by Mary Balogh
She might have noticed that he spoke with Nicholas’ voice without the French accent if she had not been so distraught. “You do not care!” she said passionately. “To you I am merely a figure of fun. I may not be a very feminine person, sir. I am not given to the vapors or hysterics and I very rarely cry. But I have feelings. Damn you. I have feelings.” She lifted her fists and pounded them once against his chest.
“Well, of course you do,” he said, making a valiant effort to be Sir Harry Tate. “Of course you do. I have never doubted it, my dear.”
“I am not your dear!” she cried petulantly, pounding his chest once more.
“Oh, I am not so sure of that, Mrs. Mannering,” he said. “Sometimes you can be annoyingly dear.”
“Don’t tease me!” she demanded. “Hold me. I need to be held. I don’t think my legs will support me much longer. They feel remarkably like jelly.”
The hands that were still at her shoulders slid around to her back and she was brought against a comfortingly firm body. His shoulder was a broad and remarkably safe feeling pillow. Kate put her arms up around his shoulders. She really did feel close to collapse now that her body had had a chance to react to the near-disaster she had just experienced. She closed her eyes, her face turned inward to his neckcloth.
Nicholas held her close, recognizing her need, knowing that soon she would be strong again and lashing out at him to cover what she would consider weakness in herself. How he loved her. Dear, brave, independent Katherine. He laid his cheek against the top of her head.
And then, unable to resist, he lowered his head and kissed gently the soft cheek that was exposed to his view.
Her eyes were still closed when she tilted her face up, blindly searching for the comfort of his mouth. And he gave it to her, his lips closed and undemanding. He let her take, gave what she needed. Her arms closed around his neck and she rested herself fully against the length of him. He circled her waist loosely with his arms.
It was not a passionate kiss. Nicholas kept firm control over himself. She did not need another passionate encounter that afternoon. She needed a man on whom to lean, literally and emotionally. She needed to feel protected. He held her, allowed her to kiss him until she was ready to stand alone again, contented himself with letting his love flow outward to her through the undemanding touch of his body and the supporting circle of his arms.
The feeling of safety, of the security of home, was purely a physical sensation for several minutes. Kate would not allow herself to think. She let the fright and the nausea lose themselves against the warm comfort of the body on which she leaned, within the arms that held her. She let her grief and emptiness over Nicholas’ desertion and silence follow after the fear and flow out of her. She was safe, and she felt incredibly happy. She did not want to think. Once she started thinking, there was something very unpleasant, just waiting to pop into her mind. She knew it. But she would not allow it in. She lifted her mouth to the warm lips that brushed her cheek, in an effort to keep thought at bay. She put her arms around the neck of the man who held her, in an effort to hold close the comfort. And the love.
He was Sir Harry Tate. There! She had relaxed her mind for one moment and there it was—that unpleasant thought that had been waiting to pop inside at the first chance. He was Sir Harry Tate.
My God, she was kissing Sir Harry Tate! Again. Wantonly.
“What?” she said, pushing wildly against his chest. “What are you doing? Unhand me this instant, sir. How dare you take advantage of a momentary weakness? Oh, I see how it is. You have gathered ammunition this afternoon with which to bombard me with scorn for another week. You are despicable. I hate you. There. Now you have forced me to be openly unladylike. One never tells even the most thoroughly villainous gentleman that one hates him. But I hate you, sir. Is my hair tidy? And did you have to throw my bonnet down into the dust, when there is clean grass all around us?”
Nicholas was very glad that in her confusion she did not once look into his face. He was having a very hard time making that face belong to Sir Harry Tate. He must do better with the voice.
He sighed. “Considering that your hairstyle is not exactly a Paris original at the best of times, my dear Mrs. Mannering,” he said with a heavy drawl, “I think you will do. Now, will you condescend to take my arm and we shall make our sedate way back to the lakeside? You may wish to tie the sash beneath your bosom first, perhaps. I would hate the company to think that I had loosened it.”
“Oh,” she said, grabbing the ends of her sash, “I might have expected that your own reputation would be your main concern, sir. And I am not your dear Mrs. Mannering.”
Chapter 17
Kate fled down the driveway as fast as her feet would carry her without breaking into a run. She was quite safe, she kept telling herself. She had returned with the first boatloads, several members of the party having been still engaged in strolling beside the water. The Marquess of Uppington had been nowhere in sight. She had not even gone inside the house, but had immediately set out for the lodge. The marquess was a few miles away, either in a boat or still at the other end of the lake. But she hurried along, her back prickling, feeling pursued.
What was it she was fleeing from! she asked herself. Clearly not the marquess. Sir Harry Tate? He had shown no inclination to follow her. In fact, he had not even ridden in the same boat as she, but had chosen to attach himself to Mr. Dalrymple and Miss Lacey as soon as they returned to the bank of the lake. And when she and four others had landed close to the rotunda, he had been walking away with the same two companions in the direction of the wooded hillside. He was going to show them the hermit’s cave, Lady Emma had said, an expedition she had declined to join.
