Chapter Two
Markham’s missive had said to expect him in three days. Knowing her younger brother, Katherine donned her spinster “disguise” in two—a shapeless cloak, an outdated dress, worn shoes and, of course, a large and hideous mobcap.
She could not as easily alter her regular duties, which was why she was following Markham’s tenant, Mrs. Linton, from the Linton Farm’s kitchen to their sow pen, holding back the flopping trim on her cap with a glove-free hand while precisely placing each step.
Just because she had been careless enough to mar her skin with ink did not mean she wished to be mud covered, not to mention slimed, by greater evil.
“I assure you, Mrs. Linton,” she continued, “your Tommy shows uncommon promise.”
Mrs. Linton huffed as she dumped scraps into the pig’s trough. Without a pause, she turned back toward the kitchens. “You must be thinking of another child. My Tommy never keeps his mind on what he’s doing.”
“His concentration must be encouraged, however, with a just a little more study…”
“Books are very dear,” Mrs. Linton said, breathless with exertion.
“I’ve considered the cost.” Katherine reached into her cloak pocket and pulled out a stack of paper carefully tied with string. “I copied these stories from the Royal Primer, so Tommy can practice between lessons.”
Mrs. Linton glanced down at the papers, momentarily stunned. However, her subsequent not-at-all-happy flush sank Katherine’s heart.
Mrs. Linton spoke under her breath, “When might he find the time?”
“Time, I understand, would be a sacrifice…”
Mrs. Linton’s gaze sharpened as if to say—you think you know sacrifice, do you? Then, her eyes dropped to Katherine’s blue-black fingers and her stance softened. “You’ve a good heart,” Mrs. Linton said with a sigh, “but every day is not Sunday.” She leaned back and let out a shrill yell. “Bess!”
A young girl in a dirty apron appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Take her ladyship’s gift up to the boys’ room.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Bess hurried down the steps and whisked away the papers, but not before taking in Katherine’s dress and cap with curious dismay.
“Keep those from Tommy until after supper, else we’ll lose a full day’s work out of him.” Mrs. Linton nodded to herself as she turned back to Katherine. “Your ladyship,” she said with much more deference, “I thank you for your time. You’ve kept at schooling the children longer than most expected. We’re all grateful, but…” She bit her lip and looked away. “I must be getting back. Good day to you.”
Katherine stared after Mrs. Linton as the woman retreated. She had kept at teaching longer than most expected, had she? What a confounding thing to say. Rector Chandler himself had asked her to help, and he had assured her she’d be making a valuable contribution.
Was it possible she needed the children more than they needed her? Had she been intruding where she did not belong?
She frowned. The pig let out a hostile snort.
“Very well, I’ll go,” Katherine said to the pig’s ugly, wrinkled little snout. Slowly, she began trudging back to the village.
In Tommy’s case, at least, she had been helpful. The child was truly exceptional. So very quick. Perhaps with help from his brother Ian, he could even…
She froze.
Ian! How could she have forgotten? She glanced back, knowing if she presumed to intrude again, Tommy would never see the copy she’d made of the Royal Primer.
Perhaps the flirtation was harmless enough. Then again, perhaps not. Julia was older than she had been at the start of her devotion to Septimus.
Septimus Chandler.
The name was rusty—a memory left to decay. Now, however, his image would not be denied. She closed her eyes and a wave of loss stung like winter wind.
How often had she followed the rector’s son around the rectory, desperate for his smile? Before she even understood the nature of her sentiments, her every action had silently begged, Notice me, Septimus Chandler.
Did you see how quietly I sat in church today? I’ve dressed modest and neat—just like you said I should.
Septimus had been the sole reason she’d wanted to become good. But it had been Septimus who’d been good. Far too good for this world.
And far too good for her. Even if, in the end, he hadn’t always been kind.
Her eyes flew open, and the import of his image transformed—less nostalgia, more warning. If her sister bore the same fervent longings and was cursed with similar willful impatience, there would be fierce storms ahead.
Under Katherine’s muddied soles, the ground rumbled, jolting her back to the present. She pushed aside her cap-trim and watched an open landau jostle into the clearing, its wheels kicking up a haze of dust. She recognized the coach before she could see the crest.
