Chapter One
Giles Everhart Langley, third Marquess of Bromton, tenth Earl of Strathe, and twelfth Baron Langley, ignored his friends Lord Farring and Lord Rayne. Instead, he studied Lord Markham, the most recent addition to the rakish quartet better known in gaming hells by their card-suit sobriquets—Spades, Clubs, Diamonds, and Hearts.
Markham’s omnipresent smirk vanished, and his already pale skin turned to paste—not the reaction Bromton expected.
“Put the card down, Markham,” he said.
Without a word, Markham dropped an ace of spades over his existing ten.
“Vingt-et-un!” Rayne’s fist hit the table. “Devil take it. Hearts won.”
“So it seems,” Markham replied.
“So it seems?” Farring pushed his glasses up his nose and chuckled. Dragging his pipe from his mouth he urged, “Unfold Brom’s vowel, would you?”
Markham met Bromton’s gaze. “Your calm is unnatural, Spades.”
“Go on.” Smoke swirled as Farring gestured. “When does Spades ever betray his sentiments?”
“Listen to Clubs—Brom is a paragon of control.” Rayne eased back into his chair. “Just like his departed father.” A single diamond sparkled in Rayne’s cravat—a nod to his card-suit name.
“I suggested secret bets.” Bromton shrugged. “To begrudge them now would be,” he paused, “dishonorable.”
Markham rubbed the side of his finger against his lip. “It’s a damned odd way to play.”
“Get on with it, pup,” Rayne said. “You’ve been lucky enough to play a master and win.”
“Yes,” Farring snorted. “Whatever Spades wagered is undoubtedly up-to-scratch.”
Bromton’s inhale stung with smoke. Only everything he owned.
Rather, everything belonging to the late marquess’s true heir.
“Go ahead, Markham.” A dark edge cut through his voice. “My vowel is yours.”
“If Markham won’t read it,” Rayne plucked the correct sheet from the cuts of parchment, “I will.”
Bromton stood. In a moment, his friends would know he no longer belonged. What only he knew was that he never had.
“Gentlemen, I bid you good night. Markham, we will discuss details on the morrow.” He pivoted and then strode toward his study.
His study, at least, for the remainder of the night.
So, he’d planted the card. Was planting a card even cheating when one was playing to lose? Damn the question. Now was not the time for doubt. Not when he’d delivered justice.
Finally.
His mother’s words rattled like cutlery in his ears. “Langley name and Bromton honor—you haven’t the right to forbid my marriage in their name. You’ve grown cold with power, but your power is a lie. My lie. You are not the Marquess’s son.”
After she’d singed his soul with bastardy’s shame, she’d begged, “Bromton, you must understand. Had I failed to bear a child, the title would have ceased. I had to conceive by any means.”
But he couldn’t understand, any more than he could forgive.
Long before he’d been fitted into the Bromton parliamentary robes, he’d been stitched into the privileges and encumbrances of the title—drilled to sacrifice for the name’s dignity and honor.
Langley name and Bromton legacy were twin monuments shadowing every hour of his life, without which he was nothing. And his mother shattered those pillars of power and precedence, leaving him to haunt Bromton Castle under portrait after portrait of venerated ancestors he could no longer claim while hellhounds howled at his heels.
From the start, options capable of restoring proper order had been few.
No man could renounce a title. Since his mother had been married to the last marquess, in the eyes of the law, he was legitimate. However, when he’d discovered the deed to Bromton Castle was fee simple and not entailed, the answer became clear—the Bromton name may have been pilfered, but the Bromton properties could, and should, remain tied to the bloodline.
So, he’d studied the family tree. No heirs existed through the male line, but three generations back, through the line of the first Marquess’s sister, a single branch had borne male fruit.
Markham.
Tonight’s deception had been a dishonorable means to reach an honorable end—his greatest and final sacrifice. He drained his glass and then rolled the stem between his fingers, waiting for a sense of rightness. None came. If anything, the hellhounds’ howl had grown louder.
He’d done his duty, executed everything as planned, yet nothing inside had changed. The wretched sense of wrong remained.
The door swung on its hinges and clattered against the wall.
“Markham,” he greeted. “Do you wish to begin examining the books straightaway?”
The young earl’s gaze heated. “I should request you name your second.”
Bromton stilled a shiver. “Pardon?”
“You heard me.” Markham closed the door. “You cheated. I have every right to call you out.”
