“That is all right, then.”
Whatever did she mean? She was a puzzle, this woman. Normally, a delightful puzzle. At that moment, he felt her finally relax into the dance, as though she were letting go of some inner demon. He felt the graceful pull of her body through the small of her back convey to his senses the promise of delights he hoped would come. And soon. He was relieved when, during the remainder of the waltz, she gradually regained her humor.
Following the dance, he drew her arm through his and strolled toward the French doors that led out into the night. Once they were on the terrace, Kate wasted no time. She faced him, lifted her chin, and said, “Lord Northbrooke . . .”
He put his gloved finger against her mouth. “Jack, if you please.”
“Jack. No doubt Caro has told you of my circumstances. Of my need to marry in order to gain access to my fortune?”
“She has, the little rattlepate. But not until after I met you and came under your spell.”
“I told you pretty speeches were unnecessary.”
“And I told you that I always tell the truth. I am not a flirt.”
“That is not what I am given to understand. Let me just tell you that I am aware of your circumstances, as well. Owing to Caro, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I think we might both save a lot of time and unnecessary fuss if we agreed now to make a marriage of convenience. That way we can both wind up our trusts as soon as may be.”
Jack was absolutely winded by this proposal. It was distressingly clear that she did not believe he was interested in her for any reason not having to do with his fortune. It was even more distressingly clear that she was interested in him only as a way to gain access to her own money. No. It would not do. It absolutely would not do. Whatever he had thought before making her acquaintance, he had changed his mind. He would have her love, or not have her at all.
“I’m afraid, Kate, that such an offer does not appeal to me.”
Her eyes flew to his in patent disbelief. “What?”
“You have rather the air of Isaac, about to be sacrificed on the altar. I do not want a marriage of convenience.”
“You do not wish to marry me?” Her eyes were wide and uncomprehending. Silly nitwit.
“I do not wish for a marriage of convenience. I wish to marry for love.”
Her brow was puckered adorably. He was dashed if he would propose marriage to a woman on the terrace of Lord Bottomley’s ballroom!
But stealing a kiss was another thing. Bowing his head to hers, he sought her lips. To his surprise, she put her gloved fingers up to his mouth.
“I love another,” she said.
“What?” Her words assaulted him with such force, his head began to spin. Another? She loved another? She had been planning to marry him in cold blood?
“You may not kiss me. I do not wish for a . . . for that kind of relationship.”
Angered, he said, “What did you have in mind, my dear? Nods at twenty paces?” Bitterness entered his heart as his hopes shredded and fell about him.
“For my part . . .”
He cut her off. “I refuse to discuss this matter any further out here on this blasted terrace! I am going out of town for several days. We will speak when I return.”
“But . . .”
He raised a hand. “I must go.”
Offering her his arm, he escorted her in silence to her aunt’s side. He felt someone’s eyes on him as he delivered Kate back to her aunt. Turning, he saw Walsingham leaning against a nearby lintel and following Kate with his eyes. Emotions warred inside him: relief that the earl had not yet left for Devonshire, and worry about leaving Kate to his advances.
“Another word, Kate?” he asked, moving her slightly away from her aunt.
Trusting in the noise of the ball to mask his words, he said in a low voice. “Promise me that you will not make your offer to Walsingham.”
“I will do as I like, Jack. Since we are not affianced, I consider myself a free woman.”
Frustrated, he took one of her gloved hands between his. “I have reason to know that he is a very dangerous man.”
She raised one of her winged eyebrows in a silent request for him to continue.
“I cannot go into details, unfortunately. But if you hold me in any esteem whatever, please believe that I know whereof I speak.”
“All right,” she said, looking into his eyes with odd hesitancy. “I will trust you.”
With that, he had to be satisfied. Leaving her side, he hurried off to begin his journey. He was anxious to vent his spleen by galloping full tilt into the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE SUFFERS A SHOCK
Kate could not recall ever being swamped in such confusion. As she watched the marquis leave the ballroom, she sank into a chair next to her aunt and watched countless ladies in a riot of colored silks mingle with well-dressed gentlemen.
She had been rejected! Her heart pounded with mortification. Worse, he had rejected her and then tried to kiss her. It made no sense unless he thought her the veriest lightskirt.
In addition to feeling insulted, Kate realized she had become surprisingly agitated. Why?
Standing on the terrace, so near to the marquis after their waltz, she had been aware of feelings that were far different from those she felt for Francesco. Such feelings could have overtaken her and born her off to some foreign reality she could not even begin to imagine. These current emotions were not comfortable. They were not English. Somehow, she had come very close to losing control of the situation, which was not like her at all.
As a result, Kate realized that she should be grateful the marquis had refused. She was no longer able to imagine a simple marriage of convenience with him where she would go her way with Joey and the marquis would go his. She did not know exactly what it was she did want, but it was not that.
An explanation for his rejection suddenly occurred to her. Did the marquis have a woman that he wished to marry in that place he went off to? Was he on his way to visit her this moment?
Before Kate could contemplate this further, a gentleman in black came to stand before her. Looking up, she saw that it was the Earl of Walsingham.