Markham had arrived a day early, just as she’d predicted. Willful and impulsive did not necessarily correlate to wrong.
“Katherine!” Markham yelled as Southford’s head coachman slowed the carriage. “What luck to find you on the road.”
“Hello, Samuel,” she said to the coachman. “Markham,” she greeted a touch more coolly. Lack of introduction gave her leave to ignore his companion. “I expected you tomorrow.”
“We wanted to surprise you.” Markham frowned. “But you weren’t home. I had Samuel bring ’round the landau so I could take Lord Bromton up to see—oh, I do apologize.” Markham shook his head as if he’d forgotten introductions. “Katherine, may I present the Marquess of Bromton? Lord Bromton, my sister, Lady Katherine.”
“A pleasure,” she said, turning. She had lifted both brows at the word “marquess.” They remained frozen in that position.
Markham’s friend was not the foppish fool she’d expected.
Yes, the marquess’s black hair fell about his face in bold, thick locks, but hair was his only feature that could be deemed au courant—or, rather, au Byron—the look Markham’s other friend had favored. When it came to Lord Bromton’s figure, there wasn’t a hint of fop.
His deeply cut cheeks sported stubble Katherine doubted any valet could tame—stubble that accented full, one could say even say forceful, lips. Shallow wrinkles skated across his forehead, but no creases marred the skin around his eyes.
Easy humor was not, apparently, among his strengths.
Vigor, on the other hand, he radiated—enough to suggest his spirit’s force was too large to be contained by skin, bone, and muscle. Worse still, his fine-hewn body appeared more than willing to take up his spirit’s challenge.
The man looked as if he could wrestle fate and then walk away the victor.
Who was he? More importantly, why was he here?
Katherine looked into his eyes, and her blood flooded with regret. He had extraordinary eyes, though she could not place the hue. Blue, perhaps? Or were they gray? No matter what the color, there was no mistaking the gravity in his searching, observant gaze.
A startling drop of female recognition trickled between her breasts. No. No. No. She’d smothered such feelings long ago—a mercy killing she could not regret.
She closed her mouth and then shot an angry glance toward her brother. Was this—her gaze swept back over the marquess—truly necessary?
This man was trouble. She knew it, just as sure as she knew when Julia was telling a lie. He was the worst kind of trouble—an arrogant peer who, like all she’d encountered before, mistook his will as his due.
“My lady.” Lord Bromton’s voice, deep and dark, cut through her like a spade through earth—an effect, she was certain, he intended.
The marquess reached for her hand, moving with the grace of a man assured of power. She commanded her knees to cease their ridiculous quiver. She was no eager innocent and far too firmly on the shelf to respond to a gentleman’s touch in such a fashion.
Yet, respond she did.
He took her fingers and pressed light lips to her knuckles. Then, he smiled.
She swallowed. Hard. The marquess was not just trouble. He was trouble with a master scribe’s inkiest flourish.
And her foolish heart was already craving another smile.
She stiffened her spine, resurrecting the specter of Brummell’s cold, dismissive glare. The marquess had gotten a good look at the infamous unmarriageable maiden, held her hand, even. That was all he could expect. Thanks to Julia’s plan, the marquess would be gone by morning—before morning, if Katherine maintained complete control.
“A pleasure indeed, Lord Bromton. How favored we are by your presence.” She infused her voice with shrill concern. “However, it was thoughtless of Markham to insist you take the carriage out just after riding down from London. It would not do for his recklessness to cause you fatigue. You simply must return to the house.”
There. Kill him with shrewish kindness. Thank you, Julia…and Mr. Shakespeare.
Markham’s expression turned bewildered. “I promised Lord Bromton Southford’s best aspect—Mother’s folly—and there is no telling when we’ll have another day as fine.”
“The wind is sure to be stiff on the hilltop.” She turned to Lord Bromton. “The marquess is not likely used to discomfort.”
“Markham tells me,” Lord Bromton’s spade-like voice troweled through her yet again, “the folly is your favorite spot on the estate.”
She slanted a look at her brother. “Kind of you to remember, Percy.”