“Cheating to lose?” He scoffed. “No one would believe such nonsense.”
“Nonsense.” Markham crossed the room. “Yes, such a thing would lack sense. But you, Lord Bromton, are in full possession of your faculties. You are not acting like a man who wagered everything and lost.”
“I have my honor,” he clipped. Honor was, in fact, all he had.
“Please,” Markham said with a scowl. “I saw the truth in your eyes. You knew I would draw the ace of spades.” He snorted. “Not very subtle, using that particular card. But what I truly cannot understand is why you’d wager everything.” Markham shook his head. “For shame, Bromton. What of your dependent tenants? You are the one who told me stewardship was the primary concern of a proper peer.”
Bromton narrowed his eyes, swallowing bile and the urge to thrash the ungrateful whelp.
Goddamn, he was well aware of his tenants—as well as the servants who ran his estates. He was attempting to ensure they remained with a true blood Langley, the family they’d been yoked to for centuries.
He was attempting to ensure he alone would live the lie.
“Your charge,” he said, “is absurd and insulting.”
“Absurd and insulting,” Markham leaned in, “but true.”
“Come, Markham.” He fisted his hand against his desk. “Acknowledge your win. We all agreed to high stakes, no bank notes allowed.”
“The entire Bromton estate—castle, lands, and holdings—goes well beyond high stakes! I consider Rayne’s wager high stakes—a pair of matched grays. Or Farring’s—a new phaeton. Or mine—” He inhaled. “A bloody box at the theater.”
A theater box? High stakes? Little did Markham know. Blood, honor, integrity—no higher stakes existed.
Markham stalked to the fireplace and threw in the vowel. “That is what I think of your wager.”
Orange flames wrapped around Bromton’s script, and fissures snaked through his infamous composure. Unprecedented. Unsettling.
No. He would not allow the fruits of his labor to disappear like ash.
He’d spent months grooming Markham. An unprovable accusation was not enough to convince him to change course. He planted his feet farther apart, folded his hands behind his back, and sought the iron core cast into his soul by the late marquess.
“You cannot decline to win when you agreed to play.” He eyed Markham with a withering gaze. “What if I had done the same—or Rayne, or Farring?”
Markham matched his posture—quick study, the pup.
“I did not agree to play with a cheat,” Markham said.
“Take the deeds, would you?”
“If you force this point, I’ll tell Rayne and Farring what you’ve done.”
Bromton flattened his lips. Farring was his oldest friend. He was buoyancy to Bromton’s seriousness and loyal beyond measure. Rayne he’d counseled and guided since Rayne’s father’s death. Their friendship had strained, of late, but to entirely lose his good will? Unthinkable.
“I’ll not admit to cheating,” he said.
“I’ll not accept your responsibilities,” Markham rejoined.
“We’ll address your concern with another round, then,” Bromton bluffed. “A cup and die, this time. The higher of two throws wins?”
Grim resolve settled behind Markham’s gaze. “No.”
Find the wound, stem the bleeding—the stricture came to mind as if the late marquess had whispered in his ear.
Bromton inhaled, eyeing Markham. Fury was unusual for the good-humored earl. Behind Markham’s anger Bromton sensed…need.
“You will not accept my land, but there is something you wish of me,” he said. “Is there not?”
Markham’s gaze dropped to the intricately pattered carpet. “Payment I would accept comes to mind.”
Bromton cocked a brow. “Well?”
“When your mother wed again, the Bromton estate lost its chatelaine.”
“Correct.” No other reply was fit for a civilized man’s ears.
There was no longer a Marchioness of Bromton, dowager or otherwise. He had withdrawn prohibition against his mother’s second marriage after she’d told him he was a bastard.
He had, in fact, withdrawn from his mother entirely, not that she’d taken his withdrawal to heart. She’d married her lowborn artist and had a prince serve as witness.
Not only a prince, but the propriety-flouting, profligate crown prince—a Whig. Internally, he shuddered. None of her betrayals ceased to sting.
“How,” he asked, “is my lack of a marchioness your concern?”
“I do not want your land, but I want you.” Markham’s cheeks darkened. “That is to say, I want you to make my sister the next Marchioness of Bromton.”
In his mind, he tumbled through the branches of the Langley family tree just as surely as he’d been shoved. Vaguely, he recalled finding Markham’s name scrawled between two women. He had not given their names a second glance.
