Marchington Scandal (23 page)

“Katharine, is it more likely that Lord Stonenden lied to me, or that the countess deceived you? I consider myself a fair judge of character, and I would pledge my word that Stonenden was serious.”

Katharine looked distressed.

“Haven't you perhaps judged him too harshly?” her cousin added.

“He was always so odiously unfeeling,” replied the girl defensively.

“Always?”

Katharine remembered several occasions when he had been just the opposite. “Well, but he should have told me what he meant to do, Mary. He simply does as he pleases, not caring what other people may think,” she cried, trying to recapture her anger.

“He thought you knew, Katharine.”

The girl acknowledged this by bowing her head and gazing at her clasped hands. Mary's argument was convincing. Indeed, she was probably right, but something in Katharine remained stubbornly annoyed. She had not, after all, asked for Lord Stonenden's bounty, and she resented her present feelings of guilt for having misjudged him. She shrugged. “Very well. I shall thank him when I am next in town.”

“But, Katharine—”

“What do you want of me? I admit that he was a great help. We could not have gotten Tom free without him. But does that mean that I must kneel in gratitude? I did not ask his help. Why did he intrude?”

“I think you know that quite well.” Mary looked steadily at her.

“I don't. I can't be expected to know things when he refuses to tell me. He should have explained things himself.”

“Oh, he means to. I nearly drove the servants distracted getting off before him. I decided to prepare the way because I thought he deserved a better reception than the one he was likely to get. I daresay he will arrive this afternoon.”

“What!” Katharine stood. “But he can't come here. What shall I say to him? Oh, he is impossible! Why could he not write, or…or…?”

“He thought you would refuse to see him.”

“So I should. So I will! Oh, Mary, why did you not tell him to stay away?”

“Because I thought he should come, of course. And I think you are acting very foolishly, Katharine.”

“You don't know how I feel. I cannot face him. Oh, what am I going to do?”

“You owe him a chance to explain.”

“I don't! I don't owe him anything.” Katharine laughed a little hysterically. “He owes
me
, for his portrait. Perhaps I shall ask him for my fee.”

“Katharine, be sensible!”

At this sharp remark, the girl regained control of herself. “I am sorry, Mary. I feel a bit unwell. I think I will lie down for a while.”

“A splendid idea. You need time to think.”

Katharine began a sharp retort, then shrugged and turned away. She hardly knew what she felt.

“I will find Lady Agnes and pay my respects,” continued Mary calmly. “I don't suppose she will be pleased to see me. I think I will stay with Elinor's family. I haven't seen them in an age.”

With this, she rose and walked up the path, leaving Katharine staring after her blankly.

Katharine was never certain later precisely how she passed the morning after hearing Mary's story. She walked a good deal, through the house and in the garden and finally down to the stream behind the park. She remembered seeing Elinor; the younger girl spoke, but Katharine did not stop, leaving her cousin staring after her. A kind of urgent tension made it impossible for her to be still, and she felt it was imperative that she order her thoughts before Lord Stonenden's promised arrival. Yet the greater her efforts to do so, the more disordered they became.

What puzzled her most was that she felt little relief at Mary's revelations. For days she had been cast down by the thought that Stonenden loved the countess, but now that she saw the falseness of this idea, she remained dissatisfied, in a state of nervous irritation. Indeed, she was, if anything, more restless. Why should this be? And why did she not feel more kindly toward the man who had taken such pains to help her? She thought of Stonenden now with angry impatience.

At last, tired out, Katharine sat down on a large flat rock beside the stream. She had missed luncheon, but she was not hungry, and she was hardly aware of the beauty of her surroundings, though this sheltered spot was one of her favorite retreats on the Marchington estate. She leaned on one hand and bent over the water, flecked with gold in the afternoon sun. It gave back the reflection of the willow which overhung the stream here, shading the rock and dappling the current with a moving pattern of light, and of Katharine herself. Her pale primrose muslin gown blended into the bright scene, but her face was tense and anxious. After a while, however, the sound of the water began to calm her. She sighed deeply and sat back.

