"I am content. And you're doing it again, my lord."
"Nicholas," he reminded her with a grin.
"Nicholas," she agreed with impatience. "Now please stop asking me these insufferable questions. You are not entitled to know what is in my heart."
"I think I already know," he murmured. He ignored her startled expression, and continued. "You've been hurt, Kit, hurt and disappointed by the very men who were supposed to protect and care for you. Now that you are on your own, you have chosen to insulate yourself behind a wall of books and call it freedom."
She paled. "No," she whispered.
"Then what would you call it?"
"I… I don't know." She seized her lower lip between her teeth.
He leaned in closer to her. "Kit, all your life you have run away from the things that made you unhappy. No more of that, remember? It's time you faced your fears."
"Stop trying to tell me how to live my life," she snapped.
He shrugged. "Then stop hiding and live it."
Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again, like that of a fish caught out of water. He stared at those berry-stained lips, lush and red and ripe, and another wave of awareness swept through him. The breeze blew tawny wisps of her hair onto her forehead; he resisted the urge to reach out and brush them back. A hint of her perfume grazed his senses. Lord, how had he let this woman affect him so? He had not thought that the strange paradox of worldliness and sheltered inexperience would make for such a powerful aphrodisiac.
"Do you want that last strawberry?" he asked, all innocence.
She flicked a glance down at the bowl. "No, you may have it."
He gave her his most charming smile. "Would you hand it to me? Please?"
Kit hesitated, then held it out to him. He gently grasped her wrist, then leaned down and enveloped the berry, and her fingertips, with his lips. His tongue brushed warm and wet against her fingers, licking the juice from them before she yelped and yanked away her hand.
He savored the fruit, its flavor mingled with the taste of her skin. "Think about what you want," he repeated, his voice low and intent. "And if that happens to be me, then I will be happy to oblige you."
Kit gaped, then pulled away and struggled to her feet. She looked down at him, her face filled with indignation. "If you put as much energy into convincing the duke as you do into seducing me, my lord, then we are certain to meet with success. At this moment, however, I cannot help but wonder where your priorities lie."
He relaxed back onto his elbows. "I shall keep my part of the bargain," he assured her.
"See that you do." She turned and gathered her skirts. "Now if you will excuse me, I must return to the house."
"All right, Kit. I will let you go, for now. But remember… you cannot run away forever."
She straightened, glared at him, then marched up the hill without so much as a backward glance.
The marquess stared after her; a thoughtful frown pulled at his brow. Wexcombe was wrong about this woman; he was sure of that now. No one could pretend the pain he had seen on her face just moments before. She was no adventuress, nor did she have any designs on the dowager's fortune. She did not even know what she wanted from herself.
So now what was he going to do? He didn't know how long he could keep this up; it would take all his self-control to sustain this pretense and still keep his hands off her. God, the more he touched her, the more of her he wanted. He should stop this charade right now and tell her the truth-any honorable man would-
No.
He grimaced. If he told her why he'd really proposed this bargain, that the whole thing had been a test, a ruse, how she would react? Well, at this point he could make a fairly good guess: she would be furious to find out what he'd done-lied to her, manipulated her, trifled with her, and generally acted like a complete cad, good intentions be damned. And after what she had revealed to him, his conscience would not let him sleep at night knowing he'd just added to her list of betrayals and disappointments.
His conscience? Hell, a rake wasn't supposed to have a conscience. What was the matter with him?
Bainbridge groaned and flopped onto his back. This situation had become much more complicated than he'd intended. He'd gotten himself into this mess, and he would have to get himself out. The sooner he convinced the duke to compromise about his grandmother, the sooner this would all be over. He would just tell Kit that she'd convinced him of the value of her freedom, and that they should go their separate ways, with no regrets or obligation. Or would she take that as yet another rejection, and retreat further into her shell?
And why did he care so much for what happened to her?
Bloody hell!