Besides, Kate thought, she was not afraid of Sir Harry Tate. She did not like him, but she did not believe he would do her any harm. No, more than that. She knew he would do her no ham. From what was she running, then? The answer was obvious when she stopped to consider the matter. She reduced her pace to a steady walk, for in fact there was no outdistancing her fear. She was trying to run away from herself.
What in heaven’s name had she done? She dismissed with a shake of the head the method she had used to protect herself from the marquess. The more she thought about that, the more she applauded herself. She would do the same if she had the decision to make all over again. No, it was what had happened afterward that had her running from herself.
Why had she been kissing Sir Harry Tate? The very thought now was enough to make her flush hotly with embarrassment. The thing was that she had been the one doing the kissing. Although she had scolded him afterward, really he had not done anything wrong. She had asked him to hold her. She could distinctly remember doing so. She hoped for one moment that her memory was playing her false, but she knew it wasn’t. She had asked him to hold her. Mortifying thought!
And how had she come to be kissing him? He had not initiated it or taken advantage of it. Had he kissed her on the cheek? She could not recall. When she had come to her senses, her arms were around his neck and her body pressed to his. He was doing nothing beyond what she had asked him to do. He was not taking advantage of her mindlessness at all. His arms were wrapped around her waist, but he was holding her merely. Although she tried to recall everything that had happened since she had asked him to hold her, she was sure that his hands had not done any wandering. And his mouth had been still against hers. There had been no heat and no passion in his touch.
It was quite dreadful. She had been wantonly kissing a man she despised and a man who would take full advantage of the memory in any future verbal exchanges they might have. Horrid man. She would never again be able to hold up her head with dignity when he was present.
Oh, dear! Kate stopped walking altogether, although the lodge was already in sight. Could she in all conscience continue to call Sir Harry a horrid man? If she were to admit the full truth to herself, she would have to say that he had behaved with remarkable kindness that afternoon. He had come to
rescue her, had he not? He must have done so. There seemed to be no other reason why he was so far from the rest of the party and alone. So he had been watching after her safety. And what would have happened if she had not dealt Lord Uppington that blow when she did? Sir Harry might well have been involved in violence. And the marquess would be no mean opponent, she guessed. He was a large man. Sir Harry would have risked that for her?
And then what? He had taken her into the woods, into further seclusion so that she would have a chance to collect herself before having to face more people. And when she had come close to hysterics—embarrassing memory!—he had held her. Very comfortingly. She could remember now just how very safe she had felt when his arms came around her. It was true that his words before and after had been languid and unfeeling. But she had to admit that he had been there when she needed him. It seemed that there was humanity in the man behind the rather bored exterior.
And that was not at all a comforting thought, Kate told herself as she resumed her walk toward the lodge. She found Sir Harry attractive. She undoubtedly did. And now what defense did she have against that attraction? She could no longer tell herself that he was thoroughly despicable. He was still unpleasant, of course. She did not like him at all. But she had to feel grateful to him. And gratitude could well be dangerous in her present lonely state.
Nicholas Seyton had aroused in her all sorts of needs and longings that she had been quite unaware of before. And he had gone, deserting her just when she was at her most vulnerable. She had fallen in love with him. There was still a raw pain somewhere inside her that could hurt dreadfully if she did not so ruthlessly ignore it. He did not deserve to be pined for. There was a danger—she knew there was—that her heart could turn to another man who might ease the pain. And that man could very well be Sir Harry if she failed to convince herself that he was despicable and repulsive. She had been forced to admit to herself early in their acquaintance that he was not repulsive. Her only hope was to cling to her early opinion of his character.
She must cling to it. She could not fall in love with him. The man was so dreadfully toplofty. He made no attempt whatsoever to hide his scorn at the behavior of most members of society. He would sneer indeed if he suspected that a mere lady’s companion, a woman who had given herself to a smuggler on the floor of a sandy cave not two weeks before, was beginning to wonder what it would be like to make love with him. She could expect nothing but heartache and humiliation if she allowed such feelings to develop.
Kate could see that Mrs. Pickering was in the garden at the back of the lodge gathering vegetables.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pickering,” she called gaily. “Are you very busy?”
“Just finished, missus,” the lodgekeeper’s wife said, straightening up. “Would you care to step inside for a mug of cider?”
Nicholas was sitting inside the rotunda, idly swinging his quizzing glass pendulum fashion from its ribbon. The last of the boats was just visible approaching from the distance. Moreton had had to leave it at the other side and come back in one of the other boats. Uppington apparently had still not put in an appearance, and the boat had been left for his convenience. Everyone else had already gone back to the house.
How was she now? Nicholas wondered. Was she fully recovered? Such an experience must be difficult for a woman to forget. Uppington had seemed to have ravishment on his mind. She probably still did not realize how much of a daze she had been in. Before he had taken her hand and led her away, she had held her arms away from her body like a child while he pulled up her dress to cover her. She had stared into his eyes as he did so, not even knowing what was happening.