“My dear, you appear to be in a brown study. Will you not emerge and grant me the honor of the next dance?”
Dance? How could she even keep her mind on the steps?
“I am sorry, my lord. I am not well. I pray you will forgive me.”
Aunt Clarice interrupted her gossip with the matron on the other side of her at Walsingham’s approach and overheard Kate’s refusal. She said, “My dear, if you are not well, I must get you home. Perhaps the earl will be kind enough to find Caro and send her to us.”
His brows drew together. “Has the Marquis of Northbrooke anything to do with your sudden indisposition?” he asked.
Kate jerked in alarm. “Why would you think so?”
“I have been observing you.”
“The reason for my indisposition is scarcely any of your concern,” she said, standing.
“I only dislike seeing you unwell. If I may say so, you are normally in tearing spirits, my lady.” His eyes, alight with his peculiar insolence, surveyed her.
“If you wish to help me, then, please find Miss Braithwaite for us so we can leave.”
Bowing, he left, hopefully to perform this errand. Not long afterwards, Caro appeared, looking vexed. “Must we leave?”
Aunt Clarice said, “Kate is unwell. I suspect she is suffering from too many late nights. And I must confess that I seem to be suffering from the same affliction.” She smothered a yawn.
Caro was instantly contrite. “Oh, Kate, I am sorry you are not feeling the thing. Let us go home at once.”
Kate felt immediately contrite at cutting short her friend’s evening. But Lord Walsingham stood behind Caro, and he took it upon himself to see them to their carriage. Kate had no difficulty interpreting his solicitude. He wanted to make certain
she was not merely avoiding him. Which she was, of course. Even without Jack’s warning, had not the earl made her uneasy from the start?
Once safe in their carriage and on their way to Blossom House, Kate took Caro’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for not asking questions in Lord Walsingham’s presence. I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I,” Aunt Clarice said. “But you could have declined to stand up with him!”
“There is something in his manner that makes me afraid to refuse him. I am not certain what it is.”
Once they were sitting in the pink saloon joined by Henry Five, Queen Elizabeth, and Sukey, who put aside the article she was writing on the “Peculiarities of the Beetles of Wales,” Kate blurted out, “I proposed a marriage of convenience to the Marquis of Northbrooke tonight.”
“Kate!” Caro said. “Why? In time, I am certain he meant to offer for you.”
“I meant to save him the trouble of all his courting behavior and pretty speeches. You know that I cannot bring Joey home from Eton until I marry. And things are frightful for him, poor dear. I am convinced he was crying when he wrote his last letter.”
“Poor love,” said Aunt Clarice. “What a wicked, unfeeling man your cousin is, to be sure. But tell us, what was the marquis’ answer?”
Kate swallowed. “I might have saved myself the embarrassment. He refused me.” Unbidden tears filled her eyes.
“No!” Caro said.
“He does not wish for a marriage of convenience. I entirely misread him. He wishes to marry for love.” Before Caro could quibble with her, she rushed on, “I believe there is a woman that he goes to visit somewhere out of London. He has left again. I think . . . I have the idea that he means to propose marriage to her.”
Feeling exposed at having imparted such personal information, she added in a rush, “Lord Walsingham was watching us. He divined that something was amiss. I did not want to face questions from him. I could tell from the light in his eyes that he intended to submit me to an interrogation.”
“Well!” Sukey said. “Clarice, I wish I had been there tonight. I would have loved to have given the earl a setdown.”
“Caro, have you any idea who this other woman might be?” Kate asked. “He is so mysterious.”
The girl shrugged. “No. Sorry. But, Kate, if he has been in love with another all these months, why did he propose marriage to me?”
“Perhaps he cares for you more than you realize,” she responded, her heart surprisingly heavy.
* * *
Kate spent the next several days close to home, trying to adjust her ideas and, through them, her heart. She thought not at all of Francesco or of her protestation that she loved another. Instead, she found herself wishing heartily that she had let the marquis kiss her.
She had never felt this overmastering desire to be touched, held, kissed. It finally struck her that what she felt with Francesco was the product of the Tuscan atmosphere, the heady sensation of her first kiss, and the power she had to bring that young man about her thumb. What she felt now was nothing like that. Though she had set out to make the marquis offer for her, she had always imagined that she would maintain control of her feelings. Kate had never dreamed they would have galloped ahead of her judgment! She was a fair way to being well lost.
Crying off any evening engagements, she spent her days in the garden, painting. The roses were coming on in earnest now. After the first day of trying to execute an interesting painting of them, she gave it up as a bad job. Instead, she stretched a fresh canvas, and outdoors, away from prying eyes, she began a portrait of Jack. Though he might at any moment be fixing his interest with another, she justified her actions by telling herself that such male beauty deserved to be painted and that it would be an excellent exercise. However, just working on such a project made her heart heavy. As his essence hovered around her, she contemplated what she would never have.
He had a cowlick in the front of his hair that caused it to start away from his forehead in a wave, just so. His smile was a bit lopsided, lifting higher on the right side than the left, giving him a somewhat sardonic expression. His eyes crinkled when he grinned. Kate spent upwards of an hour trying to mix the pigment for his sherry-colored eyes. Just as she had begun to apply it, in some part of her mind she heard the latch of the garden gate. Concentrating on painting Jack’s iris, she did not turn to look.
