by Mary Balogh
“Oh, how splendid,” Kate said. “Bath has always been a place I have longed to visit. Do tell me about it. Is it true that the color of the buildings is so white that the traveler is quite blinded when approaching the city?”
Lord Poole quite happily fell into a conversation on the merits of Bath and its lamentable decline as a fashionable resort in recent years. Kate listened with half an ear while her mind raced with excitement. Perhaps she would not even have to wait until she heard from Aunt Priscilla. Someone in the house—one of the servants, surely—must know where Heathfield Court was. She began composing in her head a letter to Lord Lindstrom. He must be the same Lord Lindstrom as had traveled with Lord Stoughton. His son was of an appropriate age. Surely he was the same man.
Nicholas was stretched out on the grass at the northern end of the lake, one knee raised, half-closed eyes staring up at the clouds that were scudding across the sky. He had a blade of grass between his teeth. It had been a tedious week. He hated inaction, but really there had been almost nothing he could do in those days but wait. He had not even had the mental stimulation of talking to Katherine and arousing her ire. They had exchanged scarcely a word since that afternoon on the beach.
Avoiding her had not proved difficult at all. It seemed that she was even more bent on staying away from him than he was on shunning her company. He missed their verbal exchanges. He ached to touch her. He had not realized until this week how much physical contact he had had with her since his arrival at the Abbey. Even the touch of her hand on his arm when he led her into the dining room had been something. Now nothing.
In fact, the only serious purpose that had given meaning to his days had been observing his self-imposed task as a watchdog. At all times of each day he knew where Katherine was and where Uppington was. But even that task had provided little excitement. It seemed that Katherine was no fool. Most of the time she was well capable of looking after herself. Only once had he had to even attempt a rescue. And even then it had been unnecessary. A regular check in the billiard room had shown him one afternoon that Uppington was no longer there. Katherine was alone in the library. It did not take much ingenuity to guess where Uppington had disappeared. But Nicholas had not had to use his practiced entrance and speech. He had almost bumped into Kate on her way out of the library with Russell. Uppington, presumably, was still inside, communing with a few thousand books. Nicholas had not looked inside to make sure.
And for this afternoon she would be safe. She was wise enough to stay with the large group. If Uppington or anyone else suggested a walk or another row in the boats, then he would make sure that he was one of the group. Afternoons like this should not be allowed, Nicholas thought, taking the blade of grass from his mouth and dropping it onto the ground. Sunshine and heat and the droning of insects made one think of love and the soft, warm body of a woman. Making love on the cool grass with the sound of water lapping close by.
Nicholas yawned and closed his eyes. It would be teatime soon, as soon as the boats arrived with Katherine and the others who had been left behind on the first trip. Then the action would start. Then he would see what he would see. Dalrymple had not liked the idea at all. But he would do his part. There was no doubt about that.
“Your letter from Nicholas Seyton showed him happily settled in Shropshire, my lord?” Sir Harry Tate asked Lord Barton half an hour later, when everyone was seated on blankets and busily engaged in eating the sumptuous banquet the cook had sent with two footmen.
“Yes, indeed,” Lord Barton said. “It was most gratifying, you know, to have such a prompt reply to my inquiry. I would have liked to shake my cousin’s son by the hand before he left, but one cannot help feeling that his removal to his own property is in the best interests of all concerned.”
“My feelings exactly,” Sir Harry said. “Your letter hinted that perhaps he did not intend to stay in Shropshire for any length of time, though, Dalrymple, did it not? It seems to me that perhaps Mr. Seyton does not know when he is well-off.”
“Oh?” Lord Barton looked up sharply, a lobster patty halfway to his mouth.
Charles Dalrymple glanced briefly at the earl and then looked more meaningfully at his friend. “He did not say that he plans to leave, Harry,” he said pointedly.
Sir Harry was examining the wine in his glass. He had failed to notice either his friend’s look or the emphasis of his words. “Did he not mention France?” he asked.