“Katharine,” said a male voice behind her. “They told me at the house that you might be here.”

Somehow, she wasn't startled. She stood and turned slowly to face Oliver Stonenden, who had stopped a little distance away and was watching her with a grave expression in his dark blue eyes. As usual, he looked complete to a shade, a little out of place in these rustic surroundings. He was dressed for riding, in top boots and buckskins, and his blue coat echoed the color of his eyes. As she met them, Katharine was abruptly unconscious of all externals.

“I'm sorry to appear so unexpectedly,” he went on, “but I must talk to you. I ask only a few minutes of your time.”

Katharine felt surprisingly composed now that he was actually before her. “I know all about it,” she replied. “Mary told me.”

“Oh.” He looked taken aback, and distinctly annoyed.

For some reason, Katharine found his chagrin very satisfying. “So, you see, you needn't bother explaining.”

He frowned. “I think I must. It was kind of Miss Daltry to anticipate me, I suppose. Or she meant it kindly, at any rate. But I wish she had not done so. It is for me to explain myself.”

“Indeed? It is hard to believe that you think so.”

Her tone clearly puzzled him. “Because I have not explained before? Yes, but I thought you knew of my plan, you see. I spoke to you about it. I thought it was something we shared.”

“You could not have held to that opinion recently, however.”

“No. I saw after a time that you had not understood. But then…” He smiled wryly. “I was afraid to speak of it. I did not think you would believe me. You can be quite formidable, you know.”

She smiled very slightly.

“So I arranged a demonstration, and of course that too went awry, and you ran away before I could reveal the truth. I have presided over a comedy of errors. Could you not have waited one day? I left word that I would call again.”

Katharine looked down. “Something…happened to make me wish to avoid you.”

He stepped closer. “What?”

“The Countess Standen called on me. She said you wanted me to paint a portrait of her, a companion to my picture of you.”

“Did she, by God!” Stonenden's eyes blazed with anger for a moment, then he laughed harshly. “Elise said she would have her revenge. I suppose that was it. Need I tell you that it was a lie? It was.”

“Yes, that is what Mary thought.”

“My ever-eager champion,” he responded ruefully. “I wonder if she knows how little I want such aid?”

There was a pause; he looked at her. “So,” said Katharine abruptly. “All is explained. I am grateful to you for your help. Shall we walk back to the house? Mary will want to greet you, and the Marchingtons—”

“No,” he replied. “I haven't the slightest desire to see the Marchingtons ever again, and Miss Daltry will have to wait. We have unfinished business between us, Katharine. I do not want your gratitude. It was not for that that I took on the countess.”

She met his eyes challengingly. She could not rid herself of a nagging oppression, even now that she knew the whole truth. Something was wrong, but she could not tell what. “Why, then?” she asked coolly.

He frowned. “But you know…no, let me begin further back. I did not forget you when you went to India, you know. I tried very hard to do so, because I was furious with you. Your refusal of my offer was a stunning blow. But you lingered in my mind, even through four years. Often I would suddenly think of you, in some quite irrelevant place, and feel…I never knew just what. There was anger, of course.” He grinned. “I had never before been refused anything I wanted. But there was something else as well.”

She raised her eyebrows, and his grin widened.

“Yes, I know. I was intolerably conceited in those days. At any rate, when you returned, I heard of it, of course, and I looked for you in vain on many occasions. I thought it was mere curiosity, with perhaps a bit of malice intermixed, but I know now I was mistaken. For when I saw you again at last, my one idea was to continue to see you, as often as possible. I made excuses to myself to justify it.”

“Excuses?”

