His friend grinned. “Never tell me you’ve heroically rescued another young lady besides Lady Katherine Adamson?”
“I didn’t—”
“I merely noted that since you met your Lady Katherine you seem in a far less black mood than usual.”
“She is not my Lady Katherine.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Do not make more of what took place at the Frost Fair than there was.” Jasper picked up his pen and proceeded to compose his note to Lady Katherine. He’d not dare mention to Guilford that the high-spirted creature had occupied a corner of his mind since that chance meeting upon the Thames River. “The lady’s affairs are her own.”
“Oh?” Guilford took a sip. “I’d just imagined you’d be curious about the young lady.”
Jasper began to count. He’d not indulge his friend. Jasper was not curious about anything, particularly marriageable misses with tart tongues. “Why should I care about matters involving the young lady?” The question was spoken for both Guilford’s benefit, as much as for his own.
Guilford passed his glass back and forth between his hands. “Very well, then I shall not mention…” He took another slow, deliberate drink.
Jasper folded his hands on top of the desk. “What?” that one curt question cost him the hard-won effort to maintain a semblance of disinterest where the lady was concerned.
“Rumors would have it that her mother, the Countess of Wakefield is eager to make a match between Lady Katherine and Mr. Bertrand Ekstrom.” Jasper’s brows dipped. What parent would dare wed their child to Bertrand Ekstrom? Jasper had known the loathsome bully in his Oxford days. It was no secret that the bastard had unnatural proclivities behind chamber doors. On the heel of that thought came the sickening image of Bertrand Ekstrom’s stubby fingers binding Katherine’s wrists to a bedpost and …
The pen snapped in his fingers.
Guilford frowned. “Are you all right?”
No, he was not all right, and he wished his friend would leave him to his own miseries. Jasper yanked his top desk drawer open and pulled out another pen.
Guilford carried on with a wave of his hand. “It would seem Ekstrom is next in line for the earldom behind Lady Katherine’s young brother.” His brow furrowed. “The boy’s a mere thirteen or fourteen years, I believe.”
Jasper would have bartered his own black soul to the devil for just one more breath from his son. Yet, Lady Katherine’s mother would consign her to a life in which she’d be subjected to Ekstrom’s perversions all on the possibility of a what-if? In that moment, he was struck by something he’d thought long dead and buried—sympathy for Lady Katherine. Such a spirited, bold woman deserved far more than an avaricious parent who’d sacrifice her happiness.
Guilford must have detected that he had an avid audience with Jasper, for he went on in a low, hushed tone. “I’ve heard Ekstrom has taken to using hot wax to scald…”
A film of red rage descended across his vision at the thought of Katherine’s skin marred by the weasly-bastard. He forced himself to take a steadying breath. “I know what you are attempting to do.”
Because in the end, Lady Katherine and her future didn’t matter to him. Jasper’s future included no one and that was far safer than worrying after the fate of one young lady.
His friend sat forward in his seat. “Oh, and what is that?”
“The lady does not matter,” he lied. She did. Whether Jasper wished it or not. Perhaps it was the bond of pulling her flailing body from the river, and thumping water from her lungs until she breathed once more. Then his interest in her future could be explained. It should not matter the tinkling bell-like quality of her laughter, or the impish smile…his fascination with such attributes could be less easily explained.
Guilford finished his brandy, and set his empty glass down upon the edge of Jasper’s desk. “You’d live your life where no one matters, Bainbridge. You’d go through life, cold, unfeeling, untouched. That,” He shook his head. “Well, that is a sad way to live.”
Jasper surged to his feet. “What would you have me do?”
“I’d have you rejoin the living,” Guilford replied automatically. He stood and met Jasper’s stare. “I do not know if there is any real interest on your part in the Lady Katherine. I don’t know if there is any young lady who could ever recapture your heart after Lydia’s death. But I would that you try and at least find happiness where you can.”
Jasper waited for the familiar sensation, that sensation of being kicked in the gut whenever he heard his wife’s name mentioned.
It didn’t come.
Which in itself sucked the breath from his lungs. He gripped the edge of his desk.
Guilford glanced down, and said nothing for a long while. They stood locked in a silent, unspoken battle. His friend broke the silence. He gestured to the surface of Jasper’s desk. “I do know a gentleman does not pen notes to, how did you phrase it? Ladies that do not matter?”
Jasper opened his mouth to reply, but could not force words out.
Guilford bowed his head. “If you’ll excuse me.” He started for the door.
The hiss and pop of the blazing fire in the hearth filled the quiet. “I don’t want your help, Guilford,” Jasper barked after him.
His friend turned back to face him with a smile. “Fortunate for you, I don’t care, Bainbridge.” He closed the door behind him with a firm click.
Jasper stared at the door, long after Guilford had taken his leave. He reclaimed his seat, and stared blankly down at the note he’d penned. Guilford was his last remaining friend in the world, but oh, how he loathed the other man, just then. How dare Guilford force him to come London, and what’s more, force him to confront what, until this very moment, he’d denied—he, Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge was—lonely.
