The tumult sent Lakshmi rushing out of the dressing room. She took one look at Kit's face and murmured a quick prayer in her native tongue. Then she hurried to Kit's side and gently pulled her away from the door. "Memsahib-oh, Memsahib, what has happened?"
"We are leaving, Lakshmi," Kit said flatly. "Pack our things."
"The duchess-memsahib-she has not?…" The maid's ebony eyes were saucers full of worry.
Kit shook her head. "No, she will be fine, but we cannot stay. Please, Lakshmi-no more questions. Just get us packed as quickly as possible."
"As you wish." The maid pressed her palms together, then glided to the wardrobe and began removing the clothing from its depths.
Kit, her knees still shaking, went to her writing desk and gathered her books from its surface. She glanced at the clock. As impossible as it was to believe, she had been kissing Nicholas-Lord Bainbridge-in the folly only a few hours ago. It felt like a lifetime. With a muttered oath, she set aside the books. Then she sat down, drew out a sheet of vellum, and began a note to the dowager duchess.
What would she write to Her Grace? That despite Kit's own instincts, she had fallen in love with a rake? A man who had played her like a trout on a line? Kit sighed and dipped her pen in the inkwell. No. For the moment, all she would say was that however much she regretted having to leave the dowager's side, she must return to Bath and would explain her actions later. A few days from now, when she could summon enough courage, she would relate the entire story in another letter.
Then she paused, her pen poised above the paper.
Fallen in love…
A large blot of ink dripped from the nib, marring the blank page. Kit stared at it. She did. She loved him. Good God. What had she done?
Kit shook herself, set down her pen, then crumpled the ruined sheet of paper and tossed it away. She pulled out a fresh page. Damn the duke for his interference. Was her life any less important because she possessed no title and no surname of dignity? And as for the marquess…
Angry heat crept up the back of her neck; she flexed her fingers. Despite her shame, she refused to slink into a hole and lick her wounds like an injured animal. The marquess had taught her one thing of value: no more running. She knew what she had to do. With fresh conviction, she picked up the pen and began to write.
Kit and her maid had all but finished packing when a thunderous banging erupted from the chamber door. Lakshmi ran to open it, and Lord Bainbridge's tall form burst into the room.
"What the devil are you doing?" he demanded.
Sweet heaven-her heart turned over at the mere sight of him, and his voice sent a rush of delicious shivers down her spine. She steeled herself. "I should think that much is obvious, my lord," she replied. "I am packing."
His dark brows drew together in a forbidding line. "Why?"
"To return to Bath, of course."
"Return to?… I don't understand. Why this sudden departure? What about Aunt Josephine?"
Kit placed the last few items of clothing in her trunk, shut the lid, then directed the footmen to take it down to the waiting carriage. "As much as I would like to remain by the dowager's side during her recuperation, circumstances prevent my staying here any longer."
"Circumstances?…" he repeated, incredulous. "What happened? What did Wexcombe say to you? Damn it, Kit, look at me!"
"I will thank you not to address me in that familiar manner," she said with frosty disdain. "And you need not swear at me."
A stunned look crossed the marquess's handsome face. "Good God. He told you."
She struggled to keep her anguish at bay. "Yes. He told me everything. How he suspected me of being after the dowager's money, and how he asked you to seduce me and ruin me in the dowager's eyes."
"Kit, I can explain."
She laughed, a raw, brittle sound. "A bit late for that, my lord."
"I was going to tell you," he stated grimly.
"Oh? And when were you going to do that? When you had become bored with me and moved on to your next mistress?"
His jaw tightened. "Of course not."
"Then when? No, do not bother; I have already heard enough lies to last a lifetime."
She saw him wince. "It's not like that. Please, listen to me."
Kit turned to face him, her head up. "All right, my lord. Never let it be said that I did not give you a chance to speak in your own defense."
He closed the distance between them, one hand outstretched. "Kit…"
She stepped back to avoid his touch. "That is close enough."
"God, how can I?… It was never supposed to be like this." Shadows lingered in his dark eyes. "When Wexcombe first came to me and told me about you, my first thought was for Aunt Josephine's safety. But soon after I met you I realized my mistake."
"Then why continue the charade, my lord? Why did you not tell me the truth?"
He sighed and shoved a hand through his hair, rumpling the dark waves. "Because you would have reacted badly. Like you are now."
"That is a paltry excuse."
"I wanted to tell you," he insisted. "But the more I learned about you, the more attracted to you I became. In the end, I knew I could not insult you so grievously."
"So you strung me along in order to spare my feelings-how noble." Bitterness permeated her words.
"Kit, I had not planned to make you my mistress."
She folded her arms over her chest. "Your persistent attentions seemed to indicate otherwise, as did your infamous proposal."
"I would never have asked you to fulfill your part of that bargain."
"No, you would have continued the seduction until I fell into your bed of my own accord."
A deep flush rose in his face. "Kit, it's not easy for a man to admit that he's been a complete scoundrel."
"A complete scoundrel? Oh, you give yourself far too much credit, my lord," she shot back.