“You decline all I possess,” his lips curled into a brutal smile, “yet you wish to win me.”
“Well, yes.” Dawning assurance suffused Markham’s voice. “If I won by chance, you owe me. If I won because you cheated, you still owe me. Keep your lands. Take my sister.”
Bromton laughed bitterly. “Forgive me, but I find betrothing myself to a woman sight unseen just a touch unreasonable.”
“Forgive me, but wagering one’s estate fails to scream reason.” Markham gritted his teeth. “I am not asking you to sign agreements tonight. I am demanding you court my sister with honest intent.”
So, the young earl had an iron core of his own.
“I assume you know,” Bromton spoke carefully, “that there was an…expectation between myself and Rayne’s sister.”
“Was.” Markham wet his lips. “You have not escorted Lady Clarissa to a single entertainment this season, and White’s betting books favor a match with the Duke of St. Alden to the rumored alliance with you.”
He really did need that drink. He turned toward the cabinet and flung open the doors.
If, indeed, Clarissa had secured St. Alden, he was genuinely relieved. Perhaps Rayne would finally forgive him for failing to offer for his sister. His alliance with Clarissa had been arranged when the former marquess invested in the now profitable mines on Rayne’s estate. Clarissa—and her dowry—were to serve as return on the Marquess’s investment. But betrothal agreements had never been signed and sealed, as Clarissa had still been in the schoolroom. For that, at least, he was grateful—he’d been able to free Clarissa from their arrangement. After all, he could not offer her a name he had no right to possess. The crystal decanter clinked against the rim as he filled his glass.
…Nor could he offer the name to anyone else. Markham’s suggestion was ridiculous. Beyond the pale. Absolutely out of the…
Whoa. The iron in him cooled and hardened.
Markham’s sister had the bloodline. He had the name. If he married Markham’s sister, wouldn’t a child of their union be both a legal and a rightful heir?
“Your sister, you say?” Bromton set down the decanter.
Markham nodded. “Lady Katherine.”
“I do not recall being introduced.”
“She’s been out of Society. But surely you have heard of her.” Markham scowled. “I must have spoken of her, at least.”
“Not that I recall.” Then again, he’d been single-minded while grooming Markham. Steady-handed, he filled a second glass. “Why was she banished?”
“Beau Brummell deemed her the most unmarriageable lady in the kingdom.”
He handed Markham the drink. “Unmarriageable, you say?”
“She is now,” Markham said with frustration, “all because a valet’s son with an inflated opinion of his wit made one, silly quip.”
“Brummell’s quips have ruined powerful men.”
“Does Brummell’s opinion matter to you?”
He paused to consider. “The problem is not insurmountable. I’d prefer my wife possess a sterling reputation, of course.” But if he married Lady Katherine, he could retain all—a more intoxicating solution than the blood-red liquid in his glass. “Your sister, is she…?”
“Becoming?” Markham plucked a miniature from his waistcoat pocket. “See for yourself.”
Bromton set down his drink and cradled her likeness in his palm.
Lady Katherine’s hazel-green eyes matched Markham’s in color and intensity, but her auburn curls framed feminine cheeks rosy with youth and health. And her quintessentially aristocratic nose sat above cherry-ripe lips.
…cherry-ripe lips whose fullness called out with no less than invitation.
He blinked. His celibacy had stretched too long. Clearly.
Either that, or the all-consuming obligation to set things right had stunted control when most he needed strength. This plan, should he choose to execute it, would require absolute vigilance.
“The likeness is remarkable,” Markham said.
“She is…engaging.” He glanced up. “She could also be mad.” Markham certainly seemed touched.
“She is no Bedlamite.” Markham’s face set into grim angles. “She has borne uncalled-for shame with dignity.”
Bromton’s hand closed protectively around the portrait. “What prompted Brummell’s quip?”
“Two failed betrothals.”
Scandal. He loathed even its scent. And yet, he was already mired to his neck, wasn’t he?
“Elaborate,” he commanded.
“Groom number one: Septimus Chandler, our village rector’s son.”
“A step down.”
“Not truly,” Markham replied. “Our rector is the youngest son of an earl. And it was, at least on her part, a love match.”
As if such a thing existed. “Yet this love match failed to reach the altar.”
Markham swallowed. “He died.”
“Ah.” The tragic twist almost left him ashamed. Almost. “Groom two?”