Suddenly, someone grasped her from behind and pressed a foul-smelling cloth over her nose and mouth. She struggled against the fierce hold, but could not scream. Before long, she felt her senses dissolve into an overwhelming blackness.
* * *
When Kate returned to consciousness, she was lying on the seat of a fast-moving closed carriage, alone. Her hands were tied, as were, apparently, her feet. Who had captured her and why? She could not begin to imagine. Where was he taking her? And again, why? As the drug wore off, her curiosity gave way to panic. Her books from the Minerva Press were full of kidnappings of just this sort. The feisty heroines foiled their captors before they could be placed on white slavery ships bound for the barbaric East. But these books had been singularly bereft of details on how to accomplish such an escape. The ropes around her wrists were very real and, as she struggled, they chafed her wrists raw. She saw no possible way of escape and fell to praying for rescue.
The road they were traveling was rough. At one point, the carriage swerved wildly, and she rolled to the floor with a hurtful thump. This accomplished the feat of turning her fear into anger. Lying on the filth of the carriage floor, she vowed to make life very unpleasant for whatever captor was driving the carriage at such a pace. She was certain her hip was badly bruised, and her cheekbone as well. Who could possibly be treating her in such a way?
She had her answer when the carriage finally stopped. She heard the driver jump down and walk over gravel to the carriage door. He flung it open.
Lord Walsingham!
Fury engulfed her. “Why have you kidnapped me? Where are you taking me? How dare you treat me this way?”
“Patience and all will be revealed, my love. Do not despair,” he said as though he were gentling a horse.
“Untie me at once!”
“I mean to. What are you doing lying on the floor, Kate?”
“I did not give you leave to call me by my given name.”
“My dear, you are in my power. I will call you whatever I please.”
He stepped into the carriage, straddling her prone body with his feet. Leaning down, he used surprisingly strong arms to pull her off the floor, sitting her once again on the carriage bench. He commenced untying her hands and feet. Once she was completely free, she kicked him soundly in the shins. However, her slippers were no protection, and she merely injured her toes.
“Behave,” he said sternly. “I have a pistol in my pocket, and I will not hesitate to use it if you do not do exactly what I require. We are going to enter this inn, where we will have dinner. You will behave.”
He wrapped her in his greatcoat. At mention of the pistol, she did not dare to struggle, but determined to watch for the moment when he let his guard down so that she might escape somehow. Did he intend to ravish her while holding his gun to her head? Even she, in her innocence, knew that would be impossible. But with his superior strength, perhaps he did not need a gun to force himself upon her. She shuddered and tried to apply her scattered wits to the situation.
Walsingham carried her into the inn. She could not see, but she heard him speak to someone who must have been the innkeeper.
“I have just rescued this unfortunate young lady from a man who kidnapped her with evil intent,” he said. “She is bruised and somewhat disheveled. Is there a private parlor where I may attempt to revive her? We could also use something to eat.”
The innkeeper replied, “Oh, good heavens! Poor young lady. How lucky she is that you came to her rescue. Yes, yes. Just put her in here. Now, I will bring you some of our ale. It is known roundabout here as the very best to be had. I wi
ll consult my wife about a meal. She will know what would best suit the young lady.”
Walsingham set Kate upon what felt to be a sofa. She looked around her as he removed his coat from around her. The parlor was unexpectedly well-lit with candles and a small fire in the fireplace. She realized that she was shivering.
“Oh, a fire!” Getting up a bit unsteadily, she walked towards its warmth.
“Is this villain likely to come after you, ma’am?” the innkeeper asked when he came back carrying the ale.
Seeing Walsingham’s raised brow, she was just wondering if she could risk the truth when a woman who looked to be his wife entered and approached. “Oh, my dear! Poor thing. We shall endeavor to have you right as a trivet in no time. I think rather than ale, Mr. Porter, that this young lady of obvious refinement would prefer a cup of tea with some sugar to bring her right ‘round.”
“Yes,” said Kate. “A cup of tea, please.”
“After a shock like this, I think my scones and jam would be best, not a heavy meal. Guests tell me my scones are light as a cloud.”
“I am persuaded you are right,” Kate replied.
Meanwhile, Walsingham was giving Mr. Porter his description of the villain. Surely he was describing Jack!
She protested, “No! That is not what he looked like at all! He was fair and short and very fat!”
Walsingham whirled on her, his eyes dark with menace that no one could see but her. “You would protect your ravisher?” His hand was on the pistol in the pocket of his breeches.
Reason told her that he would not risk shooting her in front of their host and hostess. But perhaps he would shoot them as well!
“I saw him better than you did, after all,” she said, raising her chin.
The earl took the mug the landlord handed him and drank off the ale. He regained his composure. “Best ale I’ve had in many a long while,” he said. “But scones and jam will not do for me.”
“Oh, I was not planning on offering such paltry fare as that to you, sir. I have some fresh beef pasties,” Mrs. Porter said. “As well as garden peas and an apple tart with cream.”
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