Jasper blinked down at the letter he’d written to Katherine. Guilford was correct. Gentlemen did not pen notes to ladies that did not matter.
He picked up the thick ivory velum and crushed it in his hands.
Chapter Eight
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The words roused thoughts of the Duke of Bainbridge, as she considered the reality that they were not so very different after all. Life had altered them both in very profound ways.
A knock sounded at the door. She glanced up.
The butler cleared his throat. “You have a letter, my lady.”
Her mother and sister’s gazes swung to Katherine.
Anne set aside her embroidery frame and edged closer to Ollie. She craned her neck in an apparent attempt to identify the wax seal upon the missive.
With a frown, the servant pulled the silver tray bearing the missive closer.
Katherine’s heart warmed at his silent defense of her personal privacy.
Mother returned her attention to the embroidery frame stitched with a colorful peacock. “Who has written you, Katherine?”
Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out that she surely could not yet know who’d written. “I’m not certain, Mother,” she murmured, and accepted the thick, ivory velum with a smile for Ollie. He gave an imperceptible nod, and ever so quickly, winked at her.
She looked down at the letter with a familiar seal. A crest that bore a lion rearing up on its legs. Her heart paused.
“Who is it from, Katherine?” her sister asked with a dogged interest.
“Benedict,” she replied instantly.
Anne frowned, and shot her a look that said she knew that Katherine lied.
Suddenly eager to escape her sister’s probing fascination, lest her mother shift her attenti
on away from the embroidery she presently worked on, Katherine stood. “If you’ll excuse me. I find myself developing a megrim.”
Her sister made no effort to conceal the unladylike snort that escaped her.
Katherine hurried out of the room, and wound her way through the house, abovestairs to her own chambers. She glanced over her shoulder to ascertain whether her sister had followed, and then slipped inside.
She closed the door, and turned the lock.
Katherine leaned against the door, and considered the letter in her hands. The Duke of Bainbridge did not strike her as the type of gentleman who penned words to young ladies. Her lips twitched with amusement. Quite the opposite. She rather suspected he’d rather send all females, wed and unwed, to the devil quite happily.
Katherine slid her finger under the seal and unfolded the note.
My Lady,
I understand you are not overly fond of my, as you put it, frowning countenance, however, I would be remiss if I failed to write and inform you that I am, grateful. Grateful to have rescued you, that is.
Katherine smiled, and continued reading.
Allow me to express my most humble appreciation to you for turning over the sole copy of Wordsworth’s latest work to my ownership. In spite of my frowning countenance that day, I was not displeased with your generosity. I too, am in fact, an ardent admirer of Wordsworth’s work.
I hope you will allow me to return the copy to your care upon my completion of the volume so that you might enjoy the pages, as they should be enjoyed.
Signed,
Bainbridge
Post Script
I understand by the words in your note that you did have a good deal of fun teasing me. You are forgiven.
A sharp bark of laughter burst from Katherine, and she stifled it with the tips of her fingers.
It would seem she’d learned something else about the Duke of Bainbridge—he did appear to have a sense of humor, after all.
Katherine folded up the note, and held it to her breast as she considered the implications of his words. If the duke were the cruel, heartless lout he’d presented since their first meeting, surely he’d be incapable of the words he’d written her. Nor, for that matter would a callous figure of a man deign to read poetry, or send along a note of gratitude, or tease her for her own words.
Katherine walked over to her vanity and pulled open the front drawer. She placed the duke’s note in the top and slid it closed. And then froze.
What foolishness was this? Keeping his note? It was not something a young lady kept, unless there was a reason in keeping it.
And there wasn’t. A reason to keep it, that was.
Except…
Katherine sighed, and slid into the delicate mahogany rose-inlaid chair. She fetched a pen and parchment from her vanity drawer, and chewing her lip, studied the paper.
Your Grace,
I am so very honored…
An unladylike curse slipped past her lips. She wrinkled the parchment, and tossed it to the floor.
She dipped her pen into the ink, and made another attempt.
Your Grace,
I am eagerly awaiting the return of…
Katherine set back with a huff, and tossed aside her next weakly started letter.
Why was she struggling so greatly to find the words to write to him?
Katherine began again.
Your Grace,
I thank you for your unexpectedly kind words. I’m glad that you’re glad I did not perish in the Thames River.
She grimaced, but continued writing.
I must also thank you for the generous offer of Wordsworth’s book. I would be most grateful if once completed, you did, indeed share your volume with me.
With Deepest Appreciation,
Lady Katherine
Post Script
Though I do not care to hurry your efforts along, my family leaves in six days’ time to celebrate the Christmastide holiday in the country, and it would be appreciated if I had Wordsworth’s work for my long carriage ride.
Katherine read and re-read the contents of the note several times, and then carefully folded it.
A knock sounded at the door.
Katherine jumped to her feet. She quickly stuffed the note into the top drawer of her vanity.
Another knock.
She hurried across the wood floor, the tread of her slippers nearly silent.
