Clandestine (13 page)

Taking up more than his fair share of air in the room.

“That,” he said, nodding toward the doorway Jedediah had just vacated, “is one remarkably repulsive human being.”

Kit dropped her hand, freeing her laughter. It felt
so
good to laugh. Particularly with Marcus smiling at her.

He had changed and was now shaved, styled and immaculately turned out in a tight coat and those thigh-hugging breeches, looking every bit a gentleman of station and breeding. Altogether striking.

But his eyes betrayed him. He could be buttoned up into civilized clothing and starched within an inch of his life . . . but the rumpled gypsy sparkled underneath.

She sensed he wore being a gentleman like a cloak. Something to be easily tossed on or off.

She found the thought entirely too compelling for her peace of mind.

How did the East Indies shape a man? What experiences readied one to effortlessly leap onto the back of a galloping horse? How wild and untamed was he underneath that veneer of urbanity?

And did she really want to know?

Nothing can come of it,
Virtuous and Wicked Angel sing-songed together.

How unkind of Fate to toss such an attractive man into her path when she was absolutely
not
in a place to do anything about it.

In contrast to him, she wore a twice-turned muslin gown with faded gray stripes and a fraying hem, her hair pinned to her head as best she could manage by herself, stuffing her curls into a large knot. Kit didn’t know the first thing about creating the intricate hairstyles she saw ladies like Mrs. Marianne Knight wear. In the past, someone else had always done such things for her. Granted, she had tried to enliven her current outfit by wrapping a ribbon around her head and draping a red paisley shawl over her shoulders, both gifts from the kind Mrs. Knight.

Though she still looked poor and frumpy.
Sigh
.

“Thank you for not giving me away, my lord.” Kit’s hands twitched, reaching to smooth her skirts and fluff her hair. To preen under his gaze.

Gah. Marcus, Lord Vader made her feel so self-aware. She
never
felt awkward around men. What was it about him?

“Think nothing of it,” he returned, eyes flicking to her hands with the smallest grin. Probably sensing the effect he had on her.

Drat him.

Why did she
care
what he thought of her?

“Though you will have to avoid any and all skulking activities you had planned this afternoon, as I would hate for you to make a liar of me,” he continued. Still with that knowing grin hovering around the edges of his mouth.

He really was a marvelous specimen of manhood. Leaning against the window jamb, arms crossed, making his shoulders seem enormous.

Again with the broad shoulders. They almost taunted her.

Shoulders which could hold things . . . like her sorrows and troubles, her endless responsibilities and secrets . . .

Or you,
Wicked Angel said.
They could also just hold you.

Yes. There was that too.

Kit squelched her wistful thoughts.

Not helping.

A beat of silence.

“I thought we agreed to be Marc and Kit to each other? None of this ‘my lord’ nonsense.” He gave one of his slow burn smiles. Mischief-lit. The kind that said
I’m a rascal, but you will love me anyway
.

Both her shoulder angels exhaled in delight despite themselves.

Stupid, charming man.

No flirting, remember? You promised to be good.
Virtuous Angel chided.

Don’t listen to her,
Wicked Angel chimed in.
You deserve some fun.

True that. And how could a little flirting hurt? She wasn’t actually going to confide in him or cry on those (large, inviting, attractive) shoulders . . .

Every facet proclaimed him a man who joked his way through life without ever engaging his emotions. Infinitely attractive and lively to be around. But she knew from her long experience in society to never take such men seriously. Woe to the woman who ever gave her heart to one. Once a rogue, always a rogue . . .

Exactly! And spending time with him isn’t helping you find Daniel.
Virtuous Angel could be such a kill-joy sometimes.

Not true. Remember he was robbed. He might know something about Daniel. You definitely need to flirt the information out of him.
Wicked Angel said, smugly.

That was too true.

She
did
need to know more about that robbery and Daniel’s possible involvement.

So, really, she was merely engaging in a little bit of investigative inquiry. That was all. She would
not
lose her head over Marcus, Lord Vader.

The flirting was just a means to an end, right?

And to that end . . .

“No skulking for the rest of the afternoon?” Kit made a small moue of distaste, drawing her shawl around her. “That does put such a damper on all the activities I had planned.”

Marc gave a small laugh, tilting his head toward the window. The overcast light raked his face, painting it half in light, half in shadow.

“Ah. I
had
nurtured a private hope that the erstwhile Kit Ashton had a dark secret or two.” He winked.

Kit managed a nervous chuckle.

He had no idea.

“Well, skulking without a secret is quite pathetic. And I generally try to avoid being pathetic.” She leaned toward him as she spoke, as if imparting a confidence.

That statement won her another crinkle-eyed grin.

“You seem like a man with secrets of your own,” she continued.

No sense beating around the bush, as it were. Get straight to the heart of the matter.

“Don’t we all?” He shrugged, his grin un-faltering, his face giving away nothing.

Kit matched his grin. His smile was like a contagion. She dared anyone who saw it not to automatically reflect it back.

Charming, stupid,
secretive
man.

“I wager you have delicious secrets.” She lent a husky edge to her voice, angling her head in such a way as to invite him to share his.

He chuckled. A deep, rumbly sound that she felt to her toes.

“Naturally. Is there any other kind?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Though, I like the thought of you having a secretive history. It makes your life seem more interesting than simply reading or . . .” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

“Embroidery?” Kit supplied.