Markham smirked in reaction to his boyhood name. She lifted a brow and pursed her lips.
“If,” Bromton continued with exaggerated seriousness, “you were to bless us with your reassuring presence, I believe I could manage a stiff wind.”
“Oh, but I could not—” She stopped and blinked. Was the marquess actually laughing at her behind those solemn, blue-gray eyes?
No.
The glint in his gaze was a gauntlet thrown—glittering proof she’d charged blindly into the first battle of a war he had carefully planned and intended to win.
Markham took advantage of her pause. “I’ve just realized how close we are to Linton Farm. I’ve been corresponding with Mr. Linton concerning inadequate drainage. Now would be the perfect opportunity for me to stroll over and have a look, don’t you agree?” Triumph beamed from his grin. “I would, of course, need you to take Lord Bromton up the hill.”
“I just came from Linton Farm,” she gritted.
“Well then,” Markham said with a suspicious amount of cheer, “the Lintons will be blessed by two visits in one day.”
“Markham,” she said in her most prudish tone, “you know it’s improper for me to ride with Lord Bromton alone.”
“It would be improper for Julia to ride with Lord Bromton alone. You,” Markham tugged on the side of her mobcap, “clearly consider yourself to be on the shelf.”
She couldn’t stop her blush any more than she could keep Markham from hopping down from the carriage. “Samuel,” he said with full authority, “take my sister and my guest around the grove. I’ll meet you here within the hour.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
Markham started down the lane in a lighthearted step that could almost have been a skip. “Be good,” he called over his shoulder.
Katherine stared, dumfounded. Even for Markham that was low.
She hadn’t destroyed anything of Markham’s since they were children, but once, after he had insisted she must listen to him the way she listened to their father, she had purposely sunk her brother’s toy fleet. He’d been young enough to bitterly mourn the sinking of his ships, but old enough to absorb the lesson.
Or so she had thought.
He was, apparently, overdue for a reminder. Perhaps she could empty into the very same pond the cask of cognac he’d purchased following the Treaty of Amiens.
Lord Bromton cleared his throat. “It appears, my lady, you are to be my guide.”
She turned. His smile was as slippery as worn boots—though not, she suspected, as often used. “It does appear that way, doesn’t it?”
Because insisting Samuel Coachman get down from his perch so she could avoid contact with her brother’s guest would be peevish and beneath her dignity, she took the marquess’s outstretched hand and stepped up into the carriage.
For the second time, the pleasurable shock of his touch left her reeling. She settled on the far edge of the bench and called to the coachman to proceed.
The carriage climbed the hill with unbearable, creaking sloth.
Closing her eyes, she imagined Markham discovering his long-awaited cognac cask, empty and listlessly bobbing in the pond.
However…
How much cognac could she empty before she killed the koi? The pond was rather small. The fish shouldn’t suffer for her brother’s idiocy. She’d have to think of something else. Something better. Something so awful that—
“I do not mean to disturb your thoughts, Lady Katherine, but you seem troubled.” Lord Bromton’s words rippled over her skin in warm-water waves.
“Why would you say that?” she asked innocently.
He glanced down at her hands. She released her stranglehold on her skirts and looked away.
“You are observant, my lord.”
“I am observant when something…or someone…captivates my attention.”
She wagered any number of London ladies would give their last sixpence to captivate his lordship’s attention. She would likely be emptying her pockets, if she had not learned—and relearned—the true cost of such folly.
Kindness. Kindness. Kill, but with kindness. “I am anxious for your well-being, of course.”
“Ah, yes.” He tilted his head and one of those unruly locks fell like a caress against his cheek. “Because I am unused to discomfort.” He studied her while the carriage swayed. “Your concern is a relief. I had wondered if my presence caused you to object.”
Was this how a hooked fish felt? She narrowed her eyes. Devil, we’ve met in a different form.
“How could your esteemed presence be objectionable? Any true friend of Markham’s is always welcome.”
His brows rose. “You are too gracious.”
“Though the road may appear dangerous,” she cleared her throat and forced a smile, “we are not in harm’s way. Samuel knows the road by heart.”
“I wasn’t the least concerned.” He angled his body toward hers. “All good things are worth trouble.”
