by Kimberly Nee
And if he kept thinking about Katie, his breeches would grow too tight and the only movement he’d want would be to seek her out and shuck the damn things.
With a splash of foam, he jerked up from the pool and crossed the hot sand to the ocean side, where the waves came in as real waves. They broke over him as he sliced through the water’s surface and dove in. He swam until the ground was far below him. It wasn’t easy, treading in his water-logged breeches, but the scrape of fabric caused enough discomfort to keep him from thinking about Katie.
He maneuvered around until he could see the shore, and stared at the pale expanse while he bobbed on the water. He could make out Marchand Hall high above, peeking out through the trees. The house was three times the size of his home on St. Phillippe, and yet it was as suffocating as a one-room hut.
He should have married Katie when he’d had the chance. Before he blew that chance.
The current carried him a little farther from shore, then he turned to head in. By the time his feet touched the ocean floor, his arms felt as if they weighed two stone each. But it was a good sort of tired, and when he emerged he felt ready to deal with each problem head-on. Once he could lift his arms over his head.
“Do you do this every afternoon?” He froze at Lady Sally’s teasing greeting. She was standing not more than fifty paces away, dressed in deep green and slowly twirling the parasol resting on her shoulder. For a lady of fine breeding, she didn’t seem to mind staring at him, and it made him painfully aware of his state of undress. He wasn’t sure just how much she could see through his breeches. They were thick, but they were still white. Or they had been, before his dip.
“Not every afternoon, no.” He trudged across the sand to retrieve his shirt, stockings and boots. When he returned, it was to find her farther down the beach, closer to the water, but still gawking at him as if savoring every last inch.
“I don’t swim well.” The parasol slowed in its rotation but didn’t stop. Her gaze grew sloe-eyed, her chin tilting downward so she was peering up at him through flirty eyelashes. He knew the ploy well, having seen it from countless other women who tried to be coy and alluring. “Perhaps you could teach me?”
“I’m not a very good teacher. I don’t have the patience for it.” He shook his arms, trying to dry them a little faster. The longer her gaze remained on him, the more uncomfortable it made him. But if he put his shirt on too quickly, while he was still wet, he had a feeling her stare would only grow hotter. The seawater wouldn’t be good for the fabric, either.
Six years her senior, he’d known her since her birth, but he couldn’t remember her ever being so flirty with him. Perhaps it was because she had normally flirted with Aidrian. Since he had married, Rafe supposed Sally thought flirting with him was the next best thing.
The next best thing.
Slightly less than two years separated him and Aidrian. For as long as he could remember, he’d been the next best thing. When they were children, it hadn’t bothered him, but lately? Lately, he couldn’t say the same. He was tired of living in his brother’s shadow. Tired of having Aidrian held up before him as the shining example of what he should strive to become, of being reminded that he was a disappointment because he chose to travel a separate path. Tired of being told that now it was his time to step up and do the family duty. To put down roots. Produce grandchildren. Help Aidrian conquer the European markets. Maybe pursue the Oriental markets as well. All the while, not one of them ever asked him what he wanted for himself. Not one.
“I’m sure you would be a fine teacher.” Sally broke through his maddening thoughts with her calm, lemony-bright voice, adding, “Rafe,” as if she was saying something blasphemous, or, at the very least, utterly scandalous.
“I don’t have the patience for teaching. No patience and no time.” He didn’t care if water still beaded his back, but drew on the shirt and laced it. Sally looked disappointed, her lips pursing slightly. That had to be the reason why he tossed Conn to the wolves, why the lie came so easily to his lips. “Conn’s the teacher, not me.”
“But he isn’t here—” Sally stepped up to slip her arm through his and press it against her, “—and you are. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“It’s not a good idea, m’lady.” He tried to gently untangle himself from her as she pulled him into the soft pillow of her breasts. Pointless. She simply gripped more firmly. Damn it. Conn and Galen had better get here as fast as the Persephone could carry them. Sally was losing her subtle edge, becoming far more obvious. He had to be careful she didn’t become too bold. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in a compromising position with her. That would end only one way, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.
