by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
He was not going to stop. “Very well, since you insist on bringing up distressing topics, my family is dead. The Brownes.” Which was the most common last name in all of Britain. “And we moved around a lot when I was a child, so, no, you will not know our home. My mother was an accomplished performer who taught me what little I know.” She got to her feet. “Now I must bring Lady Martindale a fresh cup of tea.”
“Let me.”
“You are too kind,” she said through thinned, lying lips. “May I offer you another cup also?”
Forde declined. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was rat poison in it. And he wouldn’t be surprised if her story had more holes in it than a fishnet. Devil take it, he had to find out the truth about this woman. For Gerald’s sake.
Chapter Six
Everyone was leaving, except the one guest Katie wished gone the most. Susannah was helping Cook clear the tea things in the parlor, but he was waiting by the front door. Gerald’s uncle appeared strong and confident and determined to stay the night unless he had answers to his questions. Fiend seize the man. Here he was, looking every inch the gentleman and acting like a cad. No one else had ever shown such disregard for her widow’s grief or disrespect for her privacy. She supposed he was looking out for his nephew, which was admirable in a guardian but unnerving in a dinner guest. To be honest, the man rattled her no matter what. To be entirely honest, she was not honest, and feared him as much as she was fascinated by him.
He was too good-looking, too well built, and too . . . virile. His brown-eyed gaze was too penetrating, and his smile too boyishly apologetic and appealing when she caught him looking at her bosom. Why did he have to be so blatantly manly, and why did he, of all men, make her feel like an attractive woman again?
She knew she should not have shown so much of her anatomy tonight, but her best gown was an old one, she might have gained a bit of weight, she had no matching shawl—and she wanted to show his lofty lordship that she was not simply a dowdy rustic widow. Botheration! She had only increased his curiosity. If she had dressed in one of her faded, shapeless gowns, he might not have shown such interest in her physical being or her past, a past she was not about to reveal.
“Good night, my lord.” Katie covered her mouth with her hand, as if she were hiding a yawn, a not-so-subtle hint.
With the servant and the daughter cleaning up just out of sight, Forde could not press his investigation. He nodded acceptance of his dismissal and stepped closer to the door. He politely thanked her for the meal and the chance to meet her neighbors, and then announced his intention of calling on her the next day.
“Oh, but I have—”
A hundred excuses not to be there. Devil take it, Forde wanted to know, tonight, if Mrs. Cole was a real lady, or open to other invitations. He could set her up in a cozy love nest in Town, with pretty gowns and a carriage of her own. Why should she raise chickens when she was raising his temperature just by standing near?
Susannah and the servant were carrying trays toward the rear of the house, laughing together, ignoring the front hall.
Forde took a step back, closer to Mrs. Cole, and leaned forward. He liked how she was tall enough that he did not have to crick his neck, and he liked the rosewater scent she wore. He liked how her cheeks flushed with color when she realized his intention, and that she did not run away. He lowered his lips to hers, softly, tentatively, just to satisfy his wondering about her reaction, he told himself. His own reaction was an instant surge of desire, a stronger surge than he had been feeling all night, that was.
She kissed him back! So he was right, and she was not all prim and proper, the beautiful, beloved widow of Brookville. Elated and aroused, he stopped thinking altogether, except how well they fit together, as he pulled her closer.
Good grief, Katie thought. First an inquisition, then a seduction. The man was the very devil, and she was no saint, either, to permit such liberties. It felt so good to have a gentleman desire her, though, and then to have him hold her, that she allowed the kiss to continue. She’d forgotten how thrilling a man’s embrace could be, to be surrounded by strength and sinew. She pressed closer, reveling in her first kiss in almost two decades.
Then Katie remembered where her last kisses had taken her.
“No,” she murmured.
“Oh, yes,” he purred, sending sparks down her spine with his knowing hands.
But no. Katie was a lady, not a strumpet, and she would not forget, even if his lordship did. She might have given herself to Susannah’s father, but they were engaged and in love, or so she thought. She knew better now.
Forde was another rake and a rogue, taking his pleasure wherever he found it. Katie had learned to take pleasure in her simple life, her daughter, her spotless reputation. She would not destroy all that now, not for a brief dalliance, no matter how expert Forde’s kisses. He was Gerald Wellforde’s uncle, for heaven’s sake!
She drew her arm back and slapped him. “I said no.”
Forde rubbed his cheek. “You could have said it a bit more forcefully, and sooner.”
“I should have. I beg your pardon. It was the wine and the lateness of the hour. I was surprised. I thought—” Katie stopped making excuses for herself. He was the one who had stepped beyond the line of what was permitted. She opened the front door. “That is, I do not believe we have anything more to say to each other, my lord. Now or tomorrow. Good night.”
Forde could not decide if he was more confused that the widow had kissed him or that she had slapped him. Either way, he now had more questions than before.
“Oh, I think we do, madam. Have more to say, that is.” He raised her hand to his lips. Why not? The night had already been full of ham-handedness, blue hands, and a very efficient openhanded slap. He could not go back and face his sister-in-law empty-handed, either. He had to stay at least until Gerald returned, to discuss his concerns with his nephew. There, that was a good enough excuse to prolong his stay in Brookville, although he’d been soundly dismissed from Cole Cottage.
He’d also been soundly smacked and still wore the red outline of Mrs. Cole’s palm on his cheek. No matter, Forde went back to the inn whistling.