“France?” Lady Toucher asked. “Now, what would the poor boy be thinking of to consider spending all his money on a journey abroad? And in such troubled times.”
“I do not believe he has any firm plans for such a journey, ma’am,” Charles Dalrymple said quickly, directing another pointed glance at an impervious Sir Harry. “Merely telling me of what he dreams to do one of these days.” He laughed with exaggerated brightness. “Much in the way that I dream of visiting America someday. I doubt if I shall ever do it.”
“Oh, come now, Dalrymple,” Sir Harry drawled, “I thought you told me that Seyton had discovered something.”
“Yes, quite right,” his friend said heartily, cutting off Sir Harry in the middle of his sentence. “You will be pleased to know, ma’am, that Nick discovered that his property is far more prosperous than he expected. He was being humorous, I believe, in recounting all the extravagant things he can now do. He mentioned France and Italy. I believe even India was named.” He laughed. “I am sure he was merely having a laugh at himself. The letter was quite a private one you know, and Nick knows that I always understand his humor.” His look at Sir Harry this time was little short of a glare.
And this time Sir Harry intercepted it. “I do beg your pardon, Dalrymple,” he said with a sigh. “You did say when you shared parts of the letter with me that you did so in strictest confidence, did you not? Seyton’s family, of course, will be only too happy to know that his situation is somewhat more prosperous than he anticipated. For my part, I would say that his grandfather must have doted altogether too much on him. But then, of course, I speak of something that is none of my concern.” He returned his attention to his wineglass.
“I had a letter today too,” Christine Barr-Smythe said, “from my brother in Brighton. Prinny is there, and half the fashionable world.” She sounded somewhat wistful.
Several minutes passed before Sir Harry, looking lazily around him, realized that Kate was no longer present.
Neither was the Marquess of Uppington.
Kate had been bubbling with high spirits. She could hardly wait for the boating party to be over so that she could return to the house and discover the information she wanted. She had decided that she would ask the Pickerings first. They might not know, of course. But some one would.
She was eating a cucumber sandwich with great enjoyment, continuing to compose her letter to Lord Lindstrom, when her mood swung with alarming rapidity to the opposite extreme. The gentlemen had begun to talk about those letters again, those two letters that had arrived earlier in the day from Nicholas in Shropshire. She had not realized until they were mentioned at luncheon just how much she had been hoping, deep down, either that he had not really gone away at all or that he would write to her to explain his hasty departure. There were two letters: one for Lord Barton and one for Mr. Dalrymple. None for her.
She had been mortally depressed all through luncheon and afterward until she had conceived her notion of coaxing information out of Lord Poole. In her excitement at his knowing Lord Lindstrom, or at least at his knowing of him, she had forgotten the letters. Now they were talking about them again. And about him. She could not stand it. She was sick of hearing of Nicholas Seyton. She wanted only to forget him. She failed to note the strangeness of the fact that all her energies for the past week had been devoted to discovering the secrets of his past.
Kate finished her sandwich in one bite, got to her feet unnoticed, and walked away along the only path that led away from the water. She was soon surrounded by trees. And blessedly beyond earshot o
f the conversation on the bank. She would walk for a few minutes, just long enough to get rid of the dreadful feeling of emptiness that had been grabbing at her all too frequently in the last week or so, and long enough to allow the topic of conversation to be changed. It was peaceful here. Quiet. She lifted her face to look at the sky through the branches over her head and drew in a deep breath full of the smells of grass and woodland.
It was so lovely to be alone again, outside the confines of the library. Free. Just for a few minutes. She was reminded of home. There were a meadow and woodland behind Papa’s house, where she had loved to wander, a book in hand. She smiled. Her solitude had rarely lasted, though. Usually some child had detected her leaving and come running up from behind to take her hand and demand that she help pick bluebells or wild daffodils or whatever flower was in season.
