One Tempting Proposal (22 page)

He wasn't sure if she referred to his misery with Alecia or her feelings for Ollie.

“Kat is intelligent and believes in the vote for women.”

Pippa's raised eyebrow and the quiver of a grin at the edge of her mouth pleased him. He knew that bit of information about Kat would intrigue her.

“While she's aware of her beauty, she accepts it more as fact than conceit. She's fiercely loyal to her sisters, and even to her father, who I'm not sure deserves it.”
And I adore the way she thinks and makes lists, the way she moves, the way she looks at me, and her ever-­changing scents.
If he said all that, Pippa truly would count him a besotted fool.

“She'll be an outstanding duchess.” The certainty struck him almost as an afterthought. If he'd set out to choose a woman who could take on the duties of the role with grace and equanimity, not even his aunt could have selected a lady as well suited as Kat.

Pippa nodded and released her crossed arms to place a hand on each hip. “So she's not bereft of charms and fine qualities. I'm glad to hear it. But aren't you forgetting something?”

In his current state of mind, he probably had.

“What does she think of you? None of us could approve of a woman who did not appreciate all of
your
fine qualities.”

He lifted a brow at that. “That's a good deal of sentimentality from you, Pippa, for so early in the morning.”

“Does she love you? Truly?”

That spot in his chest that had twinged on and off all morning began to ache with a pulsating pain—­as if his heart hurt with every beat. Now who was being sentimental?

But Pippa's question drew him to a point he did not wish to ponder, that he'd avoided sifting all morning. He'd been too consumed with recalling the sight of Kat standing in the center of his study, her corset pulled loose, gilded in dim gaslight and a sunset glow.

In the elaborate bedroom he already thought of as theirs, he'd confessed his love, and she'd said it too. But her admission seemed to change everything between them. Soon after he'd sensed her waver, and uncertainty rushed in to replace all the passion he'd seen in her eyes moments before.

He couldn't have mistaken the feelings between them. They were powerful and real and, for the first time in his life, felt in equal measure. Kat might be practiced at artifice—­polite smiles and inane drawing room conversation—­but surely those moments between them hadn't been that. There'd been no one to see and assess, no one to pass judgments that might impact their social standing. Holding her, touching her, loving her—­that had been true. It had to be, because in those moments with Kat he'd been more alive than he'd felt in years.

“Seb? Don't you know whether she loves you or not?”

She had said it, but perhaps the depth of her feeling did not match his own. Had he been so blinded by his own desires that he'd misread hers? What had caused the fear he'd glimpsed before she departed? He shouldn't have let her leave in such distress. If she could find the courage to give herself to him, he should have found the courage to ask her, not only about the state of her heart, her fears and doubts, but whether she'd be his wife.

More than anything else, he wanted Kat to be his wife. Seb had to ask her.

“I suppose there's only one way to find out.”

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
S THE COOL
satin slid against her skin, Kitty could think only of Sebastian's warm fingertips as he stroked her. On her legs, her arms, her face, even at her core, her body held a memory of his touch, spots he'd explored, staking them out as his own with this hands, his mouth, his tongue. He said he never wanted another man to touch her that way. Neither did she. Ever.

The dressmaker tugged at the fabric near her waist, adding a pin from those arrayed in the seam between her lips, snapping Kitty out of her erotic reverie.

She breathed deep and finally glanced at herself in her long sitting room mirror. A bride stared back at her, garbed in the loveliest wedding dress she'd ever seen. Buttery satin fabric embroidered with dozens of lily of the valley flowers, and sparkling beads sewn in clusters to mark the center of each flower bell.

“What will be the flower sewn on my dress?” Violet called out to Kitty from the sitting room sofa.

She hadn't even realized Vi had come into the room. Her youngest sister sat next to where Hattie's rose-­embroidered dress had been carefully laid out after her morning fitting.

“Which flower would you like?”

When Violet didn't answer, Kitty approached.

“Careful, miss. It's only pins holding much of that gown together,” the dressmaker's assistant warned.

“Just a moment, Vi, and I'll join you there on the sofa.”

Kitty waited while she was carefully divested of the skirt and bodice of the gown. Before departing, the modiste promised the completed dresses in five days, and Kitty calculated that with all the other arrangements in place, Hattie and Mr. Treadwell could easily marry within a fortnight.

The question of her own wedding, if such a day might ever come, niggled at the back of her mind. She'd woken full of regrets, not for what she and Sebastian had shared, but for how she'd left him. He'd looked stunned as he saw her to the Wrexford House front door, and it was the last emotion she wished to leave him with after the intimacies they'd shared.

She'd been a coward. A fool. And she'd tell him so today if she could find a moment alone during their outing to the gallery.

After seeing the dressmaker and her assistant out, Kitty lowered herself onto the sofa next to her sister, resting an arm along the back, just touching the girl's slim shoulders.