Katie did not have to wake up early the next morning to be at her chores; she’d hardly slept. The plaguey peer had destroyed her rest, strolling confidently through her troubled mind. She had no doubt he’d be walking across her doorstep, just as sure of himself, before this day was over. She could not let him tempt her again, or destroy her daughter’s chance for a secure future. So she could not be home again.
Katie knew she could not put his lordship off forever, but Gerald had to arrive soon. Surely Lord Forde would see how well suited the young people were, and how much they deserved their chance at happiness. Just as surely, he would not act the libertine in front of his own nephew.
“Come, Susannah, here is your chocolate, so wake up.”
“It is barely light out,” her daughter said, rolling over and pulling the covers over her eyes.
“But we have much to do. We have to find the right ribbons for your wedding gown, and the silk flowers to match. Then we really have to bring it to Mrs. Peebles for a fitting so she might finish it in time.”
“Can you not simply take one of my old gowns and measure from that? I told Lady Martindale I would read to her this morning. I want to know how that novel ends. The handsome knight is just about to rescue the damsel from the tower where her wicked uncle locked her.”
“He saves her and they live happily ever after. They always do.” In novels, Katie thought. Real life was unfortunately not as predictable, or as assured of a happy ending. It was up to her, as a mother, to take what precautions she could for her daughter. Wicked uncles, indeed.
“You have to try on the gown so Mrs. Peebles can pin the trimmings where you wish them. You can stop in at Lady Martindale’s afterward, while I try to teach the vintner’s two daughters their scales, for a discount on the champagne. We will still be in time for tea a
t the vicarage, so you can listen to Louisa enthuse about Roland’s latest sartorial efforts. And remember that tonight is choir practice.”
There. That ought to keep them out of harm’s way until bedtime.
First they had to stop at Squire Doddsworth’s to pick up the gig and to thank him for the leg of mutton that had been delivered earlier.
Viscount Forde was breaking his fast with Mr. Doddsworth and his sons, before going shooting with them. Drat!
Luckily Squire was more eager to be on his way than he was in pursuing his courtship. “What, no breakfast? You are off to purchase fripperies? Good, good, Mrs. Cole. You go on to the village. We’ll catch dinner for you, my dear, see if we don’t.”
The viscount was everything polite, and more appetizing than the steak-and-kidney pie or kippers and eggs, in his doeskin breeches and hunting coat. Katie hurried Susannah away.
“Gerald’s uncle is very handsome, do you not think?” Susannah asked as they drove into the village.
“Very.”
“Far more good-looking than Mr. Doddsworth.”
Katie had to laugh. Comparing the squire to the viscount was like comparing a plowhorse to a Thorough-bred.
“But he is not as handsome as Gerald.”
“Oh, never.” Gerald was a green colt. His nose was not as prominent as his uncle’s, thank goodness for Katie’s hoped-for grandsons and daughters, but Gerald did not have Forde’s air of dignity, authority, and elegance. Only age could bring that to a man, Katie thought, although the viscount might have had that aura of assurance even as a youth.
“He is a bit haughty.”
“Gerald?”
“Do not be silly, Mother. I mean his uncle, of course.”
“Oh, his lordship’s arrogance is merely part of being a wealthy titled gentleman. People have been toadying to him his entire life, I’d assume.”
“Have you known many peers, then? He is my second, after Lord Martindale.”
“I have known enough. Do you think we should select the silk flowers first or the ribbons?”
Susannah was not to be diverted. “He is not condescending, though. We had a nice conversation about music.”
“Did you, darling? How nice, since he is Gerald’s trustee.”
“His manners are pleasing.”
Toward everyone else, it seemed. He had no manners where Katie was concerned, but she would not disturb Susannah with her worries. “He is a gentleman. I should hope he knows how to act. Squire’s younger sons might learn more from him in a morning than I have been able to teach them in months.”
“Gerald says the ladies of the ton have given up pursuing him.”
Katie flicked the whip over her mare’s ear, to hurry her along. “I doubt his lordship runs far or fast from a willing woman.”
Now Susannah laughed. “Unless she is seeking marriage. Gerald thinks his uncle is waiting for someone as beautiful as his first wife.”
What with all the belles in London over the years, Lady Forde must have been a Diamond beyond measure. Katie suddenly felt ugly and old. “It is not polite to gossip about your relative-to-be.”
Susannah looked over at her mother and studied Katie’s profile. “You know, you looked quite lovely last night, with your hair up like that. You should wear it that way more often.”
“What, to feed the chickens?”
“To attract a certain gen—”
“Here we are!”
Susannah threw herself into the selection of trimmings for the wedding gown and her hair, thank goodness, instead of matchmaking. Then she complained how scratchy the gown was, when she had to try it on for the seamstress to pin.
“That is impossible, when the gown has the finest fabric and the neatest seams in creation.”
Now the dressmaker was in a taking that Mrs. Cole was praising another modiste’s workmanship over hers. Mrs. Peebles wanted to refuse the commission to shorten the hem, narrow the skirt, tuck up the bodice, and add the trimmings; heaven knew she could not match those perfect stitches. She had gained much commerce from the coming wedding, however, and hoped for more from the Cole ladies. She would start right in on the fancy garment, she promised. Right after she had a bit of wine to steady her hand.
Clouds had covered the sun by the time the fitting was over, and Susannah’s mood was just as black. Katie offered the treat of a luncheon at the Brookville Inn, rather than go home only to drive back in the coming rain for tea at the vicarage.
Viscount Forde had left the shooting party rather than suffer another drenching and was eating his own meal . . . at the Brookville Inn.
He was also invited to the Reverend Mr. Carlson’s house for tea.
