A Reckless Bargain

by Elizabeth Powell

  "Even those that begin as outright lies," Kit shot back.

  "Lies?" Lady Elizabeth arched a slim dark brow. "You forget, Mrs. Mallory, that I was also a guest at Broadwell Manor. I happen to be very, very observant."

  "Observant or vengeful?" Kit snapped. The people directly around them had fallen silent, listening with unseemly anticipation, but that could not be helped.

  "I saw you under the tree the day of the picnic," she hissed. "I saw the way you led him on."

  She… led Nicholas on? Visions of strawberries danced to the forefront of her memory, and Kit felt a familiar wave of heat wash over her cheeks. "You are mistaken."

  Lady Elizabeth must have mistaken her flush for guilt; her eyes brightened with fury. "I think not. I did not return directly to the house but stayed near the garden. And I assure you, I could see everything."

  Kit glared back at her. "If you had seen everything, as you claim, then you would know that nothing happened between us. Nothing except what you fabricated in your jealous imagination."

  Lady Elizabeth scowled, then turned to her aunt and said in a very loud voice, "You were absolutely right, Aunt Peterborough. They will admit absolutely anyone to these affairs, even those ladies who are no better than they should be."

  Kit stood still for a moment, her shaking hands rolled into fists at her sides. A sharp snap and a brief flash of pain in her palm told her that she'd gripped her sandalwood fan too tightly and broken one of the sticks. Although she longed to announce Lady Elizabeth's role in the dowager's fall to all and sundry, to do so would make her no less a viper than Lady Elizabeth herself. When the dowager duchess returned, she would take the girl down a peg or two. Until then, she must try to hold up her head. What else could she do?

  Though she endeavored to maintain her composure, she could only keep her tears in check for so long. The evening was ruined. She struggled toward the vestibule, lost in a sea of censorious, hypocritical faces. A burst of Lady Elizabeth's shrill laughter knifed across her tattered nerves.

  A hand touched her elbow, and she jumped.

  "Forgive me if I startled you," said Lord Langley. Worry creased his tanned face. "I heard what just happened."

  "There are no secrets in Bath, are there?" Kit asked, her voice tinged with a trace of hysteria.

  "How may I help?" inquired the viscount.

  "Take me home, my lord," Kit replied.

  He nodded. "Allow me to get your wrap." He vanished from her side once more, leaving her alone to withstand the assault of prying eyes.

  As grateful as she was for Viscount Langley's encouragement, he could not compare to Lord Bainbridge. She scanned the crowd, her arms wrapped around her body, but nowhere did she spy Nicholas's tall, broad-shouldered form. Where was he? Her own shoulders slumped. What was the use? Even if he were here, the whispered scandal would taint him, as well, no matter how vociferously he denied it.

  Out of the midst of her upset and unhappiness, a phrase from Congreve hit her like a thunderbolt: Heaven hath no rage like love turned to hatred, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned. Small wonder Lady Elizabeth felt driven by such passion; she had fallen desperately in love with Lord Bainbridge, who had not returned her affection, or even noticed it. For revenge, she had felt obliged to strike out at those she perceived had done her injury. Kit grimaced. "Hell hath no fury," indeed. Now both of them would suffer for her humiliation. It was not fair.

  "Here." Lord Langley's gloved fingertips brushed across her neck as he settled her wrap over her shoulders.

  Kit started. "Thank you, my lord." Her hands shook. She fought to still them.

  "I have sent for the carriage, but it may take some time to reach the front door. Perhaps you would care to wait out in the fresh air," he suggested.

  The atmosphere in the octagonal vestibule verged on claustrophobic; the air, redolent with an overabundance of perfume, threatened to choke her. Chills racked her body, alternating with uncomfortable waves of embarrassed heat. She nodded and allowed him to escort her outside. When they reached the street, Kit gasped with relief.

  "I fear this evening's events too closely resembled a Forlorn Hope, my lord," she said, clutching her shawl closer about her shoulders. "The occupants of the Assembly Rooms repulsed me from the breach. As drubbings go, that was rather thorough."