“I don't dare tell you. But it wasn't long before I discarded them. Your behavior with regard to Elinor's dilemma, and over your paintings, impressed me very much. I had been dazzled by you at your come-out, but I was much more deeply moved by the person you had become since then. I had not known that a woman could possess such gallantry and intelligence. And I realized that my impulse had been exactly right when I made you that long-ago offer, even if my motives had been all wrong. So I began to consider how I might win you, and that led to all the rest.”

“The portrait as well?” asked Katharine a bit resentfully.

“Only at first. I have not become so selfless that I would commission a poor painting to ingratiate myself.”

She smiled.

“Besides, I knew you would see through any such effort.”

At this, she laughed aloud. “You are right there.”

He smiled down at her. “Well. And so?”

“So?”

“I am waiting to hear if I succeeded.”

“Succeeded in what?”

“Dammit, Katharine, succeeded in winning your regard. I have done all I could think of to prove to you that I am not the arrogant, selfish man you so rightly refused five years ago. Will you not tell me whether I have managed the thing?”

“I certainly think much better of you now. You have changed. It was good of you to help me, and you have my true gratitude and esteem.”

“Esteem!” He sounded disgusted.

“Of course. Your kindness—”

“Blast kindness!” He strode over and grasped her shoulders. “Katharine, I have been telling you that I love you!”

“Have you?” answered the girl coolly, not moving in his grasp.

“You know quite well I have.”

“How was I to know it, when you spoke so calmly of ‘winning my regard'?” As she said this, emotion blazed up in Katharine, and she realized that her dissatisfaction with Stonenden was centered here. “You've been talking like a schoolmaster.”

“A… Have I indeed?” He pulled her close; their eyes met across a very short distance. Then he bent to kiss her, at first very gently, then with a desperate urgency. His arms moved from her shoulders to encircle her waist, pulling her hard against his chest. Katharine felt all the pent-up emotion she had been fighting flame up, knowing this was what had been missing from Stonenden's measured explanation. Slowly her arms moved up across his shoulders and around his neck in a caress that was also a demand.

They stood locked together thus for a long moment; then he raised his head. “I love you, Katharine. Do you believe me now?”

Shakily she nodded, and he laughed.

“I was trying so hard to be fair and reasonable, to show you that I was no longer the insufferable fellow I used to be. I wanted this proposal to be as different as possible from that ill-omened first one. Perhaps I went too far.”

Dimpling, she nodded again. “You were so pompous.”

“Pompous? I was never pompous in my life.”

“You were.”

“You will pay for that!” He kissed her then, this time with a leisurely intimacy that implied possession, before releasing her to look deeply into her eyes. “
Will
you marry me, Katharine?”

Holding his gaze, she nodded once more.

“Have you nothing more to say about it?”

“You have changed,” she answered, “and so have I. And I love you with all my heart.”

He pulled her close again. Some time passed before they separated, but when they did, Katharine stepped back a little, taking a trembling breath.

“I'll have no more talk of schoolmasters,” Stonenden told her.

Smiling, she shook her head. “But you must tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“What were the excuses?”

“Excuses?” He frowned.

“You said you made excuses to justify your interest in me. What were they?”

“Ah.” He grinned wickedly. “The chief one was that I should punish you a little for rejecting me that first time.”

Katharine's amber eyes blazed. “Punish me? Despicable!”

“Wasn't it?” he agreed amiably. “And quite self-deceiving, too. It was I who was to be punished by long, weary service.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Which you deserved, if that is what you thought, wretch.”

“Possibly.”

“And I shan't let you forget it, either, not for years and years.”

“The thought of your reminding me of anything, however unpleasant, for years and years, is so sweet that I don't even protest.” Their eyes met again. “I do love you, Katharine.”

She melted into his arms once more.