"What would you have done if at the end of the week I had told you that I was wrong to put a price on my assistance, and that we should go our separate ways, with no regrets or obligation?"
"A very easy thing for you to say now, given that the cat is already out of the bag." God, every word he spoke seemed to shred her heart into tiny pieces. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let him see her cry.
His flush intensified. "Kit, not everything was a lie. After the dowager's fall, when you turned to me for comfort… that was real."
"Was it?" A sad smile touched her lips, and she reached for her traveling cloak. "Where you are concerned, my lord, I fear I can no longer discern what is real and what is yet another deception."
With a growl, he lunged forward and seized her arms just above the elbow. "Blast it all, Kit! Do not tell me you are indifferent to the passion that lies between us. You have felt it. I know you have. Just this morning you responded to my kisses with a desire that equaled my own."
Kit swallowed around the lump in her throat. "Is passion all you have to offer, my lord?"
"I… I do not know. At the moment-yes."
His words snuffed out the last tiny flame of hope. She pulled away. "Then let me go."
He released her, his face set in haggard lines. "Kit, give me another chance. Allow me to make amends."
She shook her head. "No, Lord Bainbridge. You have seduced me, lied to me, and used me in the most abominable fashion. I have had enough."
"You can't leave like this," he maintained.
"Can I not? With the exception of the dowager, I see no reason why I should stay."
His hands fell to his sides. "You will not remain, even for her sake?"
"No. She will understand."
His face closed over. "I see. So what do you intend to do now?"
She gulped back her tears and replied, "I am going to return home, my lord. And I am going to forget you."
His body numb, the marquess watched her as she fastened her cloak, gathered her reticule, and marched from the room. She did not look back.
He put out one arm an
d steadied himself against the back of a chair. Dear God. What had he done? All his good intentions had come crashing down around his ears, but he had not expected it to leave him with such a tremendous sense of guilt, pain, and loss.
Go after her, you dolt!
His lips twisted in a sneer. Yes, go after her… and then what? Have her reject him yet again? What good would that do? She had made up her mind; that much was obvious. If Katherine Mallory had her way, she would never see him again, and thank God for it.
"Ah, there you are, Bainbridge. Gone, has she?"
The marquess raised his head to see his cousin standing in the doorway, a small, almost smug smile on his narrow face. He stiffened. "Why, Wexcombe?"
"Because it had to be done. I've seen you fascinated by women before, but never like this."
"What you did was reprehensible. You hurt her. Deliberately."
"You managed to do that much on your own, Cousin," the duke replied with a casual shrug. "I simply made her aware of the circumstances."
Bainbridge scowled. "Damn you, I didn't mean for it to end like this. I would have broken it off, with her none the wiser. She didn't have to know. She was innocent."
"Well, she had no designs on Grandmama's money, if that's what you mean. But as for innocent… I told you earlier that she was playing for higher stakes."
"You never bothered to talk to her," snapped the marquess, "so how would you know?"
"Because anyone with eyes in his head could see what was going on between the two of you. I do not think you would have broken it off."
Bainbridge grimaced. "I should have done it days ago. It was selfish of me not to."
"You see? So what I did was for your own good."
"My own good?" Bainbridge stalked toward his cousin. "And what would you know of that?"
The duke examined his manicured nails. "If you had not ended it with her, what would you have done?" He paused and peered intently at the marquess. "My God. You weren't actually considering making her an offer of marriage, were you?"
A slow smile stole over Bainbridge's lips as his cousin's words registered in his stunned mind. Marriage… to Kit? Only this morning he had thought the notion absurd. But the more he thought about it, the more he recognized the strange sense of longing that gripped him. Kit-his wife. Raising children together, telling stories to them. Having picnics on warm summer days, sharing bowlfuls of strawberries. Having her in his bed night after night for a lifetime. A thrill coursed through him.
"Why not?" he replied.
The duke gaped at him. "Why?… Because the woman is a Cit's widow, for God's sake, and the daughter of a social pariah. Suitable as a mistress, perhaps, but as a wife? Preposterous. I swear I don't know what has come over you."
Mistresses… He'd had his fill of them. He had spent years pursuing one new lover after another, but none of them had captured his attention for long; all he could remember was a string of faceless bodies. A shallow way of life, in retrospect. Was that all he wanted? The thought of returning to Angelique's vapid blond embrace made him shudder with revulsion. Such an existence may have satisfied him in the past, but now he found he craved something more.
Realization struck him like a thunderbolt. All his life he had derided love for the pain it could bring, never recognizing how much joy he had denied himself in the process. Time for him to follow his own advice: no more running away. Yes; he would do it. At this point, he had nothing to lose.
"What's come over me?" he said softly. "I'll tell you, Cousin. I love her."
The duke snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You're simply infatuated with her because she's different from ladies of the ton. You will forget about her soon enough."
Bainbridge shook his head, grinning. "You do not understand, do you Wexcombe? This goes beyond infatuation. I think I've finally discovered what I want."
The duke's gaze was cold enough to extinguish burning coals. "No. I will not allow it. You are a marquess, and you have a duty to your family."
