‘Then you’re hiding something from me.’
‘No!’ The denial did not ring true, and he knew it.
The violet silk was suffering a thorough pulverisation beneath her fingers.
He leaned back against the mantel, rested his booted foot upon the fender, and watched her. ‘Your lying does not improve with practice.’
She rose swiftly from the sofa. ‘It’s late, Lord Ravensmede, and I have much to do tomorrow. Please excuse me, sir.’
He pushed off from the fender and moved swiftly to stand before her. ‘No.’
Indignation stared from the silver eyes. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s not seemly that we’re here, alone, at this time of night.’
Exasperation rose in Ravensmede’s throat. ‘It’s not seemly that you’re lying to me,’ he growled.
‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she said primly.
‘Miss Marchant,’ he countered.
She made to turn towards the door.
‘I did not excuse you.’ He saw the slight body stiffen. Felt a scoundrel for what he was doing. Knew he must do it for Kathryn’s own sake.
‘I can stand here all night, my lord, and there will still be nothing more to say.’
One step, and the distance between them disappeared. ‘Tell me,’ he said roughly. His hand closed around her arm. He felt her start beneath him, try to pull away. She looked up at him, fear blazoning in her eyes. Shock kicked in his gut at the realisation of just what she thought. ‘I’m not going to hurt you!’ by one he uncurled his fingers so that she was free. ‘God help me, I could never hurt you.’ They were standing so close that the hem of her skirt brushed the gleaming toes of his long black riding boots; so close that he could hear the whisper of her breath and smell her sweet scent. ‘Don’t you know that by now?’
Her eyelids fluttered shut.
Next to him she was so small, so slender. It pained him that she believed he could have struck her. ‘Forgive me if I frightened you, Kathryn.’
There was a catch of breath in her throat and then those beautiful eyes raised to his once more. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and her, words were so quiet as to scarcely catch his ears. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
‘Hush.’ With great tenderness he cupped one hand against her cheek and stroked a delicate caress across the silken skin. It seemed that there was a great stillness within him and a peculiar ache across his chest. It was a novel sensation for Ravensmede. Beneath his fingers her skin was warm and smooth. And her eyes clung to his like a woman drowning. She made him feel both powerless and omnipotent at the same time. ‘You need not tell me if you really do not wish to. I sought only to save you from the worst of your aunt.’ For all that he wanted to help her, he could not bear her pain.
Her eyes shuttered. ‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she sighed. ‘You, of all people, cannot.’
He touched his lips against her forehead, not kissing, just resting them there, trying desperately to give her some small comfort.
‘Aunt Anna said…’
He pulled back, rested his hands loosely, lightly, against her shoulders, and watched the hint of a blush stain those pale cheeks. Kathryn would not meet his gaze. ‘What did she say?’ he asked as gently as he could.
A deep breath. A tremor of tension beneath his palms. ‘She said that there were rumours.’
There was a sudden coldness in the pit of his stomach.
‘She implied that I…that we…’ Her hand moved to worry at her skirt. But his moved faster, catching her fingers back up and threading them through his own. ‘That we?’
‘That we have behaved improperly.’
Only the ticking of the clock on the mantel punctuated the silence in the room.
‘She wanted to question me on the matter.’
‘I see,’ said Ravensmede. His fingers pressed a gentle reassurance against hers. He controlled the anger rising within him, didn’t want to distress Kathryn any more than she was already.
‘And she’s right, isn’t she?’ said Kathryn quietly. ‘We haven’t behaved as we should.’
‘Perhaps I haven’t behaved entirely as I should, but you’ve done nothing wrong.’
Her chin came up and she squared her shoulders. ‘I’m every bit as guilty as you, Nicholas. I wasn’t unwilling.’ Colour flared in her cheeks.
His blood quickened at her bold admission, and his heart gladdened that she was not indifferent to him. ‘Your aunt can know nothing for certain; she’s fishing for trouble.’ But even as he said the words, Ravensmede thought of someone who most definitely knew enough to destroy Kathryn’s reputation. The fact that he had parted with a hefty sum to buy the woman’s silence did not make him feel any easier. Amanda White’s discretion could not to be entirely trusted. He could only be thankful that she had been persuaded to leave London for a while.