And he would have had to take her into his arms even if she had not asked him to do so. She had begun to shake like a leaf in the wind and would have fallen in a matter of seconds.
He thought she was herself again by the time they joined the rest of the party close to the boats. At least she had been striding along beside him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she really had not needed his assistance at all. She could have managed quite well on her own, thank you very much, and she did not need him following her around in future with his insulting observations.
He hoped that a second reaction had not set in with her return to the Abbey and he not there to hold her. But no. Katherine Mannering was strong. It was far more likely that she was in a temper right now to remember that he had witnessed the very vulgar—but effective—way in which she had incapacitated her would-be lover. And she would be furious indeed to recall the feminine weakness she had shown in asking to be held. Would she remember that she had asked? And would she remember that she had lifted her mouth to be kissed? Possibly not. She would be too busy hating him and cursing him and planning all the scathing things she could say to him during their next encounter.
It was going to be very difficult to stay away from her. He had done quite well in the past week. But now? She was attracted to him. She did want him. When her very strong will was not in operation, her body betrayed her quite undeniably. He could have her if he wanted. Or at least he could woo her with some hope of success. He believed he could win her love even in the person of Harry Tate. And it was almost irresistible to try, when he wanted her so badly himself.
He had thought at first that perhaps he had fallen so hard for her because he had been starved for suitable female company for so long. But it was not so. He had seen the way Miss Barr-Smythe and Miss Carstairs had looked at him in the first days of the house party before his languid manner had convinced them that he was not at all interested in either a flirtation or a courtship. And they were both pretty girls, even if it seemed that they had not one brain cell between the pair of them. He could have had limited amusement with either of those young ladies. He had not been interested. He had eyes only for Katherine. And not only eyes. Everything about her attracted him. He admired her firm character even while it amused him. What man would want a soft, biddable girl when he might have independent, courageous, insult-slinging Katherine Mannering? He loved her.
And how was he to resist wooing her? He had realized from the start of his masquerade that his only hope was to make her hate him so much that there would be no chance to get close to her. But he was weak. He had allowed that hatred to slip. She probably hated him for witnessing her weakness that afternoon—she had told him so. But he could have scolded her for leaving the company so rashly to wander on her own. He could have accused her of deliberately teasing Lord Uppington. He could have sneered at her shaking body.
No, he could not. Of course he could have done no such thing. His acting skills could not have stretched that far. She had needed him every bit as much then as when Uppington had had her pinned half-naked against that tree. More. She had coped with the really dangerous situation on her own. She had been near collapse when he had had to decide whether to be Nicholas Seyton or Harry Tate. There really had been no decision to make at all.
The stupid thing was, Nicholas thought, that in the ten minutes or so since Dalrymple and Miss Lacey had left him alone here, he was finding it hard to convince himself that it was necessary to keep the masquerade alive with Katherine. He had wanted to keep her uninvolved when he started. Yet they had been frequently seen together since. Even today when he had tried to protect her by leaving her as soon as they came in sight of the boats, it must have been obvious to many that they had been walking together among the trees. Why not just tell her who he was?
The idea was very tempting. He could show his love and offer his protection quite openly if he did so. But he could not. For one thing, telling her would be an impossibly difficult thing to do. How would he go about it? And how explain the deception he had played on her? More important, he must protect himself as much as possible from involvement with her. It was true that Barton had reached for the carrot he and Dalrymple had dangled in front of his nose earlier, but that whole plan was tricky and not at all guaranteed to succeed. And if it did not, he was out of ideas. He could think of n
o other way to prove his legitimacy.
And he would not offer marriage to Katherine Mannering unless he could prove that point. He was not quite sure why. Even as he was, he could offer her the secure life of a lady if not a full social life. She did not seem to have any prospects for a more dazzling future. He loved her. He could teach her to love him, he believed. But he would not marry her as he was. Was it pride that prevented him? He wanted to have the world to set at Katherine’s feet. He could not offer her a name that any gently born person could turn up a nose at. He would not have her watch her children face the sorts of attitudes that he had faced all his life.
Nicholas rose to his feet and became Sir Harry Tate as he sauntered out of the rotunda and to the water’s edge. The Marquess of Uppington was rowing directly toward him. Having his back to the shore, he clearly had not seen that there was someone standing there.
“Enjoying the scenery, Uppington?” Sir Harry asked when the boat was close enough that he could speak in his customary drawl.
The marquess turned sharply in his seat. He beached the boat and stepped onto the grass before he said anything. “You would do well to stay out of my sight, Tate,” he said.
“That is all the thanks I get for remaining here to inquire after your health when everyone else went back to the house without a thought to your safety?” Sir Harry asked, eyebrows raised.
The Marquess of Uppington was not his usual cool self, Nicholas was delighted to observe. “Take yourself away from here,” he said, “if you know what is good for you.”
“You are quite right to express your disgust at my misguided attempt to engage you in small talk,” Sir Harry said. “It was foolish of me to try. Shall we be serious? Shall I hint, for example, that you will go near Mrs. Mannering in future on peril of your life?”