“Viscount Cartwright. On the eve of their wedding, Cartwright fought a duel to protect his mistress’s honor and then fled with said mistress to the Indies. My father demanded a pecuniary heart balm from Cartwright’s father, the Earl of Merriweather. The fund is in trust, with Katherine the beneficiary.”
That, he recalled. Or at least he recalled that some familial event had caused Merriweather to miss an essential Tory vote.
“An unfortunate association,” he commented, “but not of her doing.”
Markham sipped his drink and then continued, “Speculation turned to Katherine following Brummell’s quip—lurid speculation.”
Bromton’s hold on the portrait tightened until his pulse beat in his fingers. “Since she removed from Society,” he asked, “has there been any scandal attached to her name—any at all?”
“No.” Markham turned to the fire, his expression a mix of frustration and affection. “For five years, she’s assisted in the stewardship of our,” he swallowed, “that is to say, the family’s estate. She raised our youngest sister, resolves most estate concerns before they reach me, and even teaches weekly reading classes to the tenants’ children.”
“Sounds like an ideal arrangement. Why involve me?”
“When I marry, as you know I must—she will lose all authority.” Markham looked up. “If she stays, she will be miserable.”
“So, you contrived to give her my estate to manage?”
Markham stopped breathing, and then he nodded. “You are,” he pointed out sheepishly, “in want of a marchioness…and…and I truly believe the two of you would suit. She’s a good sort once you get to know her.”
Well. The pup wasn’t trying to rid himself of the problem of a dependent sister. He was trying to secure her a utile future.
A utile future stewarding the Bromton estate.
Bromton had devastated the hopes of Lady Clarissa and her brother, who’d believed Bromton would fulfill the late marquess’s wish and make Clarissa marchioness. He’d cheated in order to transfer the estates to Markham, and he’d prepared for life as an outcast. Could he, instead, bet the whole on a woman? And not just any woman but a woman whose character had been called into question?
His signet ring flashed in the candlelight, an ominous reminder of infidelity’s cost. He snuffed out his unease. The prospect of retaining his position and power left him nearly panting with hope.
“I assume,” he smiled without mirth, “Lady Katherine will agree to your scheme.”
“God, no!” Markham exclaimed. “She’d be horrified if she knew I’d won her a groom. The last time I interfered ended in disaster.”
Wonderful. “So how, exactly, do you expect me to win her hand?”
“To start, I…I thought you could return with me to Southford.”
“…and sweep your unwilling sister right off her spinster feet?”
“Something like that.” Markham had grace enough to blush. “However, if you succeed, I swear you will never find another woman equally loyal.”
Loyal—the word ricocheted through his mind, as if spoken in a language he did not understand. He inhaled, filling his lungs. Oddly enough, the hellhounds’ howl had stopped. He’d spent months severed from his very essence while his former pride mocked at every turn; he could have wept with gratitude for the silence.
What stronger enticement could he imagine?
He slipped the miniature into his waistcoat pocket without asking Markham if it was his to keep. A shiver spiraled up his spine—fate’s blessing or a warning? Either way, he hadn’t a better option. Blood, honor, integrity…he was about to bet the highest of stakes on the most unmarriageable woman in the land.
“I do not appreciate being manipulated,” he said.
“But you will agree?” Markham asked.
“I’ll attempt to relieve you of your spinster sister—”
“Thank you,” Markham interrupted.
“On one condition. Should the anticipated nuptials fail to happen, you will take possession of Bromton.”
Markham frowned. “Why?”
“Because,” he pinned Markham with a pointed gaze, “I honor my debts.”
“Very well.” Markham nodded curtly. “But it does not signify. You will succeed.”
Would he?
I will.
He was not the heartless marquess’s son by blood, but he’d been relentlessly drilled to assume the marquess’s spirit. What he wanted, he took. And what he took became his own. And of his own, he was master.
How much of a challenge could a simple spinster be?
…
“Percival William Henry Stanley.” Katherine’s voice frayed with exasperation. She loved her brother, but his stubborn persistence? That, she could do without.
Crumpling his missive offered little solace. She abandoned her morning project’s still-damp ink and wandered past her sister Julia to lean on the window sash.
The library, which spanned the back of Southford Manor, had always been her refuge. Leather-bound treasures decorated ivory-painted shelves, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed a soothing aspect—Southford’s stately beech trees lined its wandering drive in perfect symmetry.