If you enjoyed
The Marchington Scandal
, be sure to check out more Regency romance titles from Jane Ashford

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Man of Honour

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Lord Alan Gresham was icily, intolerably, dangerously bored. As he looked out over the animated, exceedingly fashionable crowd that filled the large reception room, his blue eyes glittered from under hooded lids. His mouth was a thin line. Revelers who glanced his way, curious about his very plain evening dress and solitary state, looked quickly away when he met their eyes. The women tended to draw their gauzy wraps closer despite the enervating warmth of the room, and the men stiffened. Whispers began to circulate, inquiring as to who he was and what the deuce he was doing in Carlton House at the prince regent's fete.

A damned good question, Alan thought, well aware that he was the object of their attention. He was here against his will, and his better judgment. He was wasting his time, which he hated, and he was being kept from truly important work by a royal whim. He couldn't imagine a situation more likely to rouse his temper and exhaust his small stock of patience.

Alan watched a padded and beribboned fop sidle up to the Duke of Langford and murmur a query. The duke did not look pleased, but he answered. The reaction was only too predictable—surprise, feigned incomprehension, and then delight in having a tidbit to circulate among the gossips. Alan ignored the spreading whispers and continued to watch the duke, a tall, spare, handsome man of sixty or so. This was all his fault. Alan wouldn't be trapped here now, on this ridiculous quest, if it weren't for the duke. He clamped his jaw hard, then deliberately relaxed it. He wasn't being quite fair, he admitted to himself. The duke, his father, was no more able to refuse a direct command from the sovereign than he himself was.

“Well, I hope my eyes are not like limpid forest pools,” declared a very clear, musical female voice behind him. “Aren't forest pools full of small slimy creatures and dead leaves?”

Somewhat startled, Alan turned to find the source of this forthrightness. He discovered a girl of perhaps twenty with lustrous, silky brown hair and a turned-up nose. She didn't have the look of the
haut
ton
, with which Alan was only too tiresomely familiar. Her gown was too simple, her hair not fashionably cropped. She looked, in fact, like someone who should not, under any circumstances, have been brought to Carlton House and the possible notice of the prince regent.

Or of the dissolute-looking fellow who was bending over her now, Alan noted. He had the bloodshot eyes and pouchy skin of a man who had spent years drinking too much and sleeping too little. The set of his thin lips and the lines in his face spoke of cruelty. Alan started to go to the rescue. Then he remembered where he was. Innocent young ladies were not left alone in Carlton House, at the mercy of the prince's exceedingly untrustworthy set of friends and hangers-on. Their families saw to that. Most likely this girl was a high flyer whose youthful looks were very good for business. No doubt she knew what she was doing. He started to turn away.

“No, I do not wish to stroll with you in the garden,” the girl said. “I have told you so a dozen times. I don't wish to be rude, but please go away.”

The man grasped her arm, his fingers visibly digging into her flesh. He tried to pull her along with him through the crowd.

“I'll scream,” said the girl, rather calmly. “I can scream very loudly. My singing teacher said I have an extraordinary set of lungs. Though an unreliable grasp of pitch,” she added with regretful honesty.

Her companion ignored this threat until the girl actually opened her mouth and drew in a deep preparatory breath. Then, with a look around at the crowd and a muttered oath, he dropped her arm. “Witch,” he said.

“‘Double, double toil and trouble,'” she replied pertly.

The man frowned.

“‘Fire burn and cauldron bubble,'” she added.

His frown became a scowl.

“Something of toad, eye of newt… oh, I forget the rest.” She sounded merely irritated at her lapse of memory.

The man backed away a few steps.

“There's blood in it somewhere,” she told herself. She made an exasperated sound. “I used to know the whole thing by heart.”

Her would-be ravisher took to his heels. The girl shook out her skirts and tossed her head in satisfaction.

His interest definitely caught, Alan examined this unusual creature more closely. She was small—the top of her head did not quite reach his shoulder—but the curves of her form were not at all childlike. The bodice of her pale green gown was admirably filled and it draped a lovely line of waist and hip. Her skin glowed like ripe peaches against her glossy brown hair. He couldn't see whether her eyes had any resemblance to forest pools, but her lips were mesmerizing—very full and beautifully shaped. The word “luscious” occurred to him, and he immediately rejected it as nonsense. What the devil was he doing, he wondered? He wasn't a man to be beguiled by physical charms, or to waste his time on such maunderings. Still, he was having trouble tearing his eyes away from her when it was brought home to him that she had noticed him.