Her smile stuck to her teeth.
“I was referring to the twisting ride being worth the trouble.” He slid closer. “Of course.”
“Of course,” she said primly, sidling up against the door. “I assure you the view is well worth the effort.”
The road steepened, forcing the carriage to slow to a snail’s pace. Katherine gripped the seat and struggled to ignore her companion. The man radiated more heat than a cauldron of molten metal.
“Leaking quill?” he asked sympathetically.
Her gaze followed his to her stained fingers. “I hadn’t left the iron gall ink out long enough and…” She stopped. Why should she tell him she’d copied a primer for a child? For that matter, why should she tell him anything?
“You make your own ink?” he asked.
She nodded.
His expression turned perplexed, then admiring. “How industrious.”
“Thank you,” she replied, cursing her runaway mouth. She didn’t want him to know her. And she most certainly did not want to court his regard. And what kind of marquess was impressed with a lady who made her own ink?
She added Odd to her list of Reasons Not to Like the Marquess.
When the carriage reached the top of the hill, she moved to step off the small wooden stair. Misjudging the distance, she revealed a shocking length of pale pink silk stocking. She glanced back, but the marquess had not noticed.
“This way,” she said, scolding herself for a vague sense of disappointment.
She led the way up the steep stone stairs that climbed the final portion of the slope, making certain each step was solid. She hadn’t wanted him to admire her silk hose—one of the few indulgences she had not abandoned—and she did not want an offer of assistance.
Of course she didn’t.
Although assistance from the modern-day Olympian would not have been without advantages.
She retrained her eyes on the climb, with a not-so-silent exhale.
The closer they came, the taller the hemlocks appeared. At last, the folly came into view. The small structure sat in the center of a semicircle of hemlocks and resembled the ruins of an Ionic temple. They stepped inside, where Doric columns of pale gray stone framed the view.
“So this,” he said, “is your mother’s folly.”
“Was my mother’s folly,” she replied. “I mean, it still is a folly…”
There is nothing quite like a wide expanse to soothe the soul, her mother used to say. At the moment, Katherine found herself much in need of soothing. She settled her stomach and absorbed the view. Southford Manor lay nestled at the center, just as if someone had painted the scene.
“Does the folly have a name?” He spoke in a kind voice.
“She named it Vista Grove.”
He lifted his hand, shielding his gaze from the sun. “Magnificent.”
“I am sure it is nothing to your home.”
“Castle,” he said.
“Pardon?” she asked.
He turned his magnificent shoulders. “Not a home,” he said. “A Jacobean castle. In Northumberland.”
An image formed—ramparts rising out of a mist. A shimmering moat with a drawbridge. And in the middle, atop a beautiful stallion, Lord Bromton, in full armor.
He would have made a fine knight.
She shook herself inwardly. Clearly, the less she knew about Lord Bromton—and his castle—the better.
“I have,” she said, “always disliked the grove’s name.”
“And what name would you have chosen?” he asked.
Haunted Grove of Mystery had been her childhood favorite. But just because Lord Bromton looked as if he’d stepped out of an Arthurian legend didn’t mean she had to resurrect fanciful notions.
“Picturesque Prospect, perhaps,” she suggested.
He squinted. “Is that an improvement on Vista Grove?”
“Well,” she dug in, “can you offer better?”
“In this light, I can confidently call my view,” his tone dropped an impossible octave, “bella.”
“Italian for beautiful.” She hummed. “I suppose bella would be a good choice, since vista is also Itali…” Her voice vanished.
“No, Lady Katherine, I wasn’t talking about the hills.”
Her flesh quickened in places no man had touched in years. She went hot, then cold. Then, horrifyingly, she tumbled back through the years.
“Am I pretty, Septimus?”
“You are a bothersome little hoyden,” he answered.
She twirled away in hurt and shame, but he caught her by her waist.
“Be still, Katie.” He kissed her head. “One day you’ll be beautiful—if you learn to behave.”
A vicious inner quake pushed out, threatening her limbs.
She had never learned to behave, had she? Why else would she be dressed in a costume, twisting ink-stained fingers, and practically salivating over a rakish marquess?