Violet was at the age for pouting, it seemed. The girl spent whole parts of the day with her chin perched on her fisted hand as it was now, and a forlorn expression plumping her lower lip and drawing her tawny brows together.

“What is it, Vi? You look as if someone's eaten all your sticky toffee pudding.”

“I'd want violets for my dress.”

“Wonderful choice.” For their rich scent and vibrant purple shade, they were a flower Kitty admired.

“It's a boring choice. My name's Violet. I like violets. You see? Terribly boring.” She was already sagging against the sofa but she leaned forward so that she could flounce back with a dramatic sigh.

“Violets aren't boring. They're beautiful and have a lovely perfume.”

“You
never wear violet water. It's boring. And if I'm boring, I'll never find a gentleman who wants to marry me, let alone have a wedding dress with violet-­embroidered satin.” Somehow they'd gone from violets to perfume to Violet becoming an old maid. Kitty's mind tripped over the holes in her sister's logic, but pointing out the gaps would only lead to a row.

She pressed her forefinger to her lower lip, thinking how best to reassure the girl without filling her head with fanciful nonsense. She focused on the facts. She'd worn violet perfume plenty of times. Occasionally, at least. And if she didn't wear it often, it was simply because it was a rather common scent. Not boring. Just a bit . . . commonplace.

And, anyway, a lady didn't snare a husband because of the scent she wore. Few men had remarked on her perfumes before Sebastian, and none had ever asked her to tell them about the flowers that made up the scents.

“You can't even think of anything comforting to say! You must agree.”

“I don't. Not at all, but I do think you should worry less about what others think of you.”

If there was an art to eye-­rolling, Violet had perfected it. She reminded Kitty of the fact with an impressive eye-­roll and sigh combination.

“Just be true, and to yourself most of all. One day you'll find a man who loves you for that, for the truth of who you are. He'll love that you adore books and sewing. That you're overly fond of sticky toffee pudding and sneak sips of Father's coffee when he's not looking. That you like to plan for the future and care dearly about details, such as which flower you'll have on your wedding gown. In fact, you have such a way with a needle, I suspect you could embroider your own gown.”

Violet sniffed, but she lifted her chin and sat up a bit straighter, as if somewhat mollified by Kitty's words. “With violets?”

“With whatever you wish.”

“Does the Duke of Wrexford love you like that?”

“I think he does.” He did. Kitty knew it, felt it, no longer truly doubted it.

When Violet smiled, it lit up the room, and caught the tiny mole on her cheek—­the one she hated and had once tried to scrub off with tooth powder—­in the cleft of her only dimple.

“He seems very charming.”

“Yes.”

Was he? He could dress elegantly and had impeccable manners. He was distractingly handsome and a clever conversationalist. Presumably he could be charming, though Kitty didn't like the word. She associated it with men who fawned, men preoccupied with boasting about themselves while pretending to adore her. If Sebastian had attempted to charm her, she wouldn't have given him a second look. Well, perhaps she would have looked. She'd never found a man more appealing to the eye, but charm wouldn't have snared her interest the way his honesty had. Charm wouldn't have won her heart. And it still shocked her that he'd accomplished that feat.

Violet lifted her head and stared at the room's threshold.

“Hattie, we were just talking about the duke. It seems Kitty
is
madly in love with him.”

“Thank you, Violet.”

Her youngest sister shrugged innocently before Kitty turned her gaze back to where Hattie lingered in the doorway.

Hattie wore a serious expression and ignored Kitty's implicit invitation. “Papa would like to speak with you, Kitty. He's asked me to fetch you down to his study.”

“Did he mention why?”

“He just asked me to call you down.” Along with eye-­rolling, Violet was quite adept at fibbing, but Harriet could never pull it off. If her cheeks didn't flush and give her away, she had a tendency to start blinking, her eyelashes fluttering like black butterfly wings against her face. She blinked now, rapidly.

Kitty turned and pressed a kiss to Violet's cheek.

Her baby sister reached up to pat her arm and whispered, “I'm glad he loves you as you are.”

“Me too.” Now if she could just assure the man she felt the same.

While Hattie tapped her foot impatiently, Kitty walked to meet her at the door, almost forgetting that she was wearing a simple outdated day dress and had yet to change in the one she'd selected for their outing.

“I should change before speaking to Papa.”

“No, Kitty, there isn't time.” She'd never heard such panic in her sister's voice.

“Hattie, what is it?”

Kitty asked the question gently, quietly, so as not to alarm Violet, but it only seemed to anger Hattie and she threw up her hands before bracing them on her hips. “Goodness, Kitty. Why not go and speak to him rather than cross-­questioning me?”

The girl was distressed, and Kitty didn't doubt their father was the cause. Apparently he had all the answers.

She swept past Hattie without another word and heard her sister's footsteps echoing behind her own.