  The viscount pulled a face. "I regret you had to endure such an unpleasant experience. I only recently escaped similar censure in London."

  "Yes, but a lady's reputation is a fragile thing." Tears pooled on her lashes. "Once broken, it cannot be repaired."

  Lord Langley took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Mrs. Mallory, I must confess something to you… I hold myself partially responsible for what happened here tonight."

  Numbness gathered beneath Kit's breastbone. "Responsible? How so?"

  "I warned you about Lord Bainbridge, but I should have been more diligent in your defense. I should have protected you."

  Kit shook her head and tried to smile. "No, my lord. You should feel no such obligation."

  "I disagree."

  "Lord Langley-"

  "Please hear me out." He enveloped her hand in both of his. "I should have thought of this earlier. I cannot flatter myself by imagining that you hold any affection for me, Mrs. Mallory, but I would be honored to offer you the protection of my name, if you wish it."

  Kit's mind reeled. "W-what are you saying?"

  "Eh… I am making a muddle of this. Mrs. Mallory, I am asking you to be my wife."

  She lowered her eyes. "My lord-"

  "Sebastian," he interjected with a lopsided smile. "Sebastian Carr, Viscount Langley, who may not be a marquess, but hopes you will accept him as a poor substitute."

  Kit opened her mouth, but another voice-deep, male, and angry-replied for her.

  "Good evening. I do hope I am not interrupting anything important."

  Kit jerked her hand from the viscount's grasp and whirled. "Nicholas!"

  Lord Bainbridge balled his hands into fists as he surveyed the scene laid out before him. Langley, the insolent fop, was gazing lovingly at Kit, and if the marquess had overheard correctly, had just made Kit an offer of marriage. And Kit stood, blushing, eyes downcast, looking for all the world like a demure maid about to accept him. His heart gave a savage twist.

  "Kit, I believe the gentleman is waiting for your answer, so please do not hesitate on my account." He bit off each word.

  Kit pulled her hand again from her admirer's grasp; her cheeks glowed a brighter red. "Nicholas, this is not what you think."

  His lips twisted in a sneer. "No? Did I not just hear Viscount Langley make you an offer of marriage? Really, my dear, it would be quite rude of you not to answer."

  She swallowed, and Bainbridge could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in the base of her throat. She licked her dry lips, then turned to the viscount. "You do me a very great honor, my lord, but I cannot accept your proposal."

  The viscount straightened his shoulders and bowed to her. "I understand, Mrs. Mallory, even though I am disappointed. I hope you will still consider me your very great friend." The man shot a fulminating glare in Bainbridge's direction.

  Good God. Never before had the marquess felt such a strong urge to plant his fist in another man's face. He wanted nothing more than to eradicate Langley by any means necessary, to extinguish his presence from the face of the earth.

  "Thank you, Lord Langley," Kit replied. A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "If you will excuse me, I must speak with Lord Bainbridge."

  "I shall be here if you need me," replied the viscount with an impassioned look.

  "You had better go, Langley," Bainbridge heard himself growl. "The streets of Bath can be dangerous after dark."

  Lord Langley stiffened, bowed to them both, then turned on his heel and strode down Alfred Street to his waiting carriage.

  Kit turned to him with anguished eyes. "Oh, Nicholas, I feared you would not come."

  "It did not appear so t
o me," he replied. A muscle twitched at his temple.

  Laughter sounded from the vestibule of the Assembly Rooms, and she flinched. "Would you take me home?"

  Without a word, he offered Kit his arm and walked with her to his own coach. He helped her into the carriage, gave her direction to the driver, then levered himself onto the bench opposite her.

  She sat in silence, staring out the coach window, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Something had upset her-his untimely interruption, perhaps? He flexed his fingers until his gloves strained across his knuckles. He had no idea Langley meant so much to her. All this talk of trust, their bargain, meant nothing.

  "I… I must tell you something, my lord," she wavered. Still she could not look at him. A single tear tracked a silvery trail down her cheek.

