In Love With a Wicked Man (21 page)

Edward felt his spine go rigid. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Julia’s grin deepened. “Lady d’Allenay and Lord Reginald,” she clarified. “I was warned off, you know, by her mamma, before we’d even left London. I assume the family hopes for a reconciliation. Indeed, I collect the poor girl has had no other suitor these last many years.”

“If that is true,” he said tightly, “then it is doubtless by the lady’s choice.”

“Do you think so?” asked Lady Julia, snaring a glass of madeira as Jasper passed with a tray. “It is said she wishes to marry. The barony needs an heir. Her mamma hoped, I think, that her position toward Reggie had softened.”

Just then, amidst much cajoling from Nancy Wentworth, a neighbor sat down at the pianoforte and struck up an exuberant tune. In a trice, Mrs. Wentworth ordered the rugs rolled up, and soon one of the gentlemen was leading Miss Wentworth out in a lively country-dance. Mrs. Wentworth attempted to drag Anstruther onto the floor with them, but the big man shook his head.

The lady turned her attention to de Macey, who cheerfully obliged her.

“How quaint! A country entertainment.” Julia edged her elbow in Edward’s direction. “Shall we show them how it’s done in Town, Mr. Quartermaine?”

“I think not,” he said laconically. “Try Sir Francis.”

The dark-eyed Sir Francis was indeed approaching. Lady Julia cast Edward one last, faintly pouting glance, then abandoned him for the better offer, pressing her untouched glass into his hand.

Edward gave an inward sigh of relief, then wondered why he did so.

Lady Julia was precisely his sort of woman; a beautiful widow with enough knowledge to entertain him in bed, and enough practicality to know he would never marry her.

It should have been ideal. And for a moment, Edward actually tried to persuade himself to go after her. Forcing his gaze to follow her as she dipped and swayed, her eye flashing prettily, Edward sipped Julia’s wine and considered what he was giving up in not pursuing the lady’s hints. But then his attention caught on a flash of emerald green, and the thought was lost.

Her lips a little tightly compressed, Kate was allowing Lord Reginald to lead her into the dancers. He felt his ire stir, then reined it back. He was jealous, and had no right to be so. Reggie was duplicitous and lazy, but not, he thought, precisely evil.

As gentlemen went, there were worse.
Much
worse.

The truth was, Edward disdained most of his clientele. Decent gamblers—men like de Macey, with whom one might actually sit down and enjoy a drink and some intelligent conversation—were rare. Worse, they were unprofitable. Until now, he had simply viewed Reggie with his usual contempt. But he was coming to actively loathe the man.

He didn’t deceive himself as to why. But he knew on that same breath that it would not do; that he could not help Kate in any meaningful way save to keep his distance.

Kate danced as she did everything else, with grace and competence, and few flourishes. The confection she wore, with its bold colors and plunging bodice, was made for no debutante. It was a daring gown for a bold woman; one who knew what she wanted.

Did
Kate know what she wanted?

Did she want Lord Reginald Hoke? Had she once loved him?

She wished to be married, Julia had suggested. Was it true? Kate had hinted otherwise to him; that marriage was a risk she had rather not take. He wasn’t sure he’d believed her, even then. He was ever more confident he didn’t now.

Edward watched her until the music tinkled to a halt, remembering how she had moved beneath him in bed with that same lovely grace and sense of purpose. And for an instant, he felt that same aching sense of loss; the feeling of having slid into something deep, from which he might never extract himself.

Since regaining his memory, he had struggled to become himself again. Cold. Aloof. Outwardly civil, but ruthless inside. Yet it sometimes felt as if his very nature was trying to shift like loose gravel beneath his feet.

He knew the sensation would not last; that he was what he was, and that even his affection for Maria had not changed him. Nor would his feelings for Kate—whatever they were. He would as soon not analyze them too thoroughly.

Reggie had caught Kate’s hands and was spinning her about the room. Well. A husband. She needed one, he thought. Deserved one. A kind and good man.

But she didn’t deserve him. No, it would not do.

And she certainly deserved better than Lord Reginald Hoke.

When the music ended, Kate stepped back from Reggie, her face flushed pink. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Aurélie Wentworth circled an affectionate arm around her younger daughter, and whispered something. Nancy laughed, drew away, and snatched Reggie by the arm to drag him near.