“I do remember where to find father's study. You should prepare for our trip to the museum.” Without looking back at her sister, Kitty heard Hattie retreating up the hall.

She stopped and took a deep breath before knocking on the door of her father's study. Clashes with Papa required every bit of mental energy she could muster.

“You wished to see me, Papa? I haven't much time. Hattie and I are meeting Sebastian and his sister at the museum.”

“Yes.” He lifted a hand to indicate she should take the chair in front of his desk. The direction was unneeded. She always occupied the same chair in his office.

She sat and he followed suit, reclaiming the larger plusher chair behind his desk and settling with his hands crossed over his waistcoat.

“Harriet will not be joining you this afternoon.”

Kitty frowned, curiosity and concern fizzing in her belly.

“Is Hattie unwell? She seems unsettled.”

Her father grinned, the last reaction she expected. The man possessed an unnerving ability to take her by surprise.

“She is quite the opposite of unsettled, Katherine. In fact, just this morning your sister has settled her fate nearly as fortuitously as you've managed to settle yours.”

He could only be referring to marriage, but he'd never been this pleased about Hattie's match with Mr. Treadwell. The buzzing in her stomach turning to stabbing jolts of dread.

Her father looked far too pleased with himself and Hattie had been decidedly troubled.

“Please explain.”

“When a man finds no succor at one table, he dines at another.”

Now they were talking about dining? Papa did love his aphorisms.

“You've lost me.”

“That's what Ponsonby thought. ‘I've lost her,' he said. And so he turned his attentions elsewhere. We can only be grateful his eye didn't stray to the daughters of some other family.”

“Ponsonby?” Kitty knew a moment of guilt that the man who'd pursued her so tenaciously for years hadn't crossed her mind in days.

“He's asked for your sister's hand, and I have given them my blessing.”

Ponsonby. Harriet. Ponsonby and Harriet. The two were like water droplets on an oily surface. They simply would not coalesce in her mind. By their very nature, they could not merge together. The man was as old as their father, perhaps older, and she'd always sensed him taking her measure, not as a potential life partner but for her ability to provide him with heirs. Kitty wanted children, and several of them, but she wanted a marriage based on more. Love, mutual respect, desire—­qualities she'd previously doubted or belittled mattered now most of all. She'd found them, and so had Hattie.

“But s-­she's engaged to be married to Mr. Treadwell.”

“Is she? I can't see how that's possible, since I never gave the man consent to marry her.”

More words that would not compute in her mind. Even Sebastian's mathematical wizardry couldn't solve this equation.

“But she and Oliver seemed so happy after he'd spoken to you. I thought—­”

“I gave the man reason to hope, but I told him that he and your sister needed more time to become acquainted. I asked him to give me a fortnight to consider the matter.”

She realized she was shaking her head, and so quickly she felt dizzy. Hattie wanted to marry Oliver Treadwell. That was what all of this had been about—­the scheming, the planning, the wedding dresses. Her feigned engagement.

“But you gave your blessing to Sebastian?”

“Yes, of course. The man's a duke. I could hardly refuse him.”

Titles, wealth, power. She'd never doubted how much her father valued those qualities, but despite how hard he'd been on her, despite how stern he could be with all of them, deep down she'd believed in his decency. Her father was an honorable man. He might scheme for political and financial gain, and he collected information on others the way she collected perfumes, but she'd never doubted that, at his core, he was worth her admiration.

Until now.

“Does her happiness mean nothing to you?”

He shot up from his chair and winced as if she'd stabbed him, his cheeks mottling an awful puce shade.

“The future happiness of my children is my chief concern. Do you really believe my sweetest, gentlest daughter will be happy living in poverty with that young jackanapes?”

Opening her mouth to answer his question, Kitty wondered where she and Violet fit in his ranking of daughters, but, as often happened during discussions with her father, he hadn't truly wished for an answer and cut her off before she'd gotten a syllable out.

“Do you know the fellow told me he may not persevere in the law but may try some other profession if it suits him better? As if a man can change professions as often as he replaces his shirt collars. He is aimless, penniless—­”

“The Duke of Wrexford has ensured that Mr. Treadwell is not penniless.”

When her father came out from behind his desk to argue, Kitty knew the topic had raised his ire and he was determined to win his point.

“And what if he falls out with the man? Mr. Treadwell has a fondness for betting on horse races. What if he's as unsuccessful with the ponies as he's been with every other profession he's attempted?”

She had no idea Oliver Treadwell involved himself in gambling or that he'd tried other employment before settling on the law. The news didn't please her, but not every man who gambled did so excessively, and not every man who pursued a profession found it to his liking. None of her father's revelations changed the fact that yesterday Harriet had been in love with the man. Now that she'd experienced the emotion herself, she knew Hattie's heart couldn't have altered overnight.

“Papa—­”

He moved to stand in front of her, between his desk and her legs tucked against her chair, close enough to loom over her, his finger jutting out accusingly.