He shoved a hand through his hair. He would become a monk. Yes, that was it. As soon as this was over, he would take holy orders, seal himself up in a spartan cell in a monastery somewhere, and never so much as look at another woman again. Never mind that he would likely go mad within a month; it would prevent him from getting himself into any more of these damnable scrapes.
In the meantime, he'd better be on his best behavior-even if it meant putting an end to the seductive teasing that came so naturally to him. He would just have to be careful around her. Very, very careful. Of course, as with all his good intentions, he would have to see just how long it lasted.
Kit sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She didn't look any different. But as for how she felt, she might as well be another person entirely.
She gazed down at her fingertips, rubbed them against her lips. The touch of Lord Bainbridge's-Nicholas's-mouth on her skin had made her whole body thrum with awareness, and with-yes, she would admit it-desire.
He wanted her. She had no idea why, but at this point it hardly mattered. He wanted her. Katherine Mallory. Widow, wren, and aspiring ascetic. She pulled a face. Put that way, she did not sound appealing in the least.
She stared harder at the looking glass. Unappealing, and yet Nicholas saw something in her that attracted him, something hidden beneath this wretchedly practical hairstyle and the tentlike gowns she'd grown accustomed to wearing. He wanted her, and made her feel wanted. Desired. Attractive in a way she'd never felt before.
Kit put a hand up to the thick, tight chignon coiled at the back of her head and slowly pulled out the pins that kept it restrained, until her tawny golden hair, like a lion's mane, came tumbling around her shoulders and down her back. She picked up a comb from the dressing table and began to run it through the heavy waves. But after the comb caught for the third time, she tossed it aside with a growl of frustration.
George had loved her hair; he had called it her crowning glory. Actually, the way he had said it made it sound as if her hair were her only glory. She lifted a heavy lock, twirled it between her fingers, then returned her gaze to the mirror.
Her own anguished green eyes regarded her from the glass. All this hair, so heavy and long and unmanageable, with not even so much as a few kissing curls at the temples to soften the strong line of her jaw, seemed to suffocate her. She was drowning, drowning in a mass of long, unfashionable hair, and in oversized drab gowns that didn't become her in the least-which, now that she thought about it, was why she had chosen them.
It couldn't be wrong to want to be pretty, could it? To be as pretty and desirable as Nicholas made her feel? The dowd in the mirror was not her. Not really. Neither was she the gaudily dressed parrot she had been when George was alive. Who was she, then?
The marquess had asked her what she wanted from her life. The dowager had told her that she must seize happiness for herself. Was a life alone, surrounded by her books, all she had to look forward to? Was that all she wanted? Her lips firmed.
Logic dictated that if she wanted to be happy, she had to do something about it. Nothing would happen if she sat here moping in front of her looking glass.
Kit clenched her hand around the lock she held and sighed. She would start here. George had loved her hair. All the more reason to cut it.
She summoned her maid.
"Lakshmi," she said, her eyes never leaving her reflection, "I want you to send for Epping, the dowager duchess's abigail. Ask her to come and cut my hair."
The sari-clad woman's dark eyes reflected the sheer horror on her face. "But, Memsahib!" she protested in melodically accented English. "All your beautiful long hair… Surely you cannot mean to do such a terrible thing!"
Kit flashed a nervous smile. In India, women did not cut their hair save as a sign of deepest mourning for a husband. "This has nothing to do with George's death, Lakshmi, nor does it reflect on your skills as my maid. I am tired of all this weight hanging from my head. Epping does Her Grace's hair, and she will know what is fashionable. Please ask her to come here at once. Quickly, before I am tempted to change my mind."
Lakshmi pressed her palms together in a reverent namaskar, then departed, but Kit thought she heard the woman muttering in Hindi about "mad Englishwomen."
First the hair, then… Kit fingered the plain material of her skirt and made a moue. A pity she could not do something immediately about the state of her wardrobe, but she would make it a priority when she returned to Bath. After all, Nicholas wouldn't want her to dress like a drab little wren when she was his-
She swallowed around the sudden lump at the back of her throat, then forced herself to acknowledge the word.