  He offered her his handkerchief, taking care that he did not touch her. If he touched her, he would be lost. "Is it about Langley? Do you love him?"

  Her head snapped around; the softer curls at her temples swayed with the movement. "No!" she exclaimed. Her nostrils flared. "Why would you think that?"

  Bainbridge quirked an eyebrow. "The man proposed marriage to you in the middle of the street. What else should I think?"

  She lowered her head, but not before he noticed the way her lips trembled. "No. I do not love him."

  "What, then?"

  A second tear followed the first. "I discovered earlier today that a vicious rumor about the two of us has been circulating through society."

  "A rumor? What sort of rumor?" Doubt tinged his voice.

  Kit swiped at her tears. "That I am your mistress."

  He leaned back against the squabs, his eyes narrowed. "Lucifer's beard. Kit, I had nothing to do with that."

  She smiled, but the gesture held no mirth. "I know, my lord. I had my doubts at first, but tonight I discovered that Lady Elizabeth Peverell is behind it all."

  "Lady Elizabeth," he echoed, lips curled in disgust. "I thought she was in London."

  Kit shook her head. "No, her father sent her to Bath to stay with her aunt. As it happens, her aunt is Lady Peterborough, one of Bath's most renowned gossipmongers."

  He winced. "And she was only too happy to besmirch our reputations."

  She glared at him. "Your reputation may survive this, my lord, but mine will not. I have never had people give me the cut direct, even when I was married to a Cit. Tonight I have been the target of more cruel and unkind remarks than I wish to count, and I know enough about society to realize that this sort of thing does not diminish over time. I am ruined, my lord. Undone. Dished up."

  "And Langley was comforting you." He made it a statement, not a question.

  "He was one of the few who dared to stand by me!" she protested. "You were not here, Nicholas-what was I supposed to do?"

  "You could have dissuaded him."

  "He is my friend!"

  Bainbridge's mouth tightened. "And might I also presume that this 'friend' was the one who first suggested I might be behind these rumors?"

  "Well, yes, but-"

  "I'm going to ask you again, Kit, and this time I want the truth. Are you in love with Viscount Langley?"

  "Why do you keep asking me this?" she cried. "How many times must I tell you that no, I am not?"

  "Until I believe you," he said flatly.

  She paled.

  "What would you have me think, Kit?" he demanded. He folded his arms across his chest. "The man flatters and pays court to you all week, while I struggle to keep you at arm's length in order to gain your trust. The moment I leave town this rumor pops up, and he very conveniently makes himself available to comfort you."

  "I told you. He is a friend; nothing more."

  "Stop being so naive. Men-gentlemen, at any rate-do not form friendships with ladies. The man is a gazetted fortune hunter, Kit. He wants your money."

  "But I have no great fortune."

  "You have more than he does."

  "I do not love him," she insisted.

  "Then why did it look like you were about to accept his proposal when I arrived?"

  She glared at him, suppressed a sob, and turned away.

  God's teeth, he'd made her cry. The marquess shoved a hand through his hair. All he wanted to do was reach out and pull her into his lap, to cradle her against his chest, to hold her and murmur that everything would be all right. But he couldn't. It was as if a cold fist gripped his heart and squeezed it.

  She wiped her eyes again, then swallowed hard. "This has been a misunderstanding, Nicholas. Please, let us not quarrel like this."

  The carriage came to a halt at Camden Place; the footman opened the door for them.

  Trust. His quest to win her trust had sent him out of town at dawn this morning. It had kept him from touching her all week. But trust cut both ways; only now did he realize how much he had taken that for granted.

  Kit had made it clear that she needed to trust him. He had every right to ask the same of her. But right now, he wasn't sure he could.

  She had not made too great a point of it, but she had admitted that when the scandalous rumor first reached her ears, she had thought him capable of creating it for his own ends. Selfish he had been, yes, but never would he lower himself to do something so utterly ruthless. He preferred his women willing, not blackmailed. The fact that she had even considered such a thing cut him to the quick.

  He levered himself through the carriage door, then without thinking offered his hand to her. She took it and descended gingerly from the coach.