Kathryn sighed. ‘I only hope that you’re right.’
How could he reassure her? He traced his thumb against the inside of her wrist, slowly, intimately. ‘We shared a few kisses, Kathryn, nothing more. There’s nothing so very wrong in that.’ A few kisses…it sounded so innocent, but Ravensmede knew better. Kathryn Marchant’s kisses were fit to overwhelm a man’s mind. One taste of her lips was enough to snare a fellow for life. And even had that not been the case, even if her mouth had been hard and dry and unyielding so that he never touched her again, he had already done enough to sully her name if the truth were to come out. He thrust the thought aside. ‘You said yourself it will not happen again…and now we are just friends.’ It was what she wanted, what she needed, to hear; or so he told himself.
Hurt flashed in her eyes, and then was gone so quickly that he thought he must have been mistaken. She stared down at her feet.
He squeezed her hands in what he hoped was an encouraging manner; struggled to ignore the smell of her perfume drifting up from her hair, and the tantalising touch of her fingers still entwined within his own. Ruthlessly he quelled the desire to wrap his arms around her and crush her to him. Loosening his hand, he took her chin between his fingers and gently raised her face so that he could look into her eyes. ‘I look after my friends, Kathryn,’ he said slowly. ‘I won’t allow Mrs Marchant to hurt you again.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.
He could resist no more. Sliding his arms round her back, he pulled her into his embrace, and then just held her, with the softness of her curves pressed against him, and the smell of her filling his nose. She made no protest, just clung to him as he clung to her, her breath warm and moist against his chest. He dropped his lips to rest against the top of her head. And they stood there, as if they would merge together as one for all eternity.
In the days that followed Miss Lottie Marchant’s musical evening Kathryn heard nothing more from her aunt. It seemed that Ravensmede had been right in his assertion that Mrs Marchant had been untruthful about the existence of injurious rumours, for, from the very next day following the event, it became clear that Kathryn had been taken into the bosom of the ton. Invitations to balls and routs and parties arrived at the house in Upper Grosvenor Street by the score, and all were extended to both Lady Maybury and her companion.
For the first time in her life people looked at Kathryn instead of through her. There was definitely no danger of her being ignored. People who had previously not deigned to notice her were suddenly keen to be seen chatting with Lady Maybury’s protégé. She lost count of the number of requests she received from people asking her to paint their portraits. And a number of gentlemen took to calling in the hope of fixing Miss Marchant’s attention. It was akin to the past fantasies played out in her head, unreal in every aspect except that when she opened her eyes it did not vanish. Kathryn should have been happy, and, indeed, she was content of sorts. But something was missing, and that something left an emptiness within.
Since that night when he had held her so tenderly in Lady Maybury’s drawing room, Lord Ravensmede had been careful to avoid being alone in her company. H
e was a model of polite consideration. Indeed, Kathryn would have gone as far as to describe him as the very epitome of gentlemanly behaviour. But there was a new distance between them, as if he had withdrawn from her. It was the right thing to do, the proper thing to do. Especially for a viscount to his grandmother’s companion. So why did she feel a constant ache in her heart?
We shared a few kisses, he had said, nothing more. Was that all it had been to him? Didn’t he too feel that the world had turned upside down? Clearly not. But then he was a rake. Everyone said it. A man who was used to taking what he wanted from women and moving on. Just the thought of that was enough to turn her blood cold. She should be glad that he was behaving with the utmost respectability. And then she remembered the dark smoulder in his eyes when he kissed her, the gentle insistence of his lips upon her, and the tenderness of his touch…and she knew that against all rhyme and reason, what she really wanted from Nicholas Maybury was not in the least respectable.
‘Oh, it has been an age since I was in Brighthelmstone. Such a good idea of m’grandson. To escape from the infernal smells of the town will be a blessed relief. I only hope the sea air is not too cold. At my time of life one cannot be too careful about catching a chill.’ Lady Maybury drew her shawl around her as if she already felt the gusting of the bracing sea air, instead of the stifling heat of London. ‘Are you finished, my dear?’
