"I will have to ask Michael what he thinks," Katherine found her voice at last.
"I am sure he will think it a splendid plan," Eudora waved a gloved hand, "And besides, I have already sent out the invitations. I will be back tomorrow with more precise plans for the night. Goodbye, dear."
With that, Eudora swept from the room as quickly as she had entered, leaving Katherine and Caroline staring in her wake.
"Goodness," Caroline laughed, "I'm awfully glad that Deverell's mother refuses to venture further south than Newcastle."
"Perhaps we can persuade them to swap places?" Katherine suggested grimly.
Still, the thought of an evening playing hostess with her husband, and perhaps being held in his arms as they danced, was so alluring that Katherine soon forgot she was annoyed at all.
Chapter Ten
If there was one thing that Michael had always thought he had in spades, it was patience. His time in the army, where one might spend hours, or even days, waiting for orders to move on, had taught him forbearance, tolerance and restraint.
His two weeks married to Katherine, however, had torn every ounce of restraint in his body to shreds.
He needed her, desperately, and the strength of his need left him riddled with guilt. For the more time that he spent with Katherine, the more he realised how much time she needed to heal from the trauma of her first marriage.
He recognised now, having lived with her for a fortnight, that Katherine suffered just as much as some of the soldiers who had returned injured from battles at Trafalgar, Austerlitz, or Borodino.
She jumped with fright at loud noises, was wary and guarded in crowded places, and trust—especially in him—was slow in coming.
But it was coming.
Michael was painstakingly conscious of himself around her, always careful to think before he spoke, to check his temper if it threatened to flare, and to resist—no matter how hard—the urge to take his wife into his arms and ravish her. His reward was witnessing Katherine's slow unfurling from a tightly closed bud into a beautiful, open bloom.
His mornings were spent in the House of Lords, his afternoons attending to the business of his estate, but his evenings were dedicated solely to his wife.
They attended balls, galas, and routs together, they promenaded in Vauxhall and watched the fireworks, they attended the opera and the theatre, but they did not share a bed.
It would come, Michael knew that it would, but occasionally, when his sleep deprived mind caused him to stub a toe, or catch a finger, he despaired that it might never happen.
It was not just the physical act of lovemaking which he desired; it was the intimacy that came with it. He longed to hold Katherine close as she fell asleep, to feel her heartbeat against him, to push past the barriers she had erected around her heart and love her completely.
Until that day, however, Michael knew that he must muddle on as best he could and try his best to distract himself from his desires.
Luckily, his mother had proved an unexpected ally on that score, having decided to arrange a ball that required endless hours of discussion. Michael usually tried to schedule any lengthy conversations about floral arrangements and menus for late evening, in case they inspired him to a full night's sleep.
All joking aside, he was quite touched by Eudora's efforts—no matter how high-handed—to ingratiate herself with Katherine. His mother, before the untimely deaths of her husband and eldest son, had been something of a social behemoth, and her determination to make this ball a success, suggested that she wished to hand over the mantle of society queen to her daughter in law.
"So, she is grooming me to be her successor?" Katherine had queried, when Michael had put his hypothesis to her.
"I think so," he had replied, "If I'm right, it means that she likes you."
"Well, I would hate to see what she would do if she didn't like me," Katherine had laughed, as she looked down at the endless lists that Eudora had left for her to examine.
The ball had brought a tentative peace between his wife and his mother, and Michael knew that it might be all he could hope for. Eudora was still wont to complain to him in private about his disregard for securing the line, but her words became less and less passionate each time she did.
The morning session of the House of Lords had been rather uneventful. Deverell had not made an appearance and Michael had been forced to endure the wittering of the lords without his friends amusing commentary. When the session broke, Michael forsook his usual post-session drink in White's in favour of returning home. They would host the ball that evening, and Michael wished to be on hand to assist with any disasters that might arise.
"There you are," Eudora called, as her son entered Elsmore House.
His mother was standing in the entrance hall, instructing half a dozen perspiring footmen on where she wanted her floral arrangements to be hung.
"Is Katherine not with you?" she continued, frowning at the space behind Michael, as though expecting Kitty to materialise at her words.
"I thought that she would be with you," Michael answered, a bubble of nervousness rising within him. Was it possible that Katherine had hidden somewhere, to escape his mother's histrionics?
He set forth in search of his wife, but could not find her anywhere within the massive house. Eventually, he stumbled across her girl—Betsy, or Bessie, he could not quite recall—who was in Katherine's dressing room, worshipfully pressing a gown with a flat iron.
"Where is the duchess?" Michael queried of her.
"Her Grace?"
Was it Michael's imagination, or did the girl look rather nervous at having been asked such a benign question? Worry replaced nervousness and he adopted his most ducal expression, in the hopes that it would frighten the girl into speaking the truth.
"Her Grace is visiting Tilney Street, your Grace," the young maid replied, dipping her head low so that her mob-cap obscured her eyes, "Though she had said that she would be home by now."
Tilney Street? Michael had not known that Katherine still frequented her old home, though perhaps she had gone to call on her old servants, whom Michael had retained to maintain the place.