The three of them looked very gay, as if they shared a happy secret that he could never be a part of. Here at Bellecombe, even Mrs. Wentworth evoked something of that sense of domestic contentment he had enjoyed during his recovery. Before he had known who and what he was.

Now he was just another outsider looking in; a hard man who had lived a brutal life. He didn’t belong here in this paradise with its quiet and beauty. Grace was wasted on the likes of him, however he might yearn for it. Or yearn for her, the epitome of grace.

He paused in his pathetic musings to glance back. Kate had vanished—through one of the windows that gave onto the formal rose garden, he suspected, for the draperies covering it still stirred. Suddenly he felt an intense warmth at his side, and turned to see Mrs. Wentworth at his elbow, her seemingly irrepressible smile curling one corner of her mouth.

“
Ça alors
, Mr. Quartermaine, you do not dance?”

“Rarely,” he said. “Are you inviting me?”

She laughed, a light, trilling sound. “
Vraiment
, sir, the word
invite
seems far too benign to be applied to a man with so grim a gaze. Does one
invite
a lion to dine?”

“You did,” he pointed out.

She giggled as if he were the cleverest creature on earth. “This is true,” she acknowledged. “Ah, I see Fitch has dealt with your stitches! Now you have only a scar to lend character to your handsome face.”

“A man of my ilk,” he said blandly, “should probably take his character where he can get it.”

Mrs. Wentworth shrugged, then set her head coquettishly to one side. “
C’est bien
,” she murmured, studying his forehead
.
“You were
too
handsome, I think, before.”

Edward took a long, slow sip of the wine he held, and carefully considered his next words. “Mrs. Wentworth,” he said quietly, “are you by any chance flirting with me?”

She laughed, but it was uneasy. “And if I were?”

“Then I would thank you for the compliment you pay me,” he said, setting Julia’s glass down with a sharp
chink
, “and tell you that perhaps it’s best I went on my way back to London.”

Her beautiful eyes widened with alarm. “
Non
,” she said, seizing his arm. “You must not go! Not yet!”

“
Must
not?” He looked down at the thin, pale fingers curled around his coat sleeve like beautiful talons. “Those are strong words,
madame
.”

She released his arm. “Perhaps, but I think you tease me,” she said, her lashes lowered. “You will stay,
oui
? I see a reluctant willingness in your eyes. I am grateful. I have need of you, sir.”

“I can’t think why,” he said. “You have a coterie of admirers,
madame
.”

“It is not a coterie that I need,” she said, cutting a sidelong glance at Reggie. “I fear, sir, that I have brought a serpent into my daughter’s house. Perhaps you might help me—
zut
, what is the phrase? Guard the wicket?”

Edward crooked one eyebrow with a look that usually sent his customers and staff scurrying. Mrs. Wentworth was made of sterner stuff, and merely batted her lashes.

“Explain yourself,” he said.

The lady swallowed hard, her swanlike throat working. “It is Lord Reginald,” she whispered. “He persuaded me to bring him here with tears and pledges of adoration. But now I learn—
ma foi!
—he has lost everything, or near it! Worse, he has lost Heatherfields. To
you
.”

Edward beheld her for a moment in stony silence. “I took it fairly,
madame
,” he finally answered, “and in accordance with gentlemen’s terms. Do not be so bold—or so foolish—as to ask for my sympathy. You will not get it.”

“
Mais non
, I do not,” she replied, the words rushing out. “I ask merely for your—”

At that moment, Reggie glided up beside him. Over his shoulder, Edward could see Nancy Wentworth looking at her mother with dismay.

“Careful of this one, Quartermaine,” said Reggie silkily, hooking his arm through Mrs. Wentworth’s. “In Madame Heartbreaker, even you may have met your match.”

The lady smacked him almost playfully. “Reginald!”

He smiled, and leveled his gaze to Edward’s. “Oh, she may pet over little cubs like Sir Francis,” he said on a chuckle, “but she eats wicked men for breakfast.”

“I think,” said Edward, “I can manage.”

Then he gave Mrs. Wentworth a taut bow at the neck, and left. He circled around the room, noting as he did so that the lady’s head was bent to Reggie’s as if they shared some confidence.