His mistress.
A shiver coursed through her slender frame. Nicholas's mistress. Every proper instinct in her body rebelled at the concept, but another part of her, a part of her she had not known existed before now, fairly quivered with excitement. To be desired by such a devilishly handsome man without the constraints of marriage… The idea gave her a wicked thrill.
But what about love?
Kit lowered her head, her hair forming a veil around her face. Yes, there would be a part of her that would want to be cherished and loved, but that was more than what Nicholas had to offer. Would being with him, and being desired by him, be enough?
It would have to be. For the dowager's sake, she had made a bargain with the devil himself, and after today she was certain he wanted to collect. Duty and honor demanded that she follow through.
Still, one question nagged at her: how on earth would she be able to surrender only her body to Lord Bainbridge without risking her heart, as well?
Chapter Seven
When Kit entered the yellow drawing room, she discovered that she was the last to arrive for dinner. The moment she stepped across the threshold, five pairs of eyes pinned her where she stood. Once again, everyone was staring at her. At least this time she knew why.
She dipped a brief curtsy. "Good evening."
"Why, Mrs. Mallory, I do believe you have done something different with your hair this evening," said the duchess, her cool blue gaze roaming over Kit with thinly disguised antipathy.
Kit started to raise a self-conscious hand to her head, stopped herself, then laced her fingers together so they would stay still. "Indeed, Your Grace," she replied. "With the weather growing so warm, I thought a shorter style would be more comfortable. I wonder that I didn't think of it sooner."
"So do we all," muttered Lady Elizabeth, her hands contracting like claws around the arms of her chair.
The dowager peered at Kit through her lorgnette. "It becomes you, child, I must say. And not before time."
The duke said nothing, but he shot a significant glance at Lord Bainbridge, who stood by the sideboard.
The marquess ignored him. "Indeed. Most fetching." He gestured to a half-full decanter on the sideboard's polished mahogany surface. "May I offer you some ratafia before dinner, Mrs. Mallory?"
"Yes, thank you, my lord," Kit replied, in danger of having her breath leave her body altogether. His dark, velvety gaze hardly left her for a moment, even when he poured the liquid into a glass for her.
"Charming," he murmured as he handed it to her. "You are full of surprises today, Kit."
Her fingers brushed his; a slight flush rose to her cheeks. The way he was looking at her was enough to turn her limbs to jelly. Good heavens, if she had known that a simple change of hairstyle would affect such a change in her appearance, she would have done it long ago.
Epping, the dowager's abigail, had worked wonders with her heavy mane. She had not allowed Kit to look in the mirror while she snipped ever closer to the young woman's neck. Instead, Kit had focused, with increasing trepidation, on the growing pile of tawny locks accumulating on the carpet around her chair. But the results were worth every moment of doubt.
Free from their bonds, her newly shorn locks had sprung into attractive waves that took a curl with ease. Under Lakshmi's scrutiny, Epping then pinned most of the curls up into a loose knot at the crown of Kit's head, but left a soft collection to frame her face. This new coiffure emphasized the graceful line of her neck and the slightly tip-tilted set of her eyes. While hardly a bird of paradise, at least she no longer looked like a drab little wren. And from the way the marquess was staring at her, like a hungry man outside a sweetshop window, she could tell that she was not the only one pleased by her alteration in style.
"And I must say your timing is impeccable, Mrs. Mallory," commented the duchess.
Kit took a sip of her ratafia and tried to appear unaffected by Her Grace's cutting tone. "And why is that, ma'am?"
"Oh, did I not mention it to you? A few days ago His Grace and I received an invitation from our neighbors, Lord and Lady Sherbourne, for a ball at Shering Park tomorrow evening. Everyone is welcome, of course."
"How… ah… delightful," Kit managed to reply. The ratafia had turned to dishwater on her tongue. Tomorrow evening? She knew full well why the duchess had not said anything to her, but it hardly mattered. She had not been to a society party in eight years, and never hoped to go to one again, truth be told. Her heart slid upward into the back of her throat at the very thought.