“So, we’re going to New York at the end of the month?” She pulled him from his gloomy thoughts, her pout vanishing as her parasol resumed its lazy twirl. She even smiled. “I’m so looking forward to it. The last time I was off Bermuda was when we came to visit you on St. Phillippe.”
He had to force his smile, and pulled free of her grasp. He sat upon the sand to pull on his stockings. “I haven’t been to New York, but I have been to the Carolinas several times. My advice would be to bring warm clothing. February is bound to be beyond cold.”
Her brow furrowed and the parasol stilled. “I don’t think I have the warm clothing for such travel. My cold-weather clothes won’t be warm enough much farther north. It rarely gets cold enough here to necessitate such things.”
“You might want to speak with a seamstress, then. Have one of the maids bring one from the village.” He finished pulling on his boots and rose, brushing sand from his backside. Much as he liked the beach, he didn’t want to bring it back to the house with him. “You’ll need something more than silk and linen.”
“Such as?”
“Velvet. Thick, heavy wool. Things of that nature. Warmth is the most important thing you’ll need to remember.” This time, when she slipped her arm through his, he didn’t pull away but instead led her back to the path winding from the beach, through the trees to the house. He didn’t dislike her; he just didn’t love her.
However, all hell would break loose when he informed both Sally and Lord Marchand that he would not be marrying her.
* * * * *
The windows in the music room overlooked the white expanse of beach and the beautiful turquoise water surrounding Bermuda, and as she polished the harpsichord, Katie couldn’t help but gaze out at the lovely view. Much as she loved the island, Bermuda wasn’t home. But at times, when she forgot about the work, forgot about the Hamilton family, forgot her position for a few minutes, she could look at the water and it was almost like being back in Jamaica. Perhaps she was meant to return to Kingston. Balboa would most likely give her a job. When she had told him she was leaving Jamaica, hadn’t he repeatedly told her that she would always have a job waiting for her, should she ever need to take him up on the offer? She wouldn’t have to go back to her old ways. Her heart rose more than it had in a long time. She might even be able to stay with him, although she’d have to make it perfectly clear that there would be nothing between them but friendship.
She paused, her gaze falling on a lone man on the beach. She didn’t realize it was Rafe until she saw the woman in emerald-green join him and slide her arm through his. Lady Sally. She’d know the green gown anywhere and had to turn away before tears stung her eyes again. It was difficult to decide which she hated more: crying or the fact that she was crying over Rafe. It changed nothing. The only thing that ever happened was that she suffered a blinding headache for hours after she stopped.
“Katie, have you seen Mr. Jamison?”
Katie twisted away from the window as Mrs. Bates strode into the room. “No, I haven’t. Is something the matter, Mrs. Bates?”
“Robert just came up from the harbor. Apparently Captain Sebastiano’s wife and several others have arrived. I wanted to be sure Mr. Jamison
knew.”
Katie swallowed the bitter oath. More Sebastianos. Why couldn’t theirs be a small family, or one that despised each other and stayed home all the time? Even traveling on separate ships was unusual for them. No doubt they had come for the imminent wedding. Not one of them would want to miss seeing Rafe married. Don’t think about that. “Should I go look for him for you?”
“That won’t be necessary, but if you see him, please tell him I need to speak with him.”
“Of course, Mrs. Bates.” Katie turned back to the harpsichord. Her luck couldn’t hold out much longer. The more Sebastianos, the greater the chance one of them would recognize her. If Aidrian or Vanessa were among them, she was doomed. As nice as it would be to see Vanessa, there was no way her secret would remain such. Either Vanessa would slip or she would. It was inevitable.