  He could feel her warmth through his gloves, smell her exotic sandalwood perfume as it rose from her skin. Her hair gleamed soft gold in the moonlight.

  His fingers convulsed over hers.

  "Kit." He held on to her hand to prevent her from climbing the townhouse stairs.

  She turned, hesitant. "Nicholas?"

  God help him, the way she said his name made his heart turn somersaults. If only he didn't have to do this-

  "Kit, I am returning to London tonight."

  "Tonight?" she echoed. Her eyes widened. "Why?"

  He gritted his teeth and forced himself to say it: "Because we are finished here."

  All traces of color fled her face. "Finished? What do you mean?"

  He sighed. "You gave me a week to prove that you could trust me. I may or may not have been successful; you must make that decision."

  "But the week is not over," she said. Her voice quavered.

  "After what I witnessed tonight I realized that trust cannot reside with only one person. I have taken my own trust for granted, Kit. Until now, I assumed that you wanted me as much as I did you. Perhaps that is not the case, after all."

  "No," she whispered. "Nicholas, don't-"

  He placed two fingers over her lips, stopping the flow of anguished words. "You must decide what you want, Kit. What you want and whom to trust. My presence here will only muddy the waters, so I will give you some room to think. But once you decide, there will be no going back.

  "Before I leave, though, I must mention two things. The dowager duchess has returned to Bath; that is the first of my gifts to you. I drove to Broadwell Manor this morning and brought her back. Once she is finished with Lady Elizabeth and the other tabbies, you will no longer have to worry about your reputation.

  "The second item is this." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two calling cards. "The first is the card of one Mr. Dalrymple, who owns a printing house in London. I wrote to him about your translation of the Ramayana, and he is most interested in publishing it when you are finished. In fact, he is willing to pay quite a sizeable sum for it. You may direct any inquiries through my man of affairs; I have given you his name, as well."

  Kit held the cards with shaking hands, tears streaming down her bloodless cheeks. Nicholas reached out and gently wiped them away with his thumb.

  "I know how much you value your freedom, Kit," he added, "and I would never dream of forcing you into anything. But I must demand the same thing of you a
s you have of me. Your love and your unwavering trust. Without those, we cannot be together."

  She tried to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. She covered her hand with her mouth and just shook her head.

  The marquess took a step back and inclined his head to her.

  "Good-bye, Kit." Then, determined to leave before he lost his nerve completely, he climbed into the carriage and ordered his driver to head for London.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Good morning!" a woman called from the vestibule. "Halloo? Kit? Good heavens, child, will you tell this Hindu mountain of yours to grant me admittance, or must I languish on your doorstep?"

  Kit raised her chin from the arm of the sofa and stared toward the drawing room door with weary eyes. "Ramesh, let Her Grace in."

  The dowager bustled over the threshold, dressed in an eye-popping combination of yellow-and-green shot silk. The plumes on her turban bobbed with particular energy. "Eh, what is all this, my dear? I thought your butler was about to throw me bodily into the street."

  Kit favored the lady with a tired smile. "I do apologize, Your Grace. I instructed Ramesh not to let anyone in, and I fear he took me at my word. But I failed to tell him that you were the exception."

  "Well, I suppose I…" She halted midstride, retrieved her lorgnette, and peered through it. "Gracious, my dear, whatever has happened to you? You look as though you spent the night down a well."

  Kit wiped the tears from her face with the crumpled cambric square she held in her hand, then rose shakily to her feet. "I am glad you are here, ma'am. I have desperate need of you."

  "By Jove, child, I believe you do." The dowager put away her lorgnette, then turned to Ramesh and ordered tea for them both without so much as batting an eyelash. Then she took Kit's hands in hers and kissed her cheek. "What has happened, Kit? Here, sit down beside me."

  Kit allowed the elderly woman to press her down onto the lion-footed sofa. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. How could she even begin to tell the dowager about this tangled mess? About the hurt and betrayal and confusion and longing and… And that she had lost the man she loved? She swallowed hard, then grimaced; her throat was raw from the copious tears she had shed over the past several hours.