Chapter Sixteen
Grant felt unspeakably proud of his flock for taking Kate’s side. He had been too eager to protect her, but Wickenden, or perhaps Gillie, had known that Blackhaven society would close ranks around her. Even those who disliked her or her reputation, were appalled by Dickie’s nasty performance and couldn’t help but feel sorry for anyone so publicly vilified. More than that, her hard-clinging fingers, her very breathing had told him how tightly she was wound, how everything that had happened since Crowmore’s death, and in all the abusive years of her marriage, had come to the fore, crying for an outlet she refused to give it.
It had hurt not to be the one to hold her, but some instinct had told him she was better with Mrs. Winslow and Gillie. Perhaps she could weep out the old hurt before truly letting him in to make her happy.
But as he ran out into the hall to find out where Dickie had gone, her face swam constantly before his eyes. The way she’d looked at him after he’d knocked Dickie down, her heart in her eyes.
Wickenden strolled through the front door, several servants behind him.
“Where did he go?” Grant asked. “Have they caught him?”
“No, he’d left his carriage waiting, for apparently he hadn’t meant to stay. He just jumped in it and drove off. Bernard and some of the others have ridden after him to see where he goes, but his horses aren’t fit for much more. He’ll have to stop at the hotel. I’m sure Winslow will arrest him in the morning. Which won’t stop him spewing his filth in the dock or anywhere else. Newspapers will have a field day. But I believe it’s he who’ll be the laughing stock. Public opinion will turn back toward Kate.”
“She can’t stay at the hotel tonight, then,” Grant said firmly, latching on to the immediate.
“Absolutely not. I’m sure Gillie will bring her back with us.”
“He’ll need to be watched,” Grant added, frowning. “He’s unstable and he sees Kate as the root of all his problems.”
“She’ll be fine with us,” Wickenden soothed.
Grant cast him a quick smile. “Am I being too—ah—mother hen?”
“Not in the circumstances.” Wickenden laid a hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice. “You know what you’re taking on with her?”
“I believe so,” Grant replied steadily.
“She’s wild and willful as well as fun, but her heart is true. And Grant … Gillie believes there was cruelty in her marriage.”
“So do I.”
Wickenden’s fingers tightened painfully. “Christ. And I didn’t see. Nobody saw. You will be good to her, my friend?”
It wasn’t quite a question, but he must have seen in Grant’s face that it required no answer.
Wickenden grinned and dropped his hand. “In a million years, I could never have imagined her with a curate.”
“Ah well, I’m not just any curate, am I?” Grant said lightly.
“No,” Wickenden agreed. “That, you’re not.”
From the ballroom came the strains of music once more. As they re-entered, couples were already forming for the next dance. Leaving Wickenden to report to Mr. Winslow, Grant went toward the anteroom in search of his wounded brother.
He met Vernon emerging from the doorway, his arm in a sling, his coat dashingly loose around his wounded shoulder. He and Cornelius seemed to be comparing wound stories, in which contest Vernon was not best pleased to be coming off second best.
Behind them, Lampton shrugged his shoulders at Grant. “I hope you have no more brothers.”
Grant sighed. “You know. I thought you would work it out.”
“My dear fellow, everyone knows. They’re not hiding it.”
“My father will explode,” Grant observed. He didn’t greatly care. “Thanks for taking care of him. Both of them!”
“Pleasure, dear boy.”
Mrs. Winslow appeared in the entrance arch, searching, until her gaze found Grant. She descended at once, coming directly for him.
“More patients?” Lampton asked. He seemed very good natured about losing his leisure time in work.
“Possibly,” Grant said worriedly, going forward to meet his hostess. “Mrs. Winslow, how does Lady Crowmore?”
“She was a little overcome,” Mrs. Winslow confessed. “And who can blame her? However, she is recovering quickly. I left her with Gillie—um Lady Wickenden. But she is asking for you. I believe it would make her comfortable to return to the ballroom on your arm.”
“Doesn’t she wish to go home?” Lampton asked in surprise.
Grant smiled in spite of himself. Not his Kate. She never gave in. Even asking for Grant’s support was rare.
“Apparently not,” Mrs. Winslow said, preening slightly as though she took it as a complement to her ball. “She claims she will be ready to return in five minutes. How is your patient, Dr. Lampton?”
“Young and strong, and he will mend,” Lampton said.