“I have offended,” he said.
“I think,” she forced, “you’d best escort me to my carriage, Lord Bromton.”
He did not move.
“Please,” she added.
“Please,” he mused, “is not quite as effective when said through clenched teeth.”
A blush traveled up her neck, spreading like mulled wine into her cheeks. Every word the marquess had spoken had been a calculated invitation to the worst in her nature. Even the semblance of kindness evaporated.
“You cannot believe your insincere and clumsy attempt at flirtation will work.”
“Insincere and clumsy, you say?” He snorted—the addle-cove. “Here, I thought I was bang-up prime.”
“You.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are not the first man to take advantage of Markham’s generosity in order to get a front-and-center view of the most unmarriageable lady in England.”
Those eyes—enthralling, liquid magnets—locked on hers with a hint of stifled surprise. Yes, it was that terrible. Worse still, the budding understanding within his gaze left her stripped, squirming, and wanting terribly, irrationally, to be held.
“Just England?” he asked, finally. “Not Scotland or Wales?”
She used her palms to cool her cheeks. “Just England.”
“I could have sworn Markham said kingdom.” His voice was calming and his smile wan, but there.
“Parliament had not yet added Ireland,” she replied, looking back toward the house. “So, there could be some confusion.”
He hummed, sage-like. “Irish ladies are rumored to be fiercely independent. Surely one of them would have laid claim to the title, were Brummell to have included the whole.”
A half snicker escaped her startled lips.
“That is the spirit,” Bromton crooned, “laugh at their expense.”
“Please,” she eyed him askance, “do not presume to understand.”
“Has it not occurred to you that I, too, endure assumptions?”
An odd note in his voice etched a question mark in her heart.
“I imagine assumptions based on your title would elevate rather than detract.”
His gaze bore into hers. “Mocking your failed betrothal was callous and not at all gentlemanly of Mr. Brummell.”
Baby thrushes flapped their mad little wings beneath her ribs. How—with the chill in the air and the breeze—could she still feel his closeness?
“I do not run with the Carlton House set,” he continued darkly. “And I do not esteem the same things.”
“What do you esteem, Lord Bromton?”
A shadow passed over his features before he replied, “Honor.”
“Honor,” she repeated with a peculiar pang. “Once taken, honor is a difficult thing to recover.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You did.”
Had she? If honor meant a sense of her place in the world, then perhaps she had—to a degree.
“How?” he asked.
“For Julia,” she responded without thinking. She stepped back. “I—I don’t know why I spoke truthfully.”
He shrugged. “Society’s false sheen has worn too thin for your first impulse to be a lie.”
“Another exceptional observation,” she managed.
“I told you, I notice detail when something is of interest to me.”
Of interest. Her mouth twisted with true bitterness. Like a specimen. Or a traveling player’s tented attraction. One unmarriageable maiden…
“So, am I of interest to you? Or just my notoriety?”
“Not your notoriety.” His eyes glowed. “But you? You interest me more so with every passing moment.”
Again. Those blasted baby thrushes. “Rousing your interest,” she said, “was not my intention.”
His gaze traveled over her ridiculous clothes. “That, I believe.”
He remained silent for so long, she became aware of the faint breeze through the hemlocks, the chirping and fluttering of birds, and even a bell’s distant chime. So much for her predicted stiff wind. Even the weather appeared to heed his command.
“I understand,” he continued, “your first betrothal was a love match.”
Septimus’s image arose again—a sharp note, playing long, even, and raw. She set it aside. Never would she discuss a perfect human being like Septimus with a man like Bromton.
“Markham’s been quite free with his tongue,” she said.
“He answers honestly as well,” Bromton rejoined. “I haven’t the benefit of experience, Lady Katherine. Does having once known love preclude the chance of a second occurrence?”
Had the marquess conceded a longing to know love? She assessed him.
No.
She doubted Lord Bromton believed in the existence of love. But he did expect her to melt like a heartsick fool at the mere mention of the word.
He was, after all, just like the others. Worse, in a way. Because she wanted him to be different.
You cannot be trusted. Your very nature is weak.
Septimus. Again.