Atop a distant hill, she could just make out the faint outline of her mother’s Grecian folly, and just beyond the invisible ha-ha, sheep grazed in blissful, bucolic oblivion.
Of course, they were blissful. They were not wholly subject to interfering little brothers.
Her breath made a cloud on the window.
Why couldn’t Markham understand? She did not want his help. She was content to live by a line she’d read: Independence I will ever secure by contracting my wants, though I were to live on a barren heath.
She was not, of course, truly independent, but, at Southford, she was safe, at least, from further humiliation. If Markham had his way, despite all she’d relinquished, and everything she’d denied, she’d be no more protected than she’d been the night Brummell had turned his cold glare in her direction and sold her future for the price of a halfhearted chuckle.
Groaning, she pressed her face against cool glass.
“What has Markham done now?” Julia asked.
“It’s not what he’s done but what he plans to do.” Katherine turned and waved the crumpled missive. “He expects to return to Southford Friday, next.”
Julia rested on her elbows, thudding one foot against her chair. “Isn’t that good news?”
“Percy,” Katherine replied darkly, “is not coming alone.”
“Markham hates when you call him Percy… And what is so terrible about a visitor? No one ever visits.”
What is so terrible about a visitor, indeed. Katherine’s scandal had finally begun to fade. However, a stranger would rouse old speculations, resurrecting the past and putting an end to her hard-won peace.
On the other hand, how could she expect Julia to understand? Julia had been a child at the time of Katherine’s so-called scandals.
“Percy brought a friend to Southford once before,” Katherine explained. “That friend had wormed his way into our dear brother’s good graces just to get an up-close look at his infamous sister.”
The insufferable fop had sought her out as if she were a curiosity, salivating at the chance to pen her name into his roster of conquests. A penny, sir, to see the unmarriageable maiden. A half crown if you want a go.
“I don’t remember any visitors,” Julia said.
“Well, it’s been…” Three—no, four—no. Goodness, had she been out of Society five years? She tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s been a while.”
“Katherine, you’ve smeared ink on your cheek.”
“Have I?” She opened her hand. Dark stains bled over her fingers and now, apparently, her face. Her cheeks once again grew hot. Her last batch of iron gall ink had lacked proper thickness, hadn’t it? And yet, she’d stubbornly carried on with the task of copying Royal Primer pages.
Perhaps she had not changed at all. Perhaps she was still the same willful, foolish, impulsive—
Julia appeared by her side, cloth in hand. She removed Markham’s letter from Katherine’s fingers and dabbed at the ink on Katherine’s cheek.
“Are you truly so infamous?” she asked.
Julia’s tone suggested her eighteen years had not been sufficient time for her to appreciate the difference between famous, as in widely celebrated, and infamous, as in universally condemned.
“Yes,” Katherine replied.
Julia’s gaze remained skeptical as she returned the rag and crumpled missive to the desk. “Surely other ladies have recovered from a broken betrothal.”
“Two broken betrothals, Julia.”
Though, on a fine point, the first had not been broken. That one had merely left her shattered.
“Besides,” she set aside the pain, “it’s not that simple. I recovered.” Mostly. “My reputation has not.”
“You truly cannot return to London just because some ghastly friend of the prince called you the most unmarriageable woman in the kingdom?”
“Not the kingdom,” Katherine clarified, “just England.”
Julia smiled, granting Katherine a glimpse of the woman Julia would become. With her unstained hand, Katherine picked up Julia’s long braid and then smoothed the brown coil over her sister’s shoulder.
Not yet, she prayed.
Next year, Julia would be presented. But Julia was too free with her trust. Too open in her manner. And far too willfully certain that every day would be an improvement on the last.
In short, too much like she had been.
“Were it just for the unfortunate betrothals,” she continued, “I may have been able to quietly rusticate and then return to Society in a few years. However—and please let this be a lesson—with just one quip, Beau Brummell destroyed any hope of restoring my reputation.”
“I do not believe it,” Julia replied staunchly. “You cannot be ruined by a quip.”
“If said quip amplifies speculation already surrounding something scandalous, like a broken betrothal,”—or, say, two—“I am afraid you can be ruined by a quip.”
Julia caught her lip between her teeth.
Katherine knew that look. She knew that look only led to—
“What if,” Julia’s eyes grew wide, “this visitor changes everything—just like the princes in the fairy stories you used to tell?”
“I am long-past wishing for change.” Katherine raised her brows. “And long-past believing in fairy story princes.”