“Yes . . . embroidery.” Marc looked perplexed. “Is that all you do? Read and embroider?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Kit went wide-eyed, pasting on her most innocent expression. “I also
fetch
reading and embroidery for Lady Ruby. Or, best of all, read to her
while
she embroiders. It’s a complex system.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.”

“It sounds heinously boring.”

“It is, I assure you. Just a step above watching paint dry.” Kit cracked a mischievous smile of her own.

Marc nodded thoughtfully, that grin tugging at his lips, and then gestured toward the book she held in her hands.

“So . . . are those truly your only two options of things to do? Reading or embroidery?”

“No, a selection of handy crafts is open to the modern lady who is adept with a needle. We also while away our time at knitting, darning, tatting and even quilling.”

Marc gave her a confused look and sat down on the window seat, angling against the opposite side of the window embrasure. He leaned against the cushions, stretching his legs out along the floor next to her. Kit couldn’t help but notice how the window light caught the sheen of his dark hair curling around his ears.

The entire scene conspired to make his shoulders as broad and problem-supporting as possible. Drat him.

“That sounds . . . monumentally boring.” He looked speculative. “And you spend your entire day doing this?”

“Why yes. Of course, ladies also engage in such
thrilling
pastimes as strolling in the garden, changing our attire for dinner and, if we are most fortunate, practicing a musical instrument—”

“Please tell me you are joking?” Marc’s look turned strained.

Kit gave a wry smile. “No, I’m afraid I am not. Which explains why everyone drinks and gambles. It’s the only way to make all the rest of it palatable. I should think even quilling would seem exciting if one were drunk enough.”

“Truly?”

“No, I am completely lying. I don’t think
any
amount of alcohol could make quilling interesting, but it
might
be worth a try.” Kit gave a rueful shake of her head. “You know, as a way to break up the monotony of everything else. Perhaps we could even bet on the outcome.”

Marc laughed. Head back, eyes scrunched nearly shut, flashing surprisingly white, straight teeth. He had an exceptionally nice laugh, deep and robust.

“No wonder you harbor secrets then.” His laughter faded into a broad smile.

He quite scattered her thoughts.

She would not fidget with her skirts. Or check her hair in the window’s reflection.

No, she would not.

When was the last time a man had made her
this
self-conscious? She tried to remember.

There
had
been that dinner party at Lady Spencer’s where Kit met a dreamy French painter with long tawny hair and passionate blue eyes. Nearly a caricature of the sweeping romantic
artiste
. He had whispered to her at length about the transitory nature of perception. She remembered fidgeting as he spoke, angling to catch her reflection in a silver candelabra to make sure her earrings were hanging straight. But in the process, she accidentally bumped her wine glass, spilling red Bordeaux down the front of her white evening gown . . .

So mortifying. She had never seen the French painter again.

Why, oh why, did she
now
meet a charming man with a clever sense of humor?

It was all just so . . . unexpected.

Some hint of her wonder of him must have shown on her face, as their eyes met. And then held. And held.

And held.

Until the silence stretched and Kit could feel the awareness growing between them.

His grin faded slowly by degrees, until it was only the suggestion of a smile. His eyes turned intense, gleaming bits of bright jade nestled into his tanned face. As if he, too, were not unaffected.

And in that moment, she had a flash of . . . something.

Something beyond herself.

A sense of familiarity, of recognition.

That perhaps in some former life, in some way, she had known him. That this meeting of minds was not entirely serendipitous.

But possibly more directed. A boon granted by Fate.

A rightness. That he was
meant
for her.

Her breath caught at that.

How impossible!

Given her life—past, present and future . . . for more reasons than she cared to list. Nothing could ever come of attraction between them. He would unravel all her secrets.

Unravel
her
.

There could
never
be a permanent place in her life for a man like Marcus, Lord Vader. For any man she met here in Marfield, for that matter.

She just needed to find Daniel, go home and move on.

And forget all about a certain wind-swept, horseback-leaping gypsy.

No matter how charming his smile.

Chapter 8

S
ilence hung in the library.

Marc stared helplessly into Kit’s eyes. Luminous and velvety . . . not a deep chocolate but a lighter brown . . . more the color of draft beer with reds and golds mixed in.

Not that she would appreciate the comparison, he was sure.

It really did match the color of her auburn hair which she had attempted to ruthlessly pin to her head, but curls still escaped to frame her face and dance along her neck. Emblems of the woman herself, trying to stuff herself into a life which clearly didn’t fit.

She seemed so fearless. Impervious to what the world thought of her . . . what
he
thought of her.

Unapologetically herself. Take it or leave it.

Heaven help him, he
adored
women like that.

Confidence like hers was never bestowed. It had to be worked at and fought for and
won.

What fiery crucible had given Miss Katherine Ashton such unshakable composure? And why did he want to know the answer to that question so badly?

Now
he would meet someone like her. Stripped of his life as he knew it and in no position to pursue anything with her.

It just figured.

“How did you come to be at Haldon Manor?” he asked, unable to resist.

“Me?” she squeaked, looking somewhat startled. “I am sure you cannot be interested in the sad vagaries of my history—”

“Is this part of your secret life then?”

He loved the idea she might have a secret past. That, somehow, the entirety of her existence was more than the small sphere she currently occupied. That perhaps a more adventurous future awaited her. Or that her life had not always been so bleak and solitary.