Katherine unlocked the door and pulled it open. She shrieked and slapped a hand to her racing heart. “Anne, you frightened me.”
Her sister rushed inside. She closed the door behind them, and turned the lock.
“Mother wants you to make a match with cousin Bertrand,” she said without preamble.
Katherine’s heart froze, and then thudded painfully in her breast. She’d assumed Mother would allow the matter of Bertrand Ekstrom to rest for at least the Christmastide season. She’d hoped with the coming of a new Season, that Mother would set aside her rather low aspirations for Katherine, and allow her to make a match with…with…well, anyone other than cousin, Bertrand.
“You can’t wed him,” Anne said flatly. She began to pace. “Neither of us can wed him.”
“Mother wouldn’t dare wed you to Mr. Ekstrom,” Katherine said, unable to keep the bitter tinged resentment from her tone.
Her sister glanced at her. “Well, she daren’t wed you to him, either. There is simply no need. Benedict is the current earl, and Aldora’s husband has settled a grand sum upon us.” She shook her head. “No, no. Marriage to him will simply not do.” Anne stopped mid-stride, and pointed her finger at the air. “We shall simply have to find you a husband.”
A laugh escaped Katherine. “You speak of it as though we’re hunters in search of the local fowl.” Her sister was fanciful and hopeful, but a hopelessly dangerous romantic.
Anne wrinkled her nose. “That is a rather horrid comparison.” She shook her head. “It is settled. We will find you a husband.”
Katherine scoffed. “Oh, and where do you propose to find this unwed gentleman before the start of the next Season?”
Unbidden the Duke of Bainbridge’s harshly-angular cheeks, his firm lips, and tall, commanding form slipped into her mind. She gave her head a hard shake.
Anne’s brows snapped together into a single line. “What is it?” she asked with all the intuitiveness of a twin sister who’d recognized more in Katherine’s unspoken words.
I do not know what manner of games you play, madam. I do not appreciate your dogging my steps. I’ll not be trapped into marriage.
Those were not the words of a man who’d gladly wed her, nor were they the words of a gentleman she should like to wed. No, Katherine didn’t imagine she’d ever make a love match. She’d long ago accepted the cold practicality of an arrangement between her and a perfectly suitable, properly boring gentleman. That was the way of their world. But neither had she imagined herself wed to a coolly disdainful gentleman like the duke.
She shook her head. Mere desperation was what drove her fanciful musings.
“You have a gentleman whose captured your attention,” Anne said on a gasp.
Katherine felt a rush of heat climb up her neck, and flood her cheeks. She shook her head adamantly. “No. No. Not at all. There is not anyone. There isn’t,” she insisted when her sister continued to study her with a probing stare.
Anne tapped the tip of her finger against her lower lip in a contemplative manner. “We must simply find that pendant. If we find it, then you won’t have to bother with Mother’s efforts between you and that loathsome Mr. Ekstrom.”
A wave of guilt slammed into Katherine as she thought of the heart pendant contained within the reticule she’d lost at the Frost Fair. Even if she herself didn’t believe in the powers of the pendant, it did not mean her sister did not. Aldora believed it had led her to her true love, Michael Knightly, and now Anne believed it would guide her to her future husband.
Anne’s eyes lit with that mischievous glimmer
Katherine had long ago learned promised trouble.
“No,” Katherine said firmly.
“I didn’t say anything,” Anne groused.
“You were going to say—”
“That we should return to the Frost Fair,” Anne finished for her.
Nausea churned in her belly at the mere thought of venturing out upon the Thames River. She fisted the fabric of her modest, sapphire blue skirts and gave her head a firm shake.
Anne gesticulated wildly. “We never were able to search more than a handful of tents for the pendant that will lead us to the heart of a duke.”
Katherine would require something a good deal more powerful than a silly talisman like the heart pendant to make a match. “No.”
“But…”
“I said, no, Anne.”
“Hmph,” Anne said with a flounce of her curls. “I’m merely trying to help you, Katherine.”
Katherine felt immediately contrite. Society saw Anne as one of the Incomparables, but little else beyond that. Katherine knew, for the world’s shallow perception of Anne, her sister was, in fact, good and loyal and would put her own siblings’ happiness before even her own.
Katherine glanced down at the toes of her slippers. “It’s unlikely I’ll make a match in the next fortnight before Christmas,” she murmured.
Again, the duke as he’d been yesterday morn, with his black cloak swirling about his long, well-muscled legs, came to mind.
Anne snorted. “You certainly won’t if you remain in your chambers reading poetry.”
Katherine managed a small smile for her sister. “Thank you, Anne.”
Her sister’s pretty blue eyes searched her face with an uncharacteristic seriousness. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” Katherine said. She detected the defensive note that threaded those three words.
“Very well, I want you to believe in love.”
Katherine fell silent, and averted her gaze. There had been a time when she’d believed in love. Now, she knew that love was just the silly dreams of naïve young ladies. The world they belonged to was one made of advantageous matches, and familial connections. It was not a world that put any value on emotions such as love.
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 40