Dizziness washed over her, and she sank onto the harpsichord bench. How was she to avoid seeing any of them? Mrs. Sebastiano was there. While she had barely troubled to even look at Katie on that day, there was still the chance she might recognize her, and Katie didn’t think the lady would be kind about it if she did. She was the one who had ordered Rafe to shoo Katie out of her house in front of half the household servants. Subtlety was not in Mrs. Sebastiano’s nature.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Bates,” Katie muttered. She rose from the bench, but kept her head down. Playing at remorse was far preferable to watching Rafe and Lady Sally on the beach. Seeing them only made her stomach hurt.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a quick moment, then opened them again as the pain faded. “I apologize.”
“Never mind. It’s of no consequence. Go into the dining room and go over it. I need to find Mr. Jamison.” Mrs. Bates disappeared back through the servants’ doorway, mumbling, “I do wish this family traveled together. Arriving separately wreaks havoc on everything and throws the entire household into an uproar.”
The housekeeper’s voice faded as she marched away. Katie rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t possible for one person to have such miserable fortune. For six months, she’d been happy at Marchand Hall, and now? She might have to leave, quite possibly that very night. And she had no idea where she would go. She had some savings, thanks to the fair wages she was paid, but she hated to part with any of it for passage, even if that passage meant going home.
Her shoulders sank as she gathered up her cleaning supplies and lugged everything down the corridor to the great hall. There, the house opened up, with the second-floor walkways being open, as well as having a vaulted ceiling. The hall held almost as much sculpture and as many fine paintings as a museum, and the potted palms and ferns swished softly in the breeze.
She paused to let the cool air wash over her. How wonderful it would be to rip her little lace cap from her head and just let the air run through her hair. That was one thing she missed about her old life, the freedom that came with it. The ability to thumb her nose at certain silly customs, such as keeping her hair up and out of sight, and making sure her ankles remained covered. But she could just imagine the scolding she’d get from Mrs. Bates if she were caught without the cap. It wasn’t worth it.
Her heels clicked softly as she crossed the narrow corridor leading to the dining room. Martha was already there, with a woman Katie didn’t recognize. Both were busily dusting the formal dining table.
“Mrs. Bates sent me,” she said by way of greeting, dropping her bucket and mop with a heavy exhale. They clunked against the floor. “I didn’t realize you were already here.”
Martha smiled as she looked up from the tabletop. “Have you met Abigail?”
“No.” Katie took a rag from the bucket and joined them. “I haven’t. How do you do? I’m Katie.”
“Fine, thank you.” Abigail ran her cloth over the back of one chair. Her smile was more perfunctory than genuine. “Martha’s told me we’ll be preparing for two weddings soon for both her Ladyships. I find that so exciting. Everyone in the village has been talking about it.”
“People in the village already know?” Katie shook her head. “Word does travel fast here, doesn’t it?”
Martha whistled as she smoothed out the lace runner in the table’s center. “Indeed. I hadn’t thought Captain Sebastiano had proposed yet, but I overheard Lady Marchand ask Mrs. Bates to send word to Madame Fontaine, and if Mrs. Bates has already asked Madame Fontaine to come up from the village, that can only mean one thing.”
Katie looked from Martha to Abigail. “And that is? I’ve only been here a few months and there’ve been no weddings in that time. At least none I’ve had any part in. I don’t even know who Madame Fontaine is. I don’t go into the village very often.”
Abigail rolled her big brown eyes as if she couldn’t believe anyone might not know Madame Fontaine. “She is only the couturier in Bermuda. Ladies save for years to have her sew their wedding trousseau for them. She spent many years in Paris. A genius with a needle and thread. Her dresses are works of art.”
Katie sniffed at the maid’s high-handed tone. Abigail might be new, but she certainly didn’t act like it. She definitely put on airs. “I’ll keep her in mind, should I ever need a trousseau.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Katie thought she was going to offer up a sour retort, but then she smiled again. “I’m sure you will one day. One can always hope.”