"Allow?" Bainbridge scoffed. "I would like to see you try to stop me, Cousin."
"What are you going to do?" the duke demanded.
Bainbridge tugged at his jacket. "Somehow, some way, I am going to win her back. And then I will marry her."
The duke made a dismissive gesture. "I doubt that. She'll never let you near her. Not after all that has happened."
"Perhaps. But I can try."
"Oh, for God's sake, man, don't be a fool," snapped the duke.
The marquess inclined his head in a mocking bow. "Strange that you should say that, Cousin. I've been too great a fool already."
Chapter Ten
Kit glanced over the rim of her teacup down to the portion of Camden Place visible from the drawing room window. Compared to Calcutta, Bath was a placid, sedate sort of town. No garish colors, no horned cattle meandering down the middle of the road, no vendors hawking their wares with singsong cries, no street performers with cobras or trained monkeys. Here, on an ordinary day, one could see only carriages, pedestrians, and the occasional rider.
But today the streets were more quiet than usual, due to the steady curtain of rain that had fallen since early morning. Raindrops pattered in an even rhythm against the glass, forming a counterpoint to the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Kit sighed and took another sip of hot chai, allowing the familiar combination of cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom to dispel the damp chill that had taken hold of her.
After the debacle at Broadwell Manor, part of her had been tempted to bolt pell-mell back to India, but she knew the notion was pure fantasy. Besides, she did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her run. Moreover, in the past fortnight she had discovered that Bath had a quiet charm of its own, which at the moment she found particularly appealing. This was her home, and she refused to be driven away.
Fortunately, it had not come to that; the marquess had not followed her to Bath. Oh, not that she wanted him to, of course, or even expected it. In fact, she hoped never to see his roguish countenance ever again. Two weeks had blunted the worst of her pain, but every time she thought about it, she knew, despite her defiant words, that forgetting Lord Bainbridge would take much, much longer.
With a shake of her head, Kit set down her cup and picked up the latest letter from the dowager duchess. When the missive arrived this morning, just as she was preparing to go out, she had broken the seal and scanned the contents immediately. But once she had assured herself that the elderly woman's health had not taken a turn for the worse, she had set it aside so that she might savor it later. Now she unfolded the letter, smoothed the creased parchment sheets, and retraced the words written in the dowager's familiar, spiky lettering.
The dowager continued to recover well, it seemed, and was driving everyone at Broadwell Manor, especially the duke, to distraction with her demands. A smile quirked the corners of Kit's mouth. The dowager, as ever, was in fine form. Ah, but here was something-
tI have also heard reports from several of my acquaintances that you have been cutting quite a dash at the new Assembly Rooms. Good for you, child! 'Tis high time you put aside your nunnish ways. At any rate, I should hate to think my letters of introduction had gone to waste.
Kit grinned. She had only been to two balls, but apparently her appearance had caused enough of a stir for the dowager's friends to remark upon it. At this time of year, most of the ton were either at their country estates or in Brighton; the population of Bath, it seemed, was comprised mostly of dowagers, widows, half-pay officers, young girls wishing to live down a recent scandal, and fortune hunters down on their luck. In such company, Kit supposed, she could not help but stand out. But there was more…
Lady Arbogast went so far as to relate that a certain group of gentlemen-and she was not too particular about the term-have taken to calling you "The Maharani of Bath." You must write to me at once, child, and tell me what you have done to merit such a tantalizing epithet. Oh, how vexed I am to think that I am missing all of this!
In truth, all she had done was have her mantua-maker create a new wardrobe from several silk saris she had collected during her years in India. Well, come to think of it, she had also unpacked several pieces of elaborate, wrought-gold jewelry and her embroidered, curl-toed slippers. Hmm. She had worn these things without a second thought in India, but apparently such attire had made more of an impression on staid Bath than she had expected.
She was fairly certain she knew who had coined that ridiculous soubriquet: Viscount Langley, who during the last week had worked himself to the forefront of her admirers. Although she had met him but a few days ago, she had the impression that he was a handsome young rascal with a flair for the dramatic.
But you had best remain guarded, my dear, for such notoriety will garner you more than your share of attention, not all of it wanted.
Kit's smile began to fade. Wise advice, indeed. Most of the men who had flocked to her side over the past week were fortune hunters, drawn by her silk gowns and rich jewelry-signs that marked her as a wealthy widow. Her chin came up. She must remember to tell the dowager that her concern was appreciated but entirely unnecessary; she was no longer the naïve, trusting little idiot she had been a month ago. Her mouth firmed, and she continued to read.
Once you decide what you want, child, there is no going back. There are plenty of fine young men to be had for the asking; all that remains is for you to find one-or for one to find you.
Kit rolled her eyes. After what had happened at Broadwell Manor, the dowager had somehow gotten the idea into her head that Kit needed to remarry. The elderly woman would not take kindly to being contradicted, but Kit suspected she would have to do it sooner, rather than later. She shrugged and kept reading.
A Reckless Bargain Page 13