Kathryn was engaged in yet another portrait of the dowager, this time a sketch in charcoal and chalk. She bobbed her head to the side, considered the work carefully, and, after a stroke here and a smudge there pronounced that she was.
The briefest of knocks sounded upon the library door behind Kathryn and then footsteps sounded upon the wooden floor.
‘Nick!’ Lady Maybury’s face illuminated as her grandson came forward to sweep a kiss to her hand.
‘Grandmama,’ and, turning to the slight figure half-hidden behind the large wooden drawing board, ‘Kathryn.’ He made to politely lift her hand, but she pulled it back before he could reach it.
A smile lit her face as she set the board down on the floor and wiped her palms on the dark stained apron covering her dress. ‘I’m afraid that I’m quite covered in charcoal.’ As if to prove her point, she extended one hand and several slender fingers dangled temptingly in front of his face. It was clear to see that Kathryn was telling the truth, for her hands were indeed ingrained with a thick black dust.
‘I’ve seen cleaner hands on a climbing boy,’ he laughed and, before she could protest, plucked the dirty little hand into his and kissed it. ‘Let it not be said that Lord Ravensmede could be deterred from his manners by a few grains of charcoal.’
‘Your manners are quite impeccable, sir. I don’t think you need worry that such an accusation could be levelled at you.’
Her grin was less than ladylike, but it smote Ravensmede’s heart just the same. Several wild curls had escaped her chignon and were draping artlessly around her throat, the grey eyes were clear and bright, and her skin, beneath the daubs and smudges of black dust, was of a creamy luminescence. There had been too many days of polite formality, too much self-restraint. Before her appeal the Viscount’s will-power began to crumble. In a moment of weakness he touched one thumb tenderly to her cheek, and then, suddenly conscious of exactly what he was doing and his grandmother’s perceptive gaze, said lazily, ‘More charcoal.’ A large snow-white handkerchief was produced and he quickly wiped at the offending mark. ‘That’s better.’
Lady Maybury’s mouth shaped as if to catch flies, before she snapped it shut. Kathryn said nothing, but could not prevent the flood of colour that warmed her face. The skin that he had touched with such betraying intimacy burned as if branded.
Ravensmede replaced his handkerchief, unwittingly transferring a small quantity of charcoal dust on to the pocket of his coat in the process, which he then proceeded to inadvertently share between his chin, and his cheek. He wandered away from the faded green scrutiny and feigned an interest in a shelf of books. At the other side of the room he could hear the scrape of Kathryn’s chair and the movement of the drawing board upon a table.
‘If you would be so kind as to excuse me, my lady, I’ll attempt to remove the worst of this mess. A good shake of my apron outside and a hand scrub should suffice. And then I’ll wipe the floor in here just in case—’
Lord Ravensmede glanced up from the book he had just extracted from the shelf. ‘My grandmother employs servants to do that, Kathryn; you are not one of them. Is that not so, Grandmama?’
Lady Maybury looked from her grandson to her companion. ‘Yes, of course.’ Then, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture, ‘Mary won’t mind a little extra dust to sweep in the morning. Don’t bother the gel just now.’
‘Very well. I’ll go and clean myself up. I’ll come back later when you have need of me.’ Kathryn started towards the door.
‘Kathryn.’ The single word stopped her progress immediately. ‘We plan to discuss our forthcoming trip to Brighthelmstone. I would have you here.’
Kathryn had frozen halfway across the library floor. When she turned around, Ravensmede could see the deepening colour of her cheeks.
‘Fustian, Nick! Must you always be so high-handed? I don’t know where you get it from. Let the gel tidy herself. We can wait for her return before we start upon the plans for Brighthelmstone.’ Lady Maybury peered down the length of her short little nose at her grandson. ‘Besides, I can’t think of a thing until I’ve had some Madeira and cake. Be so kind as to ring the bell.’ She turned to Kathryn, who was still standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, gel? Off you go.’