“You have good taste, Kate. The wildness of nature here is vastly superior to the tamer beauty around the lake.”
Kate closed her eyes and swallowed panic before turning. Foolish. Oh, foolish. She had completely forgotten the necessity of staying close to the group. She was not free to dream of freedom. She turned toward the Marquess of Uppington, who had come up behind her on the path, and regarded him coolly.
“I thought so too, my lord,” she said.“But alas one is unable to explore too far. The boats will be leaving again soon, I expect.”
He laughed softly and came to stand directly in front of her. “Nicely said, Kate,” he said, “but you know you will not get away from me so easily this time, my dear. You have been avoiding me.”
“Yes,” Kate said flatly, “I have.”
He laughed again. “I recall telling you that I like my women docile,” he said. “I am not at all sure that I do not make an exception in your case. At least at the start, Kate. Your spirit excites me. I shall tame it, of course.” One long finger came beneath her chin and tilted up her face. “You will be both docile and obedient eventually, I do assure you. But I shall allow you some rein at first. The taming of you will make the possession the more satisfactory.”
Kate made no attempt to resist the pressure of his finger. She gazed boldly back into his eyes. “I have been both docile and obedient, my lord,” she said. “The man was my husband. It was my duty to bow to his will, and I did not shirk my duty. When he died, I was of age, though I did not have the means with which to support myself in independence. I took employment so that I would never again owe obedience to any man. I belong to myself, my lord, and if I give myself, it will be because I choose to do so.”
“Then you will choose to give yourself to me, madam,” he said, his eyes roving hotly over her face, “or submit to being taken. We can have pleasure together, Kate, if you do not make it necessary for me to hold you down while I take mine alone.”
“Believe me, my lord,” she said, her heart beginning to knock against her ribs so that she could hardly draw breath with which to speak, “I will never take pleasure from any encounter with you, and I shall see to it that you take none from me. If you will remove your finger from beneath my chin, I shall make my way back to the company and the boats.”
“Brave words, my dear,” he almost whispered, so that Kate could have sworn that she felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. “We will remove ourselves from the path. Your champion is like to come panting along at any moment, and I choose not to be interrupted this time.”
He took her by the upper arm in a grip that she knew with a sinking of the heart she would not be able to break away from. It seemed as he moved her at speed away from the path and into the cover of the trees that her toes scarcely touched the ground beneath her. Kate had never been a screamer. It did not occur to her now that if she did scream, she would probably be heard at the lake. She was too busy using the only weapon she had left at her disposal: her brain.
He did not take her far. He was too impatient to take his pleasure of her at last. Kate soon found herself with her back against a tree and a very heavy masculine body holding her there. She could feel just how aroused he was. She was horribly reminded of Giles. She felt nausea.
And then she was fighting desperately and silently, the only sound her breathing and his. Her bonnet was gone and the left side of her hair was around her shoulders. And her shoulders were bare; her breasts too. Her dress was around her waist, around her elbows. But she was scarcely aware of her growing state of undress. She was furiously avoiding his hot, wet mouth, which clamped itself over hers until she managed to shake it free and which then took possession of her throat until she squirmed away from it and found it at her breasts.
Her brain. Think. She was no match for his strength. He was merely playing with her at present, enjoying her squirming discomfort, aroused further by it. In another few moments, when he tired of the game, he would have her beneath him on the ground and she would be totally helpless. She would become his woman, the Marquess of Uppington’s whore. He would take her quickly and almost impersonally, as Giles always had, and leave her feeling soiled and worthless. A man’s sex toy merely. Think!
“Enough now,” he was saying, his breath hot against her ear. “Enough. Stop fighting me, Kate. I don’t want to hurt you.”
It hardly seemed ladylike. If she were calm and could think about it rationally, she would consider it more unthinkable even than killing the man. If only she were not fighting for her very sanity, she would put the idea from her mind with a blush. Most ladies would not even give the idea a thought if their lives were at stake. Most ladies would not even know of the possibility.
