The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 17

  “Power,” she said. “Legal power. Eternity.”

  “Do you think a man changes into a monster when he signs the marriage contract? Did Crowmore?”

  “No, he was always a monster. I just chose not to see it. Perhaps I even imagined I could tame the monster. It’s not a mistake I will repeat.”

  “Kate,” he said softly. “Am I a monster?”

  She looked away, trying to draw her hand free as she shook her head. “I don’t know you. Any more than you know me. You would not imagine you loved me if you knew me.”

  “I know enough. I know you hide your care and kindness and exert it in secret. I know that you are witty and clever and interested in everything and everyone. That you’re fun, sweet, and passionate. And skilled in watercolors. That there is so much more I’ve yet to find. I look forward to uncovering you layer after layer for the rest of our lives.”

  She raised her eyes back to his in wonder.

  He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I cannot hope to be so interesting, so fascinating to you, but I believe we have a beginning. I want you, yearn for you, in my life, my home, my bed. But I’ll be patient. I’ll wait for you, whether you give me leave to or not. I am faithful by nature.”

  She tried to smile. “Like a dog?”

  “Exactly like a dog. Though I clean myself with more decorum and my mating rituals are much more civilized.”

  Laughter broke from her lips before she could prevent it. With her free hand, she grasped his lapel. “I like you, Tristram. I like you too much, but you tie me in knots. I can’t think around you. I need to go away and let us both be happy.”

  It came to her that he might imagine she meant she intended to go away with Vernon, who stull lurked in Blackhaven—although he’d given up keeping track of her. But she wouldn’t unsay it or explain it. It would be best.

  “I would not be happy if you went away,” he said softly. “Would you?”

  She stared at him. Honesty compelled her to shake her head. He bent and kissed her, long and tenderly. Despite all her good intentions, she melted into him and let the joy enfold her, consume her. Nowhere but in his arms did she feel this sense of peace and safety … and yet, she was very far from safe. The latent passion between them, the rushing flames of lust, were not peaceful at all. Like the man himself, this relationship was full of massive, exciting contradictions.

  And then, quite suddenly, the knowledge seemed to flow from his lips, over hers and up into her brain, finally making the connection that had always been there. I love him.

  Her mouth opened wide in a gasp of terror and joy. Stunned, unable to understand what it could possibly mean, let alone what she should do about it, she hung in his arms, absorbing his kisses and caresses, returning them with trembling lips and hands.

  I love him.

  Somehow, she lay across his lap, her arms tight around him. Just for now she didn’t care what this love meant or what she should do about it. Its very existence was enough to overwhelm her with wonder and a gladness so fierce that tears sprang from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks and into their mouths.

  “Kate,” he whispered in distress, wiping her damp face with his fingers. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t… Nothing.” She took back his mouth because that way she didn’t need to speak, just feel. But she knew, somewhere, that nothing would ever be the same again.

  He could have taken her there in the open and she would have welcomed him with gladness. It was certainly where those heated kisses and increasingly intimate caresses were leading. And in truth, the prospect of physical love had never excited her before. This with Tristram…

  “Someone is coming,” he whispered in her ear. “Will I save your reputation or marry you?”

  She could barely summon the strength to push him off and slip off his lap onto the blanket. “A low blow, especially for a clergyman,” she said shakily, feeling for her bonnet and clapping it back on her head.

  “A man in my position has to try anything.” He eased a little back from her, giving her a swift smile that caught at her breath all over again. “In truth, I was coxcomb enough to imagine I had really won you this time.”

  God help me, you won me a week ago when we met. What am I to do, now?

  “It’s your maid,” Grant said with frustration. “Doesn’t she understand when you tell her to go for a walk?”

  “She worries about me,” Kate said truthfully. “Though for some reason, she seems to like you. Well, I suppose it’s time I went back. I have the Winslows’ ball to dress for.”

  “I believe there is to be waltzing. Will you waltz with me?”