Still feeling rather anxious, Michael decided to check up on her, bypassing the entrance hall in favour of the back door, so he would not encounter his mother again.
On the ride to Tilney Street, a dozen scenarios ran through Michael's mind as he thought on why Katherine had not returned from her old home. Perhaps her rotten brother had paid her a call and frightened her? Or the villainous Mr Kingsley had returned for another attempt on her person?
Michael's worry fuelled his imagination so much that by the time he reached the door of the house, he was in a near panic.
"Your Grace," the middle-aged woman who answered the door wore a look of surprise, "We weren't expecting you."
"Is my wife at home?" Michael queried, restraining himself from barging past the woman in search of Kitty.
"Her Grace?" the woman shook her head as she bit her lip nervously, "Why no, your Grace, she's not."
What on earth was going on? The look on his face must have been rather formidable, for the housekeeper gave a loud sigh and beckoned for him to come inside.
"I told her she should not keep things from you," the housekeeper began cryptically, her words nearly inducing an apoplectic fit in Michael.
"What is being kept from me?" he demanded, "Where is my wife?"
"She's down at the docks, in the soup kitchen that Reverend Jackson runs," the housekeeper said, her brow creased into a frown of worry. "I told her that it was no place for her to be visiting, now that she's a duchess, but she wouldn't listen."
"How did she get there?" Michael asked, for he knew that his own staff would not dare bring his wife to such a dangerous part of town.
"Well," the housekeeper swallowed nervously, "She has your carriage take her here and then from here, she has Highland take her in the old carriage. I knew she had not asked your permission, when there
was so much subterfuge involved."
Michael cursed under his breath; not at Katherine's refusal to ask his permission, but at her lack of trust in him. He would permit her to do whatever her heart desired, so long as he knew that she was safe.
"Where exactly are the kitchens?" he asked the housekeeper and once she had furnished him with their address, Michael took his leave.
He was grateful that he had chosen to take his mount, rather than his carriage, for the streets of London were clogged with traffic and people, and even more so down by the docks.
The East India Docks, where the soup kitchens were located, teemed with sailors, lightermen and dockers, who were busy loading and unloading cargo. Around the docks, lay the business which catered to the sailors; taverns, inns, lodging houses, brothels, and dolly-shops, and somewhere amongst them lay the kitchens which held his wife.
Michael dismounted his steed and tossed a ha'penny to a young lad, who promised to watch over it until his return.
"There's more where that came from," Michael said sternly to the urchin, "So long as my saddle is still there when I get back."
The young boy pocketed the coin and swore blind that he would not let anyone so much as sniff at Michael's bloodstock.
Squaring his shoulders, Michael pushed his way into the crowds, in search of Katherine. It did not take him long to find the soup-kitchens, for there was a queue of hungry looking men stood outside.
"Oi, there's a queue," one protested, as Michael pushed his way to the door.
"'E's not here for free grub," another man called with a cackle, "'E's a toff."
"I'm a duke, actually," Michael corrected him, before entering the dark confines of the kitchens.
Inside he found a cramped room, with rows upon rows of tables crammed inside. Each table was occupied by men, women and children, who greedily wolfed down bowls of broth.
Michael, who since his return, had been encased within a golden cage, felt a stab of guilt, as he witnessed the sheer poverty before him. It was so easy to forget how the other half lived, when one was sipping brandy in White's.
"Hello?"
A young man of thirty or so, greeted Michael with a warm, if confused, smile. Michael took in his boyish appearance and gleaming hair, and deduced that this must be Reverend Jackson. An unfamiliar feeling of jealousy stole over him, though he tried to quash it down. In his mind, he had envisioned the good reverend as a jolly, rotund older man. To be presented with a young, athletic gentleman was somewhat disconcerting.
"I am here for my wife," Michael said, assuming his haughtiest tones to counteract the stirrings of inadequacy within.
"Her Grace?" Reverend Jackson asked, lowering his voice slightly, "She is in the kitchens. I am glad that you have come for her, I'm afraid that she is a little overwrought and is refusing to leave..."
What on earth?
Startled by Mr Jackson's words, Michael raced past the man and through the doors which he deduced must lead to the kitchens. Inside, amidst the steaming pots of broth, Michael found a red-eyed Katherine.
"What happened?" Michael demanded, as he realised that his wife had been crying.
"M-Michael," Katherine stuttered, her surprise at seeing him writ on her face.
"Did someone harm you?" Michael continued, reaching out to pull her toward him.
"No, I am perfectly fine," Katherine assured him, before she hiccoughed and dissolved into floods of tears.
"What on earth?" Michael glanced around the kitchen at the other women who worked there. One of them, an older woman with the look of one who had seen it all, stepped forward to explain to him the reason for Katherine's tears.
"Her Grace is upset because of poor Susan," the woman said softly, "Lovely lass, with three wee 'uns. Her husband docked just last night, spent all his wages drinking in The Seven Stars, and then poor Susan was found dead this morning by a neighbour. The nippers are outside having something to eat. Her Grace refused to leave until she could think of what to do with them."