The duchess must have seen Kit's hesitance; a satisfied smile curved the lady's thin lips. "We will understand if you choose not to attend, considering the recent death of your husband."
"What poppycock," blustered the dowager. "Of course she will go. 'Tis high time she was out in society again. Do you not agree, child?"
Kit did, indeed. The marquess had been right all along; it was time for her to stop running. Ignoring the fluttering sensation below her breastbone, she raised her head. "If Your Grace wishes it."
"Well, I do wish it," blustered the dowager. "What say you to that?"
"Then I would be pleased to accompany you," Kit declared.
"Good." The dowager sat back in her chair with a gusty sigh. "Then it's settled."
"I do hope you will save a dance for me," Lord Bainbridge said softly.
"Only one, my lord?" she teased, and the marquess rewarded her with another of the slow, seductive smiles that set her blood on fire.
The butler then arrived, and announced that dinner was served. The duke offered his arm to his grandmother and the marquess escorted the duchess, leaving Kit and Lady Elizabeth to walk behind.
"A pity about the Sherbournes' ball," commented Lady Elizabeth, her tone sugary sweet, her gaze poisonous. "You won't have time to acquire a new dress to match your new coiffure. I would loan you one, of course, but I fear it would be much too small."
Kit's smile grew frost at the edges. "Thank you for the offer, Lady Elizabeth, but I shall manage."
Lady Elizabeth stared suspiciously at her, as if wondering what sort of barb lay beneath the cordial words, but Kit paid little attention to her and went in to dinner. It would take more than a spiteful cat like Lady Elizabeth Peverell to overset her any more than today's events already had.
After supper, the family returned to the drawing room to play cards. Instead of seeking her out, as he had before, the marquess sat down with the duke, duchess, and Lady Elizabeth for a hand or two of whist. Kit stood in the doorway, torn between disappointment and relief. Gracious, whatever was the matter with her? One moment she was swooning over th
e marquess like a starry-eyed chit just out of the schoolroom, the next she felt like a fox cornered by a particularly determined hound. Before the end of the week she would have to decide which role she wanted; there would be no turning back.
"Come and play piquet with me, my dear," called the dowager.
The elderly lady regarded her with unabashed curiosity, and the tips of Kit's ears grew warm. She crossed to the dowager's table and lowered herself into the lyre-backed chair opposite Her Grace.
The elderly lady shuffled the cards. "You look lovely tonight, child."
Kit responded with a slight smile. "Thank you, Your Grace. I hope you do not think me too impertinent to make free with Epping's services, but you had not yet returned to the house, and I knew I had to send for her before I lost my nerve."
The dowager chuckled. "In this case, I do not mind at all. In fact, I am pleased to see you've come to your senses," she declared, and began to deal.
"Come to my senses?" Oh, Lud. Not again. Had they been in private, Kit would have smacked her forehead with the heel of her palm. If she parroted one more phrase this week, she would lose patience with herself completely.
"Yes. That is, I am assuming this change in style means you have decided not to become a nun, after all." The dowager slid a sly glance at Kit from behind her cards.
"No, indeed, Your Grace. I have concluded that the life of an ascetic would not agree with me." Kit's gaze strayed over to the marquess before she forced it back to her cards.
"Well, I could have told you that," chuckled the dowager. "Now look to your discard, child."
Kit surveyed her hand, but her mind was not on the game. She glanced again at the marquess. No, not on the game at all. She decided to change the subject; with any luck, she could distract the dowager as well as herself.
"Did you enjoy the picnic this afternoon, Your Grace?" she asked, sorting through her cards.
The dowager beamed. "Oh, indeed I did. Emma and Nathaniel are an absolute delight. A bit rambunctious, but that is to be expected at their age. Every time I see them, they have grown so much that I vow I hardly recognize them." A hint of sadness colored her words.
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