  “If no one more entertaining comes along,” she drawled.

  “I shall be very, very entertaining.”

  For some reason, his words heated her cooling body all over again. She all but jumped to her feet, instructing Gage and Little to fold the blanket and the easel. It was time to go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grant was taken by surprise. He’d felt the upsurge of emotion in her as if it were his own. She’d wept. Either he’d hurt her in some way he couldn’t fathom, or he’d touched her. And he’d been so sure it was the latter, until she suddenly leapt back from him, and in their walk back to town, she grew increasingly distant. She seemed uninterested in anything he said, replying with only brief, sardonic phrases or monosyllables.

  He didn’t know whether he should be anxious for her wellbeing or terrified she’d tired of him. In fact, he felt consumed by both.

  In his life, Grant had rarely doubted that he could achieve what he wanted. He’d got his cavalry commission and shone, until he’d realized it was no longer what he wanted. He’d studied for the Church and succeeded under his own auspices, and defied his father to do so. So far as women were concerned, he’d gone after those few who’d caught his eye, and won them. But they had all been passing fancies, and it had always been he who’d drawn back, who’d ended the courtship or liaison, or whatever relationship he’d formed, by turning it adroitly into friendship if he could.

  This feeling for Kate had been different from the outset. Intense, all-consuming, and powerful. Perhaps it should have frightened him, living as they did in different worlds. And then there was the matter of birth. She was the daughter of a baronet, the widow of a baron, a leader of fashionable society, at least until this scandal. He was an earl’s bastard, a curate living on a tiny salary and the remnants of his wartime prize money. No one but he could ever have seen any possibilities in this relationship.

  And yet he did. Perhaps because he’d been brought up a gentleman, spending much of his boyhood in his father’s homes. But more likely because he was simply drawn to her. She fascinated him, dazzled him, set his blood on fire. But more than that, he thought he understood her. He saw beneath her shell to the lonely, vulnerable woman, and to the kind, clever, strong, fun-loving creature, too. It was true he’d fallen hard and instantly, but he fell deeper with every encounter, and he loved all those aspects of his Kate, and all those he’d yet to discover.

  Most of all, he was sure he’d make her happy as no one else could.

  Now, he considered the possibility of not just failing to win her as his wife, but of losing her altogether. He’d amused her for a little because he was different, but the fact that he loved her couldn’t make her love him. He, who saw life and its challenges and problems so clearly, had no idea what to do about this one.

  “Good bye, Mr. Grant,” she said carelessly.

  They’d walked at a brisk pace and were just approaching the outskirts of town, where a narrower road forked away from the coast, leading directly to the church and the vicarage. The main road led to High Street and the hotel. He’d had every intention of escorting her there, but her farewell left him in no doubt that he wasn’t wanted.

  He could follow her like an abject dog. Or he could trot away like an obedient dog. Although he didn’t much care for either option, he chose the less undignified, bowed to he
r already vanishing back, and murmured his farewell.

  Grant rarely panicked, but he had to suppress the upsurge of it now. He couldn’t lose her, not now when he appeared to be winning.

  Winning! Dear God, this is not a game or a battle! I want to make her happy, care for her, love her.

  And if making her happy meant walking away? Could he really do that?

  He shook himself almost angrily as he strode along the road toward the church. A moment of irritation, of desire to be alone, meant nothing. She hadn’t forbidden him her presence. And he would see her tonight at the ball.

  But she talked of leaving Blackhaven, a cold voice in his head reminded him.

  What if she was departing with Vernon, and regretted leaving Grant just a little?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, then had to open them in a hurry to greet Mrs. Nielson and her dog.

  He could not believe that of her. Everything about her had told him that Vernon had lost her weeks ago, that he, Grant, was winning her…

  Winning. That word again. He could not lower her or his love to a mere contest.

  He pushed open the church door and went inside, relieved to discover it was empty.

  In recent years, Grant had found peace and new purpose in God and the Church, as well as in the practicalities of helping his neighbors and his flock. He’d never felt it as a crutch before, though, and his need of it now took him by surprise.