"I don't understand," Michael said, feeling rather stupid, "What killed their poor mother?"
"Not what," Mr Jackson called out from the doorway, "But who."
It took a moment for realisation to dawn on Michael and when it did, he felt sick to his stomach. He could imagine well the horror of the ending to Susan's life and understood why Katherine was so upset by it all.
"Do we know anything of her husband?" Michael asked, as he pulled Mr Jackson aside, "I shall set forth for Bow Street and see that every available runner is on the lookout for him."
Justice was often something that only the wealthy could aspire to and perhaps, had Michael not become involved in the sordid tale, poor Susan might have been quickly forgotten. He would not allow that to happen on his watch, however.
Mr Jackson gave Michael as much detail as he could, with some more added by the women of the kitchen, once they realised what Michael wished to do. Once he had all that he needed, he pulled Katherine aside by the arm to instruct her on what she now needed to do.
"Take the children and bring them to Tilney Street," he said, "Instruct your housekeeper and this Highland fellow that they are to be looked after until we can find a more permanent solution."
"Really?" Katherine's eyes opened with surprise, "You would do that for them?"
"I would do anything for you," Michael replied, taking her hand in his, "You just need to trust me."
Michael thanked Mr Jackson for his help, before escorting Katherine into the dining room, where three young children, ranging in ages from seven to ten, sat pale-faced and confused. Together, they ushered the trio outside, to where an inconspicuous carriage and three was waiting.
"In you go," Michael said, as he helped the children clamber inside the compartment. He bid Katherine goodbye and shut the door, though before leaving he beckoned the driver down from his perch.
"If my wife ever asks you to take her anywhere as dangerous as this again," he said to the elderly man, "You must clear it with me first. Do you understand?"
"Yes, your Grace," poor Highland replied, bowing his head mournfully.
It was not the poor driver's fault that Katherine had hoodwinked him, Michael thought, as he returned to his waiting steed. But the man should have known better to bring Katherine to such an insalubrious part of town, no matter how good her intentions were.
The rest of the afternoon flew by in the blink of an eye; Michael engaged the magistrate in Bow Street, who assured him that the runners would do everything they could to find Susan's husband and bring him to justice. After that, Michael returned to Tilney Street, to fetch his wife.
"How are the children?" he asked Katherine, once the housekeeper had led him into the home's tiny library.
Katherine, who had been reading a book, stood up as he entered.
"They are asleep," she said, placing the book down on her chair. She watched him nervously and began fiddling with her wedding ring as she waited for him to reply.
"Good. I am sure they need as much rest as they can get," Michael tried to keep his voice as even as possible, for he could see how upset his wife was.
"Highland said the eldest of the boys told him their aunt—Susan's sister—lives in Lambeth," Katherine continued, still regarding him warily, "He has gone to find her and tell her the news. I expect that she will want to arrange the burial, though I am not certain if she is in a position to take on three children."
"I will ensure that she is well provided for," Michael answered smoothly, glad that his fortune was so vast that acts of charity did not require a second thought. "And I will see that they are looked after and educated, until such time as they can look after themselves."
"You would do that?" Katherine asked, a look of incredulity upon her beautiful face.
"I would do anything for you," Michael's voice was husky, though he tried to calm himself before he spoke again. "Tell me, why did you not inform me of your charity work?"
"I was afraid that you would forbid
me to go."
She answered with such complete honesty, that Michael was momentarily taken aback. He had half expected her to obfuscate or play down his accusation, but she had not.
"I would never forbid you anything," he said earnestly, stepping toward her, "You may do whatever you please, so long as I know that you are safe. I wish...I wish you could trust me Katherine."
"I wish I could too."
She had whispered her reply, though her voice was not so soft that Michael could not catch the words, or hear the sadness in her tone. She wanted to trust him; she just did not know how.
"I will wait patiently until you feel you can," he offered humbly.
For a moment, Katherine was still, as she digested his earnest offering. The veiled wariness in her eyes seemed to disappear, as she took in the man before her who was offering her his heart.
Michael held his breath, as his wife took a step toward him, not daring to hope that she might do what he so desperately wanted her to.
On slippered feet, Katherine traversed the space between them, and when she was in front of him, she stood up on tip-toe and placed a gentle kiss upon his lips.
A shiver of desire ran through Michael, as Katherine, emboldened now, snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him down toward her, allowing him to take the lead.
He claimed her lips with his own, gently at first, but growing ever more urgent with each second that passed.
Slow, slow, he chanted inside his head, afraid to let go, for the last bit of restraint he had was holding on by a thread.
Luckily, or unluckily depending on where you stood, the clock upon the mantelpiece chimed the hour, causing Katherine to pull away from him.
"Lud," she cried, glancing at the clock, "Is that the time? We shall be late for the ball."
"I could not give a fig for the ball," Michael replied, somewhat breathlessly. His heart thudded within his chest, his blood hummed in his veins—who could care for a ball at a time like this?
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