What had Mrs. Wentworth meant? Was it a ploy on behalf of Reggie? Or was she genuinely concerned? The lady seemed the last person on earth to behave altruistically. But then, what did he know of her?

In that moment, he scarcely cared. He slipped behind one of the heavy velvet draperies, and pushed open a door. The garden was shaped like a circle, in the center of which stood a massive marble urn that spouted rainwater into the rose beds. This was surrounded by a sort of circular bench that, in summer, would have provided a marvelous view.

Just now, all it provided was the opportunity for frostbite. He found Kate shivering there amidst the dying roses. “You’re going to freeze to death out here,” he said, stripping off his coat, “and utterly crush Reggie’s dreams.”

Kate gave a hysterical bark of laughter. “It is Reggie who drove me out here, blast him.”

“My, what language,” said Edward blandly. Gently, he furled the coat around her shoulders. “There. Warmer?”

“Thank you,” she said on a snuffle.

“Now,” he gently pressed, “what has Reggie done?”

She threw up her hands. “Oh, he begs me to dance, to stroll in the moonlight, to play piquet and talk about what used to be,” she said. “In short, he wishes me to
still care
. And I will not—which he finds most disobliging. And that makes him testy. I wonder how much money he owes. It must be a quite desperate amount.”

Edward was certain she was right, but he didn’t say as much. Far be it from him to drive home the sad truth of Reggie’s indebtedness.

On a sigh, Kate sank down onto a bench behind her knees. Left with no alternative—and no real wish to do otherwise—Edward joined her. Certain he’d regret it later, he circled an arm around her shoulders, and drew her to his side.

Kate tucked close, and her shivering eased. The chill was born, he feared, as much from fatigue as cold.

“These people,” he said darkly, “are wearing you out.”

“Oh, Edward. It is not that. I am not so faint of heart.”

“Then Lord Reginald Hoke,” he replied, “is wearing you out. I’d like to take my riding crop to that impudent dog.”

“Oh, never mind Reggie,” she said. “I’m just tired. I was having a difficult day even before he started in with his whinging.”

Instinctively, he tightened his embrace. “What happened?”

She gave the curious laugh again. “I drove Peppie into the village for errands,” she said, “to find the entire populace speculating whether I would finally marry Reggie.”

“I fear the villagers do not know you as well as they think,” Edward murmured, “if they imagine you a rug to be trod upon.”

“Indeed not.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “In any case, after that I came home to find we’d lost two lambs to pneumonia, and a letter on my desk from Uncle Upshaw. I had forgotten, Edward. I had forgotten I’d invited him. He is coming, but without Aunt Louisa.”

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Kate, I should go.”

A long silence hung heavy over the rose garden. “Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, Edward. I wish you would not.”

“I have some knowledge of Lord Upshaw,” Edward warned. “He is a staunch and stodgy conservative.”

“—and a prosy moralizer,” Kate added, “but I love him. And I respect him greatly.”

“He’ll be little pleased to find the likes of me at Bellecombe,” Edward warned.

Beneath the weight of his large coat, her slender shoulders shrugged. “He likes none of Aurélie’s friends,” she said evenly. “Are you not here as
her
guest?”

He was, actually.

And it made him wonder yet again what Kate’s mother was up to. For a woman who spent her mornings abed until noon, and her afternoons lazing about with her malodorous pug, she still seemed a woman of boundless scheming.

“Kate,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed . . .
harsh
of late. But this should have ended. I care for you—deeply—and because of it—”

“Oh, please don’t go,” said Kate. “I know I oughtn’t ask it. But I will feel so frightfully outnumbered if you leave.”

“Dash it, Kate, does everyone expect you to marry that man?” asked Edward gruffly. “Will Upshaw?”

She shook her head. “Yes to everyone. And
no
to Uncle Upshaw. He never liked Reggie. He was pleased, I think, when I begged off the betrothal.”

Edward dipped his head and set his lips to her forehead for a long moment. It was a kiss of comfort, and she didn’t push him away. “Kate,” he finally murmured, “I wish to God I had not come here.”

“Well, you didn’t, did you?” she said sharply. “I ran you down.”

He had hurt her, he realized—and likely not for the last time.