to know about you.”

  He waited and decided that she would not come.

  There’s so much more that I want to know about you.

  I must claim a kiss, too.

  There was more to it than that. There were more things than he could possibly explain in one evening, but it was a place to start.

  He didn’t want her to think he was a rake, but that was what he looked like. He merely wanted to see her without an audience. A kiss could seal the past, or it would open an endless avenue of doors for the future. Violet would forbid it, of course. He wouldn’t force her to kiss him.

  But already he knew he couldn’t let her marry the haberdasher. Hadn’t the man confessed he desired Violet’s inheritance as much as he did her love?

  Damn the past, he thought as he waited for her in the rose reception room, where only a soft lamp burned. Damn the future, too. Give me a kiss, Violet, and let the present take us where it will. Refuse me, and I won’t ever ask again. But don’t pity me. Don’t kiss me because you felt sorry for me once. He wanted anything but her pity now.

  The instant she appeared at the door he took her by the hand, closed the door, and swept her up against the wall. Her skirts rustled in the silence until she stilled. For several moments neither of them said a word. She stared up at him as he outlined her cheek and chin with his fingertips.

  She laid her head back against the wall, as if offering him the hollow of her throat. He bent and pressed his mouth to her throbbing pulse. He touched the tip of his tongue to it and felt her quiver. “I must be in shock,” she whispered unevenly. “I wouldn’t be letting this happen otherwise. Meeting each other here tonight was such a . . . surprise.”

  He gave a low rumble of laughter. “That’s rather like saying that the Great Fire of London was a surprise.”

  Her eyes danced with irony. “This is a very different reaction from the one you gave me when I first offered you friendship.”

  “I buried that boy in the vaults ten years ago when I left. He’s dead.”

  “He isn’t dead to me,” she said, her voice deep with emotion. “Nor does London seem to think so. And you know it.”

  He smiled. She was still a passionate supporter. “The problem,” he said, “is that London doesn’t know me. Not like you do.”

  “Nobody knows about your past?” she asked after a pause.

  “There are some people, yes. The Boscastle family, for instance. I couldn’t in good conscience work with Lord Rowan without being honest about my life. For most people it’s enough to know that I was Captain Charles Fenton’s son, and that we were two headstrong swordsmen who respected the blade and our bond.”

  “It isn’t a sin to be born in poverty.”

  “Haven’t you heard? The destitute deserve to suffer. But there’s something you have to know. It wasn’t my choice to leave you.”

  “I understood that later,” she said. “I wish I could have done something to keep you there.”

  He shook his head. “I’d have gone wild. I might have hurt you. I might have gotten involved with some very nasty people, indeed.”

  “What really happened after you left?” she asked, regarding him with the smile that made him forget she was forbidden to him. Her smile used to calm his temper when they were younger. It still affected him, but nothing about her calmed him now. She was voluptuous and bewitching; she was waking up all the demons he had put to rest. “All I remember is that you were apprenticed to a cavalry captain and that Ambrose said he drank because his only son had been killed at war.”

  “It was true,” Kit admitted. “He became something of a recluse after his son died. He drank and went out only when other people weren’t about. He used to watch me through the woods at times when he was foxed and think I was his boy’s ghost. Then I met him in the woods one day and he knew I was real and from the workhouse.”

  Violet frowned. “Did he turn you in?”

  “No. I got caught because I was careless. He went to the parish board and asked if I was up for sale. The bill had already been posted on the gate. He saw it and bought me.”

  “Oh, Kit. Please say he was kind to you.”

  He shook his head, not looking at her. “I expected more of the same treatment from him that I’d had at the workhouse. I planned to steal his money and run away at the first opportunity. Before it came Fenton adopted me. Overnight I was not only a swordsman’s apprentice; I was his son.”

  “Then he was kind,” she said in relief.

  His eyes glittered. “The first thing he told me the day he brought me home was that if he could train a regiment, he could train a rat.”

  “A rat? I suppose you got in a fight.”

  “Of course we did. I ran away that night.”

  Her eyes widened. “In Monk’s Huntley? Where did you go?”

  “To Eldbert’s house, but he was asleep. His father’s groom took me back to the captain in the rain.”

  “I wish he’d told Eldbert.”

  “I made him swear he wouldn’t. I didn’t want to look like I was desperate. I did have some pride.”

  Violet breathed out a sigh. “And everything went well after that?”

  He laughed. “Hell, no. I mistrusted the situation. He was an officer, a master-at-arms, and a lonely man who was haunted by the happiness he’d once known in Monk’s Huntley. I, as you know, was a little swine. When we set sail from England, I knew I’d been bought cheap to be resold to foreign pirates.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “That’s what Ambrose said had happened. And that the pirates would auction you off.”