Grant left them to it and rejoined his brothers, now the center of a little group of mainly young men demanding to know what had occurred and who had shot Vernon. Both thrived inevitably on the attention, although they turned it into a joke, belittling Vernon’s heroism and dismissing Dickie Crowmore as crazy.
When Vernon’s erratic gaze fell on Grant, he eased himself away from the group with a joke and joined him. “How’s Kate?”
“Recovering, I think. She was very touched by the Winslows’ support.”
“Surprised me,” Vernon admitted. “I heard they cut her dead in London. Don’t look at me like that,” he added, scowling. “I heard your last lecture and I haven’t come to quarrel with you. In fact, I’ve got something for you. Come back in here for a minute.”
He all but dragged Grant back into the anteroom, which had been returned to its former state of order. A small hole in the elegant cornice was barely noticeable, especially since the plaster dust below it had been swept up.
“What?” Grant demanded, anxious to be meeting Kate.
Vernon drew in his breath. “Look, I won’t deny I want Kate, and I would, whether she had money or not. And she should marry me, you know, for my honor if no one else’s. But it ain’t me she wants, is it? It’s you. And I can see it’s you she needs. I’m not stepping aside, Tris, because she’s already stepped over me to get to you! But, damn it, I wish you both all the best. Here.” He took a battered looking folded paper from an inside pocket in his coat. “I don’t think there’s any blood on it.”
“What is it?” Impatiently, Grant took it from him and unfolded it.
“Special license. Marriage license. I brought it with me from London, thinking to use it for Kate and me. But you might as well have it. I expect you can change the name and make it right later. Or something. Hope it helps.”
Slowly, Grant raised his gaze to his brother’s. His heart was racing with excitement. But this was Kate. He had to be sure it was the right thing for her at this moment.
“Thank you,” he said. “I believe it does.”
“What in God’s name are you doing?” exclaimed a voice at the door.
Grant almost groaned as Sir Anthony Mere walked in. Kate’s father was the last person he wanted to see at this moment. How much had he heard?
“You, sir,” Mere growled at Vernon, striding into the room. “Do you have the gall to pass my daughter off onto this … this…”
“Curate,” Grant supplied helpfully.
Clearly, the man had overheard too much, and Grant struggled with what to do about it. Despite believing the worst of his daughter, Mere had travelled all this way to see her. And he’d defended her to Dickie’s face, although Grant had the feeling this stemmed as much from outraged pride as from care for her.
There might have been hope for Mere and his relationship with Kate, but that was for the future. Grant doubted Kate was up to a major scene with her father at this moment, and Grant’s first concern was for her.
He turned resolutely to face Sir Anthony. “Firstly, sir, no one can pass your daughter off on anyone. She will make her own decisions. And secondly, neither of us would do anything to hurt her.”
“Where is she?” Mere demanded, only partially mollified.
“With Mrs. Winslow and Lady Wickenden, I believe,” Vernon said. “She is being looked after.”
Sir Anthony cast a dubious glance between them, then turned and went out.
Vernon gave Grant a lopsided grin and slapped him on the back with his good hand. “Good luck. I still hate you, you bastard.”
Grant smiled. “No, you don’t. But I owe you, Gil. A lot.”
“No,” Vernon said and walked away.
Grant refolded the license and tucked it away inside his own coat before following Vernon out and crossing the ballroom to the stairs. To his relief, Sir Anthony Mere sat at the back of the room, in quiet conversation with Mr. Winslow.
On leaving the ballroom, Grant saw Gillie first. Pretty and vivacious, she stood outside the nearest door off the hall, telling some witty story to someone who stood inside the doorway.
She broke off when she saw him, and grinned. “But here is Mr. Grant. I shall leave him to your tender mercies.” She tripped toward him, just touching his hand on the way past—a gesture of encouragement or a warning to be gentle, he couldn’t tell which. For his attention was all on the woman emerging from the doorway.
Her beauty caught at his breath, more than ever before, because with it came the vulnerability she’d always kept so well hidden. Her eyes were bright and clear, the only sign of recent tears, but her lips seemed to tremble when she smiled.
His throat closed up. But he understood she was held together by a thread, so he smiled back and bowed elaborately. “My Lady Crowmore. May I have the honor of this dance?”
“I have lost my card, but I suppose you may.” It wasn’t a bad effort.