Katie gritted her teeth, but kept her own serene smile firmly in place. She didn’t have to like Abigail, but she did have to work with her, so remaining civil was always the wisest choice. “One certainly can. Sometimes that’s all you have.”
Abigail’s smile could now only be described as smug. “Indeed.”
Martha cleared her throat. “We should finish before Mrs. Bates comes back or she’ll blister our ears. Especially if she hasn’t found Mr. Jamison by then.”
Katie nodded. It wouldn’t do to squabble with the new girl. But she didn’t like Abigail, and from the looks of things, the feeling was mutual. In Kingston, even the ladies who looked down their noses at her hadn’t radiated the same dislike that Abigail did. In some ways, Katie felt those other ladies would have liked her just fine, if society hadn’t dictated that she was unacceptable. For whatever reason, Abigail seemed to hate her, and Katie couldn’t recall anyone ever hating her.
She tried to put it from her mind as she set to work with the others. The footmen came in to set the table and light the lamps as they finished up and retreated to their quarters to ready themselves.
“I despise the color black,” Martha grumbled, frowning at the somber gown laid out on her bed. “When I have maids of my own, I will never make them wear black. Ever. They’ll wear a much more cheerful color. Like yellow. Or red.”
“So you plan to have maids of your own?” Katie asked with a grin. “Does Robert know about this?”
Martha chuckled. “Not yet. I’ll wait until after the wedding to drop that on him.” She sighed as she picked up her dress and moved behind the screen. “I’ve a feeling I already know the answer, but I’ll ask just the same. What do you think of Abigail?”
“I think she holds a very high opinion of herself.” Katie tugged the cap from her head and set to work loosening the pins holding her bun in place. She wanted to brush out and smooth her hair as best as she could before returning to work. And it has nothing to do with seeing Rafe again.
“She does. We’ll see how she works out.” Martha emerged from behind the screen, dressed and smoothing the front of her snowy-white apron. “Are you ready to go down?”
Katie wasn’t at all ready to go downstairs. The very thought of coming face to face with Rafe’s mother was enough to make her knees threaten to buckle. However, she couldn’t shirk her duties. On a night such as this one, the only excuse Mrs. Bates would accept would be if Katie suddenly dropped dead.
Which actually didn’t seem like too terrible an
idea for one maddening moment.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I think so.”
“Don’t look so frightened. It’s really no different, serving a large number of people. It only takes a little longer.” Martha gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “You’ll be fine.”
Katie followed Martha out of their chambers. I certainly hope so.
Chapter Eight
The kitchen staff was in a frenzy, rushing about to fill this tureen or that platter, to retrieve wine decanters or replace chipped crystal. The footmen hurried to take trays above to the dining room, with Mr. Jamison barking orders at them along the way. It was bedlam on a much greater scale than usual, and it did nothing to soothe her already rattled nerves.
Mrs. Bates informed them they would remain below for a while, as it would take Mr. Jamison and the footmen longer than usual to serve everyone.
“How many people are we serving?” Abigail asked, her eyes widening at the massive array.
Mrs. Bates counted on her fingers and frowned. “Let’s see… Our four. Captain Sebastiano, his wife and their children… Eleven. Oh, Lord, there are eleven of them. Now, watch yourself. Marcus can’t fit between you and the sideboard, Abigail.”
Her cheeks flushed, Abigail moved, bumping into Katie with enough force that Katie stumbled back, although she managed to catch herself before she lost her balance entirely.
“Take care,” she muttered, shooting Abigail a look.
“My apologies, of course.”
Abigail couldn’t sound less sincere if she tried, but Katie didn’t want to suffer Mrs. Bates’s wrath, so she merely offered up a tight smile and said to the housekeeper, “And what’re we to do whilst we wait?”
“The same thing you do every night, Katie. I want you and Abigail to make certain the drawing room is up to snuff. I’ll wager the ladies will retire there to discuss the wedding plans after supper.”