  “I never saw a single pirate. If I had, I’d have probably asked to join them.”

  “Ambrose also predicted you’d be made into a eunuch.”

  He lifted one brow. “I can prove that prediction false if you’re curious, but it wouldn’t be a gentlemanly act.”

  She blinked. “I think I’ll take your word on it. Where did the ship take you?”

  “To Majorca.” He grinned. “When we reached port I spotted a bearded man in a scarlet cloak standing on the dock. I said, ‘I’m not getting off the ship. Drown me like a cat for all I care. But catch me first.’”

  “You were difficult to catch in those days,” she said, shaking her head.

  He smiled grimly. “Well, he did, but it took him three hours. That night we rode on donkeys over cobbled streets and up into winding hills to a hut where I watched how a sword was made. Soon after that we went to France so that I could study for my diploma.”


  “A sword master,” she mused. “I should have thought of that. How many duels have you fought?”

  “To the death?”

  “Oh. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to know, do I?”

  “The answer is none. I’m not saying there haven’t been times when I came close. But I made a promise to my father that I wouldn’t go off half-cocked at the least offense. He had a falling-out with a friend in France when they were brash students of the sword. It ended in a duel.”

  “He killed his friend?”

  “No. But he severed the man’s hand at the wrist so that he could never be the swordsman he was. My father was drunk and regretted it all his life. The chevalier never forgave him and called him a coward for not killing him instead.”

  “But he treated you well.”

  “So did you,” he said.

  He studied her face and fought the hunger that he felt. If only she wouldn’t look at him like that. As if she believed in him. As if perhaps, secretly, she believed that their old friendship could be revived into . . . an abiding passion? Love?

  Her vulnerability must have drawn many suitors. She had the beguiling gift of being a good friend. She listened and even now she didn’t judge him. Oh, how pleasantly sweet it felt to be himself again.

  He smiled. “And what have you been doing in the last decade or so?”

  “Nothing as exciting as you.”

  “No? I doubt that.”

  She laughed. “Well, I’ve never left England, for starters. My aunt and I have been traveling for the last year. I’ve done charity work, and I have you to thank for opening my eyes to a world I didn’t see before we met. And . . . I learned how to dance and how to use a fan to discourage advances.”

  His gaze held hers. “My compliments to your dancing masters. I assume you went through a battalion of them. You had me breathless in the ballroom, but then I can’t blame all of that on the dance.”

  “I was breathless.”

  “Where is your fan to discourage my advances?” he asked slowly.

  She glanced past him to the floor. “It’s hard to see when one is pinned to the wall. I have a feeling I dropped it when you took me in your arms.”

  “My apologies.”

  “And my compliments to you on a painless disarmament.”

  He was surprised at the force of desire her artless words unleashed. “It isn’t painless from my viewpoint.”

  “Your weakness doesn’t show,” she whispered innocently.

  He gave a laugh. “It’s all in the training. I hide it well. A sword master learns to manipulate those around him.”

  “I have heard that some ladies practice a similar technique.”

  “Which is?”

  “I think it’s provocation.”

  “Yes.” He stared into her eyes. “A refined and ancient battle strategy that I admire. Not every woman can employ it to her advantage.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Kit,” she said in a soft voice.

  He gave a disgruntled sigh. “You’re marrying one of my pupils. It does not feel like a mark of success.”

  She nodded vaguely. “Yes, I accepted his proposal last month.”

  “Only last month?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  Not hesitating, he took her face between his hands and bent to kiss her ever so softly on the mouth. He could have devoured her. Instead his lips settled on hers. She breathed a soft sigh, lowering her gaze. He glanced down at her lush breasts, straining against the delicate seams of her silk bodice. She had accepted him at his worst. He was afraid to show her that in some ways he was still desperate. And that in others he had become a master. “Why did you choose him?” he whispered, wrapping his hands around her waist.

  She looked at him through her half-closed eyes. “Your hair is darker than I remember, and my aunt chose him for me. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “How do you—”

  He kissed her so deeply that she buckled. He caught her, pinning her to his body for a brief moment of bliss before he gathered her in his arms. She stared up at him with a bewildered smile, whispering, “What are you going to do if someone comes?”

  “I swear,” he muttered, his grasp on her tightening, “that I will kill the first person who enters this room.”

  She lifted her head in alarm. “What if that person happens to be the marquess or his son?”

  “Well, of course I’m not going to hurt a child.”

  “What if it’s one of your pupils?”

  “Like Godfrey?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “What if it’s my aunt?”

  Kit turned pale at that thought. “In that case I’ll have to let her kill me. Sit with me a moment.” He led her across the room to a long chaise hidden in a discreetly curtained niche. No one could ever accuse the marquess of not providing enough convenient places to make mischief in his house. “We need more time. We need to be alone. We need—”

  “—to breathe,” Violet said, her hand lifted to her bodice. “I am too tightly bound tonight.”