“Katherine,” Julia pleaded, “what if Markham’s friend is dashed good-looking?”
“Good heavens, Jul—”
“Shhh.” Julia put her fingers over Katherine’s lips. “What if the two of you fall madly in love, and he asks you to marry him? If you married, wouldn’t you prove the prince’s friend wrong?”
Katherine removed Julia’s hand from her mouth. “Impossible,” she said, her chest contracting. She’d been in love once. Madly. He’d died. And if the debacle with Viscount Cartwright that had followed her first love hadn’t been enough to prove she did not deserve a second chance, what would?
As for third chances, well, no one believed in those.
“Why is marriage impossible?” Julia argued. “If you were to marry, people would have to change their minds about you. The gossip would end! And if the gossip ended, you would be able to be with me in London when I make my curtsy to the queen.”
Ah. Katherine smiled halfheartedly. The conversation usually did come back to Julia. “We’ve discussed this before. I cannot be there.”
Julia folded her arms. “You could be there if you were respectably married.”
Katherine groaned. “Your logic is solid, but—”
“Oh.” Julia’s expression softened. “Your heart is still broken, isn’t it?”
“What? No. I do not have a…” She stopped. “My heart is fine.” She took a deep breath. “Even if I believed a man existed who was honorable enough to sully his reputation in a valiant attempt to clear mine…”
…And confident enough to tread where he suspects he is not the first.
…And kind enough to forgive her secrets.
She pursed her lips. Such a man did not exist.
“You were saying?” Julia prompted with a far too innocent expression.
Katherine changed tactics. “Julia, what do you think would happen if I were to show the slightest interest in this mysterious visitor?”
Julia raised her brows. “Marriage?”
“No.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Markham.”
“Markham again?”
Katherine cut Julia a look. “Like you, Markham believes all my problems will disappear with a wedding. And so, if I show the slightest interest, Markham will demand his friend’s intentions.”
“And then marriage,” Julia said.
“And then his friend will laugh.”
Julia’s brow knit. “Why would he laugh?”
“Because.” Her cheeks stained. “Just like the last visitor Markham brought home, he will be dumfounded that anyone, let alone a fellow peer, would believe he’d stoop low enough to contemplate marriage to a lady as tarnished as I am.”
Julia’s frown deepened. “Surely, you exaggerate.”
“Do you think so? Allow me to quote.” She altered her voice. “Scandal is more than gossip. Scandal is cause to question a lady’s judgment—her very worth.” A wobble snagged on the last phrase. It still hurt. Especially since she’d given Markham’s friend no encouragement.
“Markham would be insulted!” Julia exclaimed, indignant. “And then—a duel!”
“Don’t be silly,” Katherine scolded. “Markham knows better. No one risks anything—let alone their life—for a possibly ruined spinster.” Katherine steadied her breath. “But he would be offended, and a public break in friendship would likely follow—a break which would fuel speculation. Speculation that would further blacken my reputation. You would be sent to relatives, and I would have to move away.”
“Truly?” Julia breathed.
“It is not only possible,” Katherine replied, “but Markham and I considered the option last time.”
Julia’s eyes widened in horror. “We must force Markham’s friend to leave before any of that can happen,” she said. “But how?”
“A quandary, to be sure.”
Julia cocked her head and frowned. “A quandary?”
“We must work on your vocabulary, dear.”
Julia waved her hand in dismissal. “We were discussing Markham’s friend. Besides, Ian says I speak very well.”
Katherine’s protective senses snapped to attention. “Did you say Ian? Are you referring to Mr. Linton’s oldest son?”
Julia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “We spoke while you were finishing Sunday reading lessons for the tenants’ children. He came to collect his brother—you know little Tommy, the quick one?”
“Yes.” Katherine pressed a knuckle against her lips. “Yes, I do.”
All thoughts of her own peril fled; only Julia remained.
Having Julia assist while she taught the children was supposed to instill a sense of responsibility, not place her in danger. How had she missed seeing Julia sneak away? She, of all people, should have been alert for young men who tarried after Sunday sermons.
Perhaps she wasn’t a fit influence, after all.
“Why are you frowning?” Julia smoothed her skirts. “It’s not as if I exposed my ankles to the village boys.”
“If Markham heard you talk so gaily about exposing your ankles, you’d be packed off to those distant relatives before you could say turban.”
Julia shivered. “I would not go.”