  He supposed he needed greater humility.

  Fortunately, there were physical things to do. The pew on the front left had become distinctly wobbly. If he left it much longer, the Winslows would find themselves sitting on the cold floor one Sunday.

  Instead of sending for Jem, the carpenter, he walked through to the vestry, shrugged out of his coat, and found a hammer and some nails at the bottom of the cabinet. Then he bent his mind to the problem of the damaged pew, discovered what needed doing, and lay down on the church floor to hammer in missing nails and reinforce a piece of cracked wood.

  Whether it was the physical work or the concentration of his mind, he felt better as he hauled himself out from under the pew—and from his upside-down position, saw a man sprawled on the end of the front right pew, one foot up on the gate.

  “Damn me,” the person remarked. “It really is you.”

  Grant sat up so quickly that he bumped his head against the bench. “Gilbert?”

  Gilbert, his eldest half-brother, known to the world as Viscount Vernon, was a handsome devil with flashing, laughing eyes. At this moment, they weren’t so much laughing as sneering. Vernon could do a pretty good sneer on occasions.

  “Well,” Vernon observed. “This is a bit of a come-down, is it not? From commanding the king’s armies, to repairing old pews in some out-of-the-way church no one has ever heard of.”

  “Contrary to popular belief,” Grant observed, pulling himself to his feet, “I never did command quite all of the king’s armies. What do you want, Gilbert?”

  Vernon shrugged. “Nothing. I just heard you were here, thought I’d drop in and see if it was true.”

  “You’ve known I was here since Wednesday,” Grant pointed out. “Did it take you three days to decide whether or not you wanted to see me?”

  Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “It seems you’ve known of my presence at least as long. Are you still deciding?”

  “Oh no. It was made quite plain I was to have nothing to do with any of you.”

  “And you always pay so much attention to what our father says!” Vernon mocked.

  Grant lifted his eyebrows. “That was what you said.”

  “Did I?” Vernon dropped his foot to the floor and sat just a little straighter. “Expect I was angry and trying to talk you out of this stupid idea. Don’t you wish you were back on the battlefield?”

  “No.”

  “Wellington’s on the rampage. You’re missing the final victory.”

  “Victory is never final,” Grant said sardonically. “At best, it brings a lull in war.”

  “Whatever you say, Curate. Who told you I was here? Kate Crowmore?” He spoke the name like a challenge.

  Grant refused to rise to it. “No,” he said. “I saw you.” He walked out to the vestry to find his coat, feeling his brother’s eyes on the back of his head as he went.

  “Please tell me Cornelius isn’t here, too.”

  “Cornelius isn’t here,” Grant said obligingly, returning while he shrugged into his coat.

  “I hear you helped Kate with Dickie Crowmore,” Vernon said. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you damn well do!” Vernon exclaimed.

  Grant scowled at him. “Whatever I did or didn’t do, it isn’t your place to thank me.”

  “Actually, it is. I’m going to marry Kate.”

  It cost him a pang, but still he looked his brother in the eyes. “No, you’re not. She’ll never marry you.”

  Vernon’s sneer returned with a vengeance. “Because she’ll marry a curate?”

  “No,” Grant said. “Because, maritally speaking, she’ll never swap one bastard for another.”

  Vernon flushed, sitting up straight. “I’ll have you know I always treated Kate well!”

  “Bollocks,” Grant said rudely, reverting to childhood. “You took advantage of her, tricked her somehow into your house, and when all hell broke loose over her head, you scarpered without a word and left her to face it alone. Not a word or a note, let alone the public continuation of old friendship that was the only thing that could have helped her. Instead, you proved you were ashamed of her and in effect threw her to the wolves.”

  Vernon glowered, but licked his lips with a hint of nervousness. “Did she tell you that?”

  “No,” Grant said contemptuously. “She didn’t need to. But I see that it really is true.”