He smiled and offered his arm. “The villain has fled,” he said lightly. “With the noble youth of Blackhaven hallooing after him. But the party goes on.”
“Thank God for parties.”
“I do, I do.”
Her breath caught. “Are you never offended by anything I say?”
“You know I’m not. I know what’s in your heart.”
“No, you don’t,” she said with spirit. “You just think you do.”
“Perhaps. Certainly, I know what’s in mine.”
They’d reached the arch and paused a moment, looking down into the bright, colorful ballroom. Two sets were dancing a lively country dance. There would have been more had some of the young men not been chasing Dickie across the country. Grant hoped they’d come back soon.
“Shall we?” he asked lightly.
“Of course.”
As they descended the steps, the country dance came to an unexpectedly quick end. The couples, looking slightly surprised, hadn’t even cleared the floor before the orchestra broke into a waltz.
“Are they rushing to catch up?” Grant asked, amused.
“No,” Kate replied. “I asked Mrs. Winslow to arrange it.”
He blinked down at her, a smile forming on his lips that he couldn’t stop. “You did, didn’t you? Have I told you that I love you?”
“You might have mentioned it.”
“Then, shall we waltz?”
“I insist upon it.”
His arm was around her waist before they even reached the dance floor and he swept her into the beguiling rhythm of the waltz.
She said, “You stood by me. I was trying to spare you, and you stood by me anyway.”
“I will always stand by you. Vernon’ failure to do so in London was down to lack of imagination rather than ill-nature.”
“I know,” she snapped, revealing at last the frayed nature of her nerves. She drew in her breath. “Please don’t talk about Vernon.”
“We have to, in passing. He’s my brother and he’s part of your past. I bear him no ill will for his attraction to you. How could I?”
“And me?” she said, tilting her chin. “Is there no sliver of blame for me?”
“None. If you have none for me.”
Her eyes searched his and slowly, deliciously, began to melt. “I suppose you waltz well. I like to waltz with you.”
“I like to waltz with you, too.” In spite of his best intentions, his body grew warm and urgent. The feel of her frail, provocative person in his arms almost tore him apart. He wanted to protect her from the world, from the brutality of men. And he wanted to ravish her. He bent his head, leaning too close to her. “Will you elope with me, Kate?”
Her eyes held his. “I thought you’d never ask.”
His breath caught on laughter, and her eyes reflected his smile. “I mean to marry you.”
“I know.”
Inevitably, he followed the draft of cool air and danced her through the open French door to the brightly lit terrace. A quick glance showed him they were alone.
He swung her round against the house wall, hiding her from anyone who might glance through the door. “Is that a yes?”
Her quickened breath caressed his lips. “Yes.”
The relief was like a pain. He knew it was what she needed, but her acknowledgement meant the world. “I should do it now before you change your mind.” He inhaled her scent, like heady wine.
“Do what?” she asked huskily. “Kiss me? Make love to me?”
“Oh yes. Here, now, would make me very happy.”
She parted her lips, inching them so close to his he could taste her.
“You’re teasing me,” he whispered.
“I thought you were teasing me.”
His lower lip just touched hers, because one of them trembled, and he was almost lost. “I never tease. I always meant to marry you.”
“I withdraw my objections.”
“Because I’m not Crowmore?”
“Because you’re you.”
He closed his eyes before he crushed her against the wall and made her his against all propriety and good manners. Abruptly, he swung around, seizing her hand and breaking into a run. “Then let’s go.”
“Go where?” She gave in, running with him in her dancing slippers across the terrace and down the path to the stables.
“Aha,” he said mysteriously.
*
Kate’s strange merry-go-round of an evening was, apparently, not yet over. Far from humiliating her, her bout of crying had left her feeling almost cleansed, as well as awed by the kindness of Mrs. Winslow and Gillie, who actually seemed to like her. She emerged from it clear-sighted and light-headed, as though a massive burden she hadn’t known she carried, had floated away with her tears.
And now here she was, running through the Winslows’ garden to the stables, apparently eloping with Tristram Grant. She suspected it was more in the nature of a secret tryst, and that he would call the banns tomorrow. Could you call the banns on your own wedding? Either way, she trusted him. Her excitement was akin to the childish feeling of getting into some forbidden escapade with her brothers, and yet the constant desire bubbling in the pit of her stomach was not remotely childish.