  “Take my breath,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers.

  “That doesn’t help. Every time you kiss me, I feel like I’m going to pass out. Being near you makes me go faint, Kit.”

  “You won’t faint.” He rubbed her wrists through her gloves, glancing back at the door. He detected movement below the stairs, the clatter of glasses, a footman approaching. In a house like this, fortunately, the servants were trained to look the other way during an indiscretion.

  But he couldn’t even think of the name Violet in the same sentence with a word like tryst or indiscretion. He could not think clearly at all.

  Oddly, what he did think about was all that he and Violet had gone through together. Violet breaking out in the measles, Kit certain he had killed her as he carted her off inelegantly to the baron at the manor house. He could still hear Lady Ashfield wailing in panic. And how could he forget Violet standing up to Ambrose, insisting he treat Kit with respect or go away?

  She was the one responsible for Kit’s redemption. Her friendship and faith in his goodness had given him the strength to survive the workhouse. Would his repayment be to ruin her? She twined her hand around his neck and coaxed his face toward hers. He could have stretched out beside her and spent the night talking about whatever came into their heads. Or maybe just kissing.

  Why did she have to belong to someone else?

  Why did that someone happen to be one of Kit’s best-paying pupils? Not the most talented, mind you, not even one he particularly liked, but there was an implied contract between pupil and master that Kit was fairly certain did not include a clause that allowed a discount for ravishing a student’s bride-to-be.

  “Kit, stop brooding for a moment, and look at me.”

  He smiled slowly. It was good to hear her scold him. “Godfrey doesn’t know anything about your past, does he?” she asked him urgently.

  “No. Only few close friends—”

  He stared down into her eyes. An ache pulsed to life deep inside him again. “I won’t tell anyone I knew you before. It never crossed my mind.”

  “I wasn’t thinking only of me, Kit. You’ve made a name for yourself. Nothing should spoil that. I’m happier for you than I can hold inside me.”

  “Then leave him,” he said bluntly.

  “Leave him?” she whispered, her eyes evading his. “I’ve only just agreed to marry him. We cannot do this. I have to go.”

  He knew he could not stop her. Their kiss aroused not only his sexual nature but his conscience. Taking her virtue would only prove what the workhouse warden had prophesied the day that Kit had walked out the gates: He could not be redeemed at all, and in the end he would drag everyone who believed in him to hell.

  She lifted the back of her hand to his cheek. It was an ambiguous gesture, wistful and inviting at the same time. “Kit? Kiss me again, and then I must go.”

  He lowered his head, his mouth sla
nting over hers. He felt her lips soften, and for once he wished he had not become a man who listened to his conscience. He felt her lips part, and he forgot everything except the sweetness of her mouth. The ache he had denied thrummed from his fingers as they glided down her shoulder to her breasts. She warmed his blood, like winter fire and fine wine.

  He felt decadent, drunk on this small taste of her. She kissed with a sweet passion that could enslave him.

  “Kit,” she said in a deep voice.

  “Is this our first kiss or another farewell?”

  She shook her head, her fingers sliding across his mouth, to stem his questions or to end their kiss, he wasn’t sure. He was too desperate to prolong their contact to work through it.

  “I’ve thought about you, Kit.”

  “Don’t go yet.” He straightened, calling on self-denial, discipline, whatever weapon was at his disposal.

  He heard her breath catch and felt remorse shiver down the nape of his neck into his soul. Dying inside, he pulled her hand from his mouth, kissed her gloved knuckles, and lifted her to her feet from the chaise and through the curtains. Slowly her gaze lifted to his.

  He studied her as if she were a dueling opponent and his life hinged on her next move. He studied her face for nuance. He listened to the cadence of her breath for innuendo. A deadly rival if ever he had met one. What did he see in her eyes?

  Wounded innocence? No. Violet stood on higher ground. She had never wasted her time seeking anyone’s sympathy. An invitation? Kit would not insult her nor delude himself on that account.

  What he read in Violet’s expression cut deeper. He might not have imagined her brief response to him, but whatever she felt beyond poignant resignation she would not encourage.

  She had protected Kit when he was a vile, obnoxious youth. It was his turn now to protect her. He might not be a gentleman, but he had earned a place.

  He walked her to the door and checked that the corridor was empty before he let her go.

  In the past he had remained hidden in the church-yard and watched her run through the woods until she reached the top of the slope and he knew she was safe.

  Now he stayed in the shadows and waited for her to reach the well-lit corner, where she would turn and disappear. He swallowed hard as she hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder as if she still could not quite believe what had happened tonight.