  Vernon sprang to his feet. “Damn it, I didn’t know what was the best thing! I had fellows grinning at me and Father on my back. What was a fellow to do? I lay low. Kate doesn’t care about that.”

  “No, she expected it. And you can’t see she deserves more.”

  Vernon’s eyes narrowed again. “Who, the curate? You can’t be serious. Or are you just using your new position to lecture me on morality?”

  “Perhaps I would if I thought you’d listen.”

  “Oh, push off, Tris! I’ve already spoken to her father and we’ve agreed the best thing is for us to marry as soon as possible.”

  Grant curled his lip. “To pay your debts?”

  “No. I’ve always liked Kate. Obviously.” Vernon shrugged. “Though I won’t deny her money will help, especially if she spawns and we get Crowmore’s estates, such as they are. Father is damned tight-fisted, even with me. But it works both ways. I’ll inherit eventually, and then she’ll be a countess.”

  “Which will make her life complete,” Grant said with such heavy sarcasm that even Vernon noticed.

  “I shouldn’t have bothered coming here,” he said resentfully. “I should have known how you’d be. Bloody little—curate!” And he turned his back and stalked down the aisle.

  “Gil.” Grant didn’t want to ask. He already knew it didn’t matter, but still something wrung the words from him. “How were you planning to talk our father into this match?”

  Vernon paused at the church door and looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said loftily.

  “Yes, you do. You know how he feels about any scandal attaching to his name.”

  “Well, you’re walking proof he’s no angel himself,” Vernon retorted.

  “I don’t bear his name, and never would. I may have been looked after, but I was never publicly acknowledged. To him, indiscretion is the cardinal sin. Do you really expect him to bless Kate’s entry into his family?”

  Vernon reached for the door. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he muttered.

  Grant laughed. “I thought so. You’d do it in secret and then let Kate cha
rm him into acquiescence. Can you really not see how weaselly that is?”

  “Weaselly?” Vernon repeated in outrage. “If I had the time, I’d damned well knock you down.”

  “You can damned well try.” Grant returned, but if he’d truly harbored hopes of venting his anger and anxiety on his brother they were fortunately foiled as Vernon stormed out of the church.

  *

  As soon as he left her side, Kate wanted to call him back. And yet she’d sent him away deliberately because she truly needed to be alone, to think what this huge, terrifying discovery of love meant for her. As soon as they reached her rooms, she sent Little away and paced like the tiger in its cage at the Exchange.

  She’d abandoned love when she’d abandoned David Keith for Crowmore. Even then, she’d known she wouldn’t have been able to do it if she’d loved David enough. And God knew she’d loved no one at all since then. Moments of liking, excitement were all she’d hoped for and all she’d been capable of. Without Crowmore, it could all have been so peaceful, so quiet and contented.

  Until Tristram Grant. She wished she could tear him out of her heart. She could certainly leave, metaphorically throw him away, but the very thought of it twisted her heart so tightly that she had to clutch her breast in physical pain.

  “What in God’s name has happened to me?” she muttered. “The world would laugh at Kate Crowmore marrying a country curate! How they would sneer and tell each other how low I’d been brought.”

  She paused, staring down at the street below the window without seeing.

  “I don’t care,” she whispered. She grasped the curtain for support. “I don’t care a fig for what the world says. I only care for him… Is that the answer then? That I love him, that I marry him?”

  She’d vowed never to accept that tie again, never to give herself over to any man’s legal and physical power. Of all women, a widow had the most freedom, and she would be insane to give that up for anyone, let alone for a penniless clergyman, an earl’s bastard son.

  And yet marriage with him could never be like it was with Crowmore. Two men could not have been less alike. Tristram wouldn’t abuse her, he’d make love to her. She’d wake up beside him every morning. They’d live together, laugh together, be together. Do small, worthwhile things together, and maybe some larger and greater. With him, she could be so much more than a fashionable butterfly. She could do good. She really could live here in Blackhaven, with him…