“Well then, you had better not mention your conversations with Ian Linton, either.” Katherine narrowed her eyes. “Julia, I expect the truth. Has Mr. Linton tried to become familiar in any way?”
“Pish!” Julia’s stiffened with genuine shock.
“Be careful,” she said, letting out the breath she’d unconsciously held. “Young men read more into a lady’s actions than they listen to a lady’s words.”
“I had a few conversations with the boy.” Julia sniffed. “It is not as if I met him behind the posting stable.”
“What,” Katherine emphasized the t, “do you know about meeting boys behind the posting stable?”
Julia grinned. “Not a thing. But you, apparently, are better informed.” She grabbed her book and ducked out of Katherine’s reach.
Katherine glanced heavenward. “I wasn’t going to indulge a fit of temper, Julia, even if you can be trying.”
“Yes, well, I’m trying to help. Weren’t we discussing a quandary?”
Gracious. “It’s time for you to go upstairs to your lessons.”
“Latin,” Julia spat. “The language is dead. Your quandary is far more interesting.” She glanced down at her book. Renewed excitement swam in her gaze. “I have an idea.”
Katherine shook her head. “Please, no.”
“This one, you’ll like,” Julia insisted. “If Markham’s friend’s intentions are foul—and he really is coming just to catch a glimpse of the most unmarriageable lady in England—well then, give him exactly what he wants.”
A prickling sensation skittered over Katherine’s arms. “What do you mean?”
“Put on a show that will send him running.” Julia’s eyes twinkled. “Turn yourself into the most shrewish, abhorrent spinster he’s ever seen.”
Visions of mobcaps, shrill recitations of propriety and a horrified look on the face of a foppish young gentleman stole into her mind.
“Oh, you must do it! No one could accuse you of being an unfit companion then.” Julia clapped. “Besides, just imagine how diverting it would be!”
It did sound diverting. And imaginative, impetuous, risky, and wrong.
“Let’s practice,” Julia said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Pretend I am Markham’s friend.”
“No.”
“Not a day goes by without you telling me to practice.”
“The pianoforte, Julia. There is a difference.”
“I don’t see a difference. If one wants to improve one’s confidence and performance, one must practice.” Julia ended her sentence with an emphatic nod. “Isn’t that what you preach?”
“So, you can listen,” Katherine said drily, “on occasion.”
“I listen all the time. Now, pretend.” Julia bowed over Katherine’s hand. “Markham never told me he had an enchanting sister.”
“My goodness, Julia!”
Julia smiled brightly. “Ian says I would make a wonderful actress.”
“Well, you certainly startled me.” Katherine resolved to have a serious talk with Ian Linton. “Now. Upstairs to your lessons.” She turned Julia’s shoulders and began marching her sister toward the door.
Julia’s enthusiasm had force. A force, experience told, best resisted.
“I’ll go. Quietly. Or, in Latin, cedere,” Julia said. “If you’ll promise to consider my plan.” Julia swiveled and her voice fell to a horrified whisper. “I cannot go live with relatives I hardly know.”
Katherine blinked away a sudden sting. “I won’t let that happen.”
She hadn’t entirely fabricated the threat. She had always worried that she would tarnish Julia by association, but she’d lived quietly enough to avoid any resurrection of scandal…until now.
“So, you will consider my plan?” Julia asked.
She swallowed away a lump in her throat. “There is nothing I wouldn’t consider, to keep you from unhappiness.” Truer words she could not speak.
Julia awarded Katherine with a brilliant smile and then headed back upstairs, book in hand, yelling, “Cedere.”
Katherine noted the irony. She rubbed her forehead and then absently wandered back into the library. Leaning against the window sash, she rested her eyes on the distant folly.
Her mother’s folly.
How she wished for a mother’s guidance. All she had—she scowled—was Markham.
Like Julia, Markham failed to understand the risk. Even if this visitor really was a gentleman and Markham’s friend, she had good reasons—private reasons—she could never marry. The truth, in fact, hadn’t been far from the worst speculations.
If this friend’s attentions became marked, her past failures would become gossip-mill fodder. Just as they had before, people she’d known all her life would sweep aside their skirts when she passed.
Only this time, she would lose Julia as well.
Well, then. She did not really have a choice, did she?
To secure her sister’s happiness and preserve the precious remains of her reputation, she could and would risk indulging her worst inclinations.
And if she failed, she would be stripped of everything she loved.