She blinked, her watery gaze casting out for the solace of the view.
“I loved a man destined for the church,” she said. “Tonnish gentlemen are entirely different creatures.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Tonnish gentlemen,” she said, “acquire wives for the same reason ladies acquire hats.”
“Oh?” He suppressed what could have been a laugh.
She slanted him a glance. “I am far from jesting, my lord.”
“Well, then.” He lifted his brows. “Enlighten me. I haven’t the faintest idea why ladies acquire hats.”
“Because.” She held his gaze. “We believe possession of a pretty-something will somehow enrich our person.”
His eyes went dark.
“The illusion,” she continued with a quickened heartbeat, “always crumbles.”
“You are very sure of a great deal, Lady Katherine.”
At this moment, she was sure of very little. And if she spent another moment in the marquess’s presence, she’d be sure of nothing at all.
“Am I wrong?” she asked, voice shaking.
“I’ve been told,” he replied, “that marriage improves character.”
“Do I look like a hat? Or a person whose character needs improvement?”
“Few hats are as fascinating. And I certainly don’t believe I could improve anyone’s character. Although,” he softened his voice, “I begin to wonder if you could improve mine.”
“I haven’t the slightest desire to improve anyone,” she said.
He leaned forward and tsked. “How uncharitable.”
She stiffened. “Why did you come?”
“Markham invited me.”
“And your aim?”
His gaze fixed on her mouth. “I believe I’ve made that clear.”
Her throat dried, so she wet her lips. “Marquess,” she said, “did you just admit to making a conquest of me?”
“You are an intriguing woman, Lady Katherine.” He cocked a brow. “But having rejected my insincere and clumsy attempts at flirtation, don’t you think I have sense enough not to subject you to them again?”
She mirrored his expression.
“I would not,” he said. “Not until you had sense enough to welcome them. My only aim is to know you… For now.”
She expelled a breath. “I cannot take your measure, Lord Bromton.”
“Please do not try,” he said. “It’s terribly bothersome to live up to expectations, once fixed.”
“And if I have already determined you a lost cause?”
Bat-like darkness flitted behind his eyes. “No expectation is the hardest expectation to fulfill.”
She turned away. “If I am your aim, you will leave Southford disappointed, my lord.”
“Already impossible.”
She glanced sideways. “Thwarted, then.”
“Perhaps.”
He turned her shoulders so they faced one another. The heat in his palms seeped through her dress. His full, masculine attention beguiled. Wanting emanated from his body like sweat off skin but by St. George she—a disgraced, thrice-discarded spinster—could not possibly be his object.
Think, Katherine. What is he really after?
He wanted—she observed him with care—something. Something he was desperate to obtain. Frustrated wanting, she suspected, was a new experience for the marquess. And frustrated wanting had made what had once been merely dangerous, now lethal.
Inexplicably chilled, she removed his hands from her shoulders. “You are Markham’s guest, and for that reason I will see to your comfort. But,” her voice cracked, “there is nothing where you or I are concerned, and there never will be.”
For a long moment, he studied her face. Then he bowed, as if conceding defeat. “I understand your wishes.” He held out his arm. “Shall we go down? Markham is likely waiting.”
She hesitated before placing her hand on his elbow. As they descended together, he behaved with perfect propriety. Not until she was in her bedchamber removing her ridiculous cap did she realize Lord Bromton had only said he understood her wishes.
He had not agreed to abide by them.
Immediately, she rang for her maid. The plan would proceed. The meat hooks would be emptied under the guise that the meat was unfit for their illustrious guest. The butler would decline dinner on behalf of Julia and Katherine, the former not being out and the latter owning nothing grand enough to wear to dinner with such a high-ranking peer. And tonight, the marquess would be attended with exceptional care.
She studied her reflection in the mirror with only the slightest nudge of guilt.
Markham and Bromton would not starve. Plenty of food graced the pantry—root vegetables, butter, and grain enough to bake fifty loaves—the men would merely be denied fresh meat. And she knew enough of men to know that a meal without meat was no meal at all.
She expected Markham—and his lofty friend—would find such lack intolerable.
Intolerable enough, she hoped, to go away.
Far, far away.