“No, I do not wish to go with you into another room,” she declared, meeting his gaze squarely. “Or into the garden, or out to your carriage. I do not require an escort home. Nor do I need someone to tell me how to go on or to ‘protect' me.” She stared steadily up at him, not looking at all embarrassed.

Her eyes were rather like forest pools, Alan thought; dead leaves aside. They were a sparkling mixture of brown and green that put one in mind of the deep woods. “What are you doing here?” he couldn't resist asking her.

“That is none of your affair. What are
you
doing here?”

Briefly, Alan wondered what she would think if he told her. He would enjoy hearing her response, he realized. But of course he couldn't reveal his supposed “mission.”

A collective gasp passed over the crowd, moving along the room like wind across a field of grain. Alan turned quickly. This was what he had been waiting for through the interminable hours and days. There! He started toward the sweeping staircase that adorned the far end of the long room, pushing past knots of guests transfixed by the figure that stood in the shadows atop it.

On the large landing at the head of the stairs the candles had gone out—or been blown out, Alan amended. In the resulting pool of darkness, floating above the sea of light in the room, was a figure out of some sensational tale. It was a woman, her skin bone-white, her hair a deep chestnut. She wore an antique gown of yellow brocade, the neckline square cut, the bodice tight above a long full skirt. Alan knew, because he had been told, that this was invariably her dress when she appeared, and that it was the costume she had worn onstage to play Lady Macbeth.

Sound reverberated through the room—the clanking of chains—as Alan pushed past the guests, who remained riveted by the vision before them. The figure seemed to hover a foot or so above the floor. The space between the hem of its gown and the stair landing was a dark vacancy. Its eyes were open, glassy and fixed, effectively dead-looking. Its hands and arms were stained with gore.

A bloodcurdling scream echoed down the stairs. Then a wavering, curiously guttural voice pronounced the word “justice” very slowly, three times. The figure's mouth had not moved during any of this, Alan noted.

He had nearly reached the foot of the stairs when a female guest just in front of him threw up her arms and crumpled to the floor in a faint. Alan had to swerve and slow to keep from stepping on her, and as he did so, something struck him from behind, upsetting his balance and nearly knocking him down. “What the devil?” he said, catching himself and moving on even as he cast a glance over his shoulder. To his astonishment, he found that the girl he had encountered a moment ago was right on his heels. He didn't have time to wonder what she thought she was doing. “Stay out of my way,” he commanded and lunged for the stairs.

There was another terrible shriek, but even as Alan pounded up the long curving stairway, the apparition at the top vanished into darkness. Cursing, he kept going. He didn't believe for one moment that the ghost of a recently dead actress was haunting Carlton House, whatever the prince might say. It was some sort of hoax. And he had to uncover it, and the reasons behind it, before he would be allowed to leave and take up his own pursuits once more.

He reached the broad landing—now empty. The corridor leading off it was also completely dark, all the candle sconces extinguished. He paused a moment to listen for footsteps, and once again was jostled from behind. He turned to find the same girl had followed him up the staircase. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

“I must speak to her,” insisted the girl breathlessly. “I must find her. Which way?” She gazed left, then right, along the lightless hallway.

Alan was never sure afterward whether there had actually been a sound. But the girl exclaimed, pointed, and darted off to the left. After an instant's hesitation, he went after her.

The light from downstairs barely penetrated into this upper corridor, and the little there was cast disorienting shadows along the floor and walls. Alan could just see the girl blundering along ahead of him toward a half-open door, which seemed to still be swinging.