As the Marquess of Uppington eased his weight away from her so that he might coax her to the ground, Kate’s knee jerked up with all the force her terror and fury could muster. She closed her eyes tightly as he doubled up and gasped.
When she opened them again a few moments later, she found herself looking at the indolent figure of Sir Harry Tate propped against a tree a short distance away, his arms folded across his chest, for all the world as if he had been there for an hour or more.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked breathlessly.
“Oh, long enough, Mrs. Mannering,” he said with his customary drawl. “Quite long enough to discover that you are no lady, ma’am. For shame!”
Kate’s nostrils flared. “Would it have been more ladylike to submit to my fate?” she asked.
“I rather think that if we wish to argue over the qualities of a true lady,” he said, pushing his shoulders away from the tree and sauntering toward her, “we should remove ourselves, my dear Mrs. Mannering. I do believe your lover needs time alone in which to recollect himself. That was a low blow, ma’am. Quite literally.”
Kate looked down in some panic at the man at her feet, who was still doubled up and drawing noisy, labored breaths. She did not resist when Sir Harry took her hand in a very firm grasp and drew her away at a brisk trot. They had been dodging trees for all of two minutes, in fact, before she finally hauled back on her hand and found her tongue again.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “This is not the way back to the lake, sir. And where is the path? We were not so far from it to start with.”
“I am not taking you back to the lake just yet,” he said, his manner somewhat brisker than she had ever known it before. “Would you like the company to observe your present disarray, Mrs. Mannering?”
She looked down at herself. She would not have been surprised to find her dress still down around her waist. She certainly could not remember pulling it up to cover herself decently again. But the sash that pulled it in beneath her breasts was hanging loose, one of her shoulders was still bare, the same shoulder was covered by her hair, and her bonnet was gone—in Sir Harry’s hand, she saw in something of a daze.
“And if you had a mirror and could see yourself above the shoulders, you would doubtless swoon quite away,” he said, the sneer she was more accustomed to back in his voice. “You look as if you have been indulging in a thorough roll in the hay, my dear.”
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“And where were you when I needed you most?” she fumed, hiding her embarrassment in bluster. “Leaning against a tree enjoying the show?”
“On the contrary,” he said with a sigh. “I was about to do something quite out of character, Mrs. Mannering. I was about to exert myself by hailing Uppington and demanding that he unhand you.”
“Oh, wonderful!” said Kate, lifting her arm and eyes to the sky as if inviting the clouds to applaud. “Were you going to say please, sir?”
He considered. “Probably not,” he said. “It would have weakened the effect of the command, do you not think? ‘Unhand the wench, thou villain, please!’ No, Mrs. Mannering, I believe I would have had to forget good manners for the occasion. Of course, all was quite unnecessary. It seems you are perfectly capable of looking after yourself. And now I think of it, it strikes me that I was singularly fortunate not to suffer a similar fate to Uppington’s on a certain memorable afternoon in a cave that we agreed was not quite impressive enough to be a smugglers’ hideout. I would not have been at all amused.”
“Everything is a joke to you, is it not?” Kate said in fury. “What happened this afternoon was not a joke, sir. I might have been ravished. I certainly believe Lord Uppington had something more than a mere kiss on his mind. And being a man, and a heartless, unfeeling one at that, I do not suppose you have any idea of what such a fate can mean to a woman. It would be worse than death. I know people joke about the fate worse than death, but it must be men who make a joke of it. It would be worse. I could not have lived with myself if . . . if . . .”
He was directly in front of her suddenly, his hands on her shoulders, squeezing so tightly that she would have felt pain if her mind had not been so totally taken up with its own horror.
“It would not have happened,” he said. “I would have reached you in time. Do you think I followed you, you foolhardy woman, to enjoy the show, as you put it? I came to save you, difficult as the idea may be for you to grasp. Uppington will not molest you as long as I am here to intervene.”