“I’m borrowing Lord Wickenden’s carriage and will send it back directly,” he told the surprised stable lads. “Bring it out, would you? And would someone convey the message to Lady Wickenden that I shall escort Lady Crowmore home. I’ll write to your master in the morning.”
“You are frighteningly efficient, aren’t you?” Kate said in mock admiration.
“You have no idea.”
She didn’t ask until they were in the carriage, bowling along the drive and onto the road away from Blackhaven.
She gave in. “Where are we going?”
“Eloping.”
“All the way to Gretna Green?”
“Not unless you particularly wish to. I’d never get the carriage back to the Wickendens in time.”
“Then we’re not going far?”
He shook his head. “No, but it’s too far to walk in your dancing slippers.”
Only five minutes later, they pulled up at the gate of a fairly large but solitary cottage. From the carriage lights, and the one shining from the downstairs window, she saw that it had a neat little garden at the front.
Intrigued, although it was not remotely what she had imagined, she allowed Grant to hand her down and lead her up the garden path. She hoped it wasn’t symbolic.
Grant knocked at the door.
“Won’t they mind visitors at this hour?” Kate murmured belatedly. “It must be almost midnight.”
“I don’t think he’ll mind.”
The door was opened a crack, and then fully, by an elderly manservant. “Is that you, Mr. Grant?”
“Yes, it is, Knollys. Sorry to be so late! Is Mr. Dallas still up?”
“Yes, sir. Come in.”
The elderly Knollys led them across the hall to the nearest door, which he opened. “Mr. Grant is here, sir, with a lady.”
“Indeed?” came a slightly frail but interested voice. “Show them in directly.”
Knollys bowed them into the room. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, a fire burned merrily in the grate. Beside it, among a clutter of books and shawls, sat an old man, a book on his lap that he’d clearly been reading by the light of the lamp beside him.
“Tristram, dear boy. Madam.” He began to rise, but Kate went swiftly toward him.
“No, please don’t get up, sir. We have disturbed you at a quite unseemly hour.”
“I suppose it is, although I confess at my age I like to be disturbed occasionally. Who have you brought to see me, Tristram?”
“Lady Crowmore.”
The old man’s sharp eyes flickered. He clearly knew the name, although his smile was just as sweet and welcoming.
“Kate,” Tristram said, “this is Mr. Dallas, who was the vicar of St. Andrews before Mr. Hoag.”
“Ah.” Somewhat bemused, she shook hands with the Reverend Mr. Dallas and sat in the nearby chair he indicated.
“Knollys will bring us some tea,” Mr. Dallas said comfortably. “I’m afraid I no longer have anything stronger in the house. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Marry us, if you please,” Grant said bluntly.
The old man blinked. “Gladly. But you could have asked me tomorrow. I would still have said yes.”
“I know. But I want you to marry us tonight.”
Kate turned her head and stared at Grant. “Don’t be silly. He can’t.”
Grant slipped his hand inside his coat and brought out a crumpled piece of folded paper. “Yes, he can. I have a special license. My brother gave me it, but I don’t believe you’ll quibble.”
“Vernon had a special license?” Kate exclaimed.
“Yes, he acquired it in London before he left. I believe giving it to me is by way of a blessing. Do you mind?”
Mr. Dallas took it, pushing his spectacles up his nose. He unfolded it, adjusting the distance of the paper from his face until he could read it.
Kate swallowed. “I don’t know. I thought you were pretending about eloping. I thought you would call the banns tomorrow.”
“We can still do it that way.”
“Then why are you here?” Mr. Dallas regarded them over the rim of his spectacles, one to the other.
“Because it seemed the right thing to do,” Grant said quietly. “Is it?”
Kate’s sudden sense of panic faded as she looked at him. All that was left was the excitement, the desire. She nodded, once.
“You are aware,” Mr. Dallas said, “that hurried marriages like this cause speculation and scandal?”
“I am no stranger to scandal, sir. But if it will hurt Tristram, we won’t do it.”
Mr. Dallas smiled, his glance oddly piercing as he continued to examine each of them. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Knollys appeared with the tea just then. Mr. Dallas asked Kate to pour, then turned to the servant. “Is Emmy gone to bed yet?”
“I believe she’s just about to.”
“Desire her to step in here, with you. We’re going to have a wedding.”