The girl reached the door, pulled it open, and went through. Alan, directly behind her by this time, followed at top speed. Then, in one confusing instant, he careened into her with stunning force, the door slammed shut, and there was the unmistakable click of a key turning in a lock outside. A spurt of eerie laughter was capped by total, black silence.

A moment ticked by. Though he was jammed into a tiny space, Alan managed to reach behind his back and grip the doorknob. As he had expected, it did not turn.

He heard a muffled sound, between a sob and a sigh. “She didn't wait for me,” murmured the girl, so softly he barely heard.

“You mean the so-called ghost?” he replied sharply. “Why should it?”

“You frightened her off,” she accused. “She would have stayed for
me
.”

“If you hadn't gotten in my way, I would have caught it,” he retorted. “What is your connection with this affair?”

There was a silence.

“Could you move, please?” the girl asked. “You're crushing me.”

“I am directly against the door,” he answered. “There is no room to move. I insist upon knowing—”

“We're in some sort of cupboard, then. I'm mashed into a corner. Can't you open the door?”

“It's locked,” Alan replied with what he thought was admirable restraint.

“You mean, the ghost locked us in?” she said incredulously.

“Someone pretending to be a ghost appears to have done so,” he amended. “To prevent discovery of the hoax.”

There was another silence. Alan cursed the darkness, wanting very much to see his companion's face.

“You don't think it's really Bess Harding's ghost?” she asked finally.

“There are no ghosts,” Alan pronounced with utter certainty. “That is a ridiculous superstition, rejected by all sensible people.”

“Sensible,” she echoed very quietly. “I suppose you're right.” She sighed.

For some reason, that tiny movement made him acutely aware of the fact that their bodies were pressed together along their entire lengths. He could feel the soft curve of her breasts at his ribs, and her hip cradled by his thigh. He moved slightly, trying to disengage, but this only intensified the sensations. She had a heady, flowery scent, too, he realized. It was intoxicating in these confined quarters. “We should make some sound, so that the prince's servants can release us,” he said tightly. Following his own advice, he kicked backward with one foot and produced a satisfying thud on the door panels.

“Who are you?” Alan said, personal curiosity as strong as his investigative instincts.

“Who are
you
?” she retorted with the same spirit she had shown downstairs.

“Alan Gresham,” he answered.

“One of the prince's friends.” Her tone made it clear that she didn't think much of the Carlton House set.

He found he didn't want her to draw this conclusion. “No,” he said. “The prince summoned me here to…” Alan hesitated. The prince had made it clear that he didn't want his uneasiness about the ghost mentioned.

“To rid him of the ghost,” the girl concluded, taking the matter out of his hands. “Just like him. Let someone else clean up the mess. Make no effort to really settle the matter.”

“You are acquainted with the prince?”

“My mother was.”

“Indeed.” From her tone, and the prince's notorious romantic history, Alan concluded that the connection had been intimate.

“My mother, the ghost,” she added bitterly.

“Bess Harding was your…?”

“Yes,” was the bald reply.

Matters became clearer to Alan. “So you came here tonight—”

“I had to see her!” the girl exclaimed. “She can't be just…gone. I came as fast as I could from school, but by the time I reached London, everything was over. They'd buried her and…” Her voice caught, and there was a pause. “I heard about this…haunting. So I came.” She sounded defiant now. “I know it isn't the thing, but no one asked me for an invitation, and I was sure she would appear tonight, so I—”

“Why?” interrupted Alan sharply. “Why tonight?”

“I was told it is the largest, most important party the prince has given in weeks,” she answered. “Mama wouldn't miss something like that.”

“But, Miss Harding—”

“Ariel,” she cut in. “You may as well know my name is Ariel Harding. She named me from
The
Tempest
.” When he said nothing, she added, “Shakespeare, you know.”

“I believe I've heard of it,” he responded dryly.

“Umm. Well, I knew she wouldn't be able to resist such an occasion. So I came.” There was a pause, then she moved slightly. “You don't think it's really my mother?” she asked again.