The door closed quietly behind the slight figure and the dowager and her grandson were left alone. Neither spoke. The slow steady tick of the grandfather clock marked the passing of the seconds.
And then the faded green gaze fixed its focus upon Ravensmede. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’
‘You seem uncommonly concerned with m’companion.’
A dark eyebrow arched. ‘I’m merely being polite.’
‘Polite, my foot!’ sniffed the old lady. ‘You fancy the gel!’
Ravensmede laughed. ‘You’ve been reading too many romantic novels, Grandmama.’
‘Don’t try to flannel me, boy, I’m not so old that I can’t see when a young man’s ardour is up, even if he is m’own grandson.’
‘Whatever I feel about her is irrelevant—she’s your companion, nothing more.’ The broad shoulders shrugged.
‘I’m trusting you to remember that, Nick,’ she said and fixed a belligerent eye on her grandson. ‘I’ve put in a lot of effort to establish Kathryn in the eyes of the ton. Got plenty of respectable young gentlemen interested in her. Won’t be long before one of them makes her an offer.’ She sniffed. ‘But one whiff of scandal and that will soon change. I don’t want you ruining things for Kathryn, or for myself.’
‘I’ve no intention of ruining anything,’ Ravensmede drawled. ‘As I said before, my interest in Kathryn is purely philanthropic.’
‘Then you should take care to remember that until I can find her a husband,’ said the dowager.
The thought of Kathryn marrying one of Lady Maybury’s young gentlemen did not please the Viscount. His grandmother clearly had the bit between her teeth and was progressing her plan at an all-out gallop. It was time that Ravensmede slowed things down a little. ‘Have a care you don’t tire both Kathryn and yourself out, Grandmama. I’ve never seen you attend so many balls and routs as in these last weeks. When was the last time you spent the evening in?’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ declared the old lady with a considerable degree of venom. ‘I’m not in m’coffin yet. Why should I want to be sitting in here all evening when I can be out enjoying m’self. And as for Kathryn, the gel’s as strong as a horse. We’ll go out every night if we damn well choose!’
‘You already
do. But just think, if you make yourself ill what will happen to your plans for Kathryn then? She cannot go out alone.’ That made Lady Maybury think; he could tell by the closed look that settled upon her face.
‘It won’t be for much longer,’ she said. ‘I’m very close to success. Indeed, if it were not for our holiday to Brighthelmstone I would be expectant of her receiving a proposal in the next few weeks.’
Ravensmede secretly blessed the forthcoming trip.
‘Mr Roodley and Mr Williams have both been attentive and I have been warned that Lord Stanfield and Lord Raith have expressed more than a passing interest in my gel. She’ll make a good marriage before this Season is out, or I’ll eat my hat.’
‘Roodley and Williams would bore Kathryn silly within a week of their company. As for Stanfield…the man’s one of the biggest lechers in the country. And Raith’s old enough to be her father. Are any of them really a suitable match?’ Ravensmede flashed a lazy smile. ‘I don’t think so, and when you think about it, neither will you.’
Her ladyship cast him a determined look. ‘I fully intend to catch her a husband, Nick.’
Ravensmede examined his nails, as if the matter was of such little importance to him. ‘I fail to see the rush. Couldn’t you just take her home to the dower house at Landon Park with you, and bring her back again next year?’
‘The gel’s four and twenty! Another year shan’t be in her favour. I have Kathryn’s best interest at heart when I say that I mean to secure her an offer as soon as possible.’
A wave of disgruntlement swept over the Viscount. The thought of Kathryn Marchant married to another man goaded him to irritation. For all that he’d sworn he would not touch her, for all his good intention for friendship and nothing more, he knew them both for the lies they were. Nothing and everything had changed from that moment at Lady Finlay’s ball. He wanted her as much as ever—no, if he was honest, even more so. Then, her standing had been little better than a servant, and now, thanks to his grandmother, she was an eligible young lady on the marriage mart. Eligible to everyone other than himself. He gave a dry little smile and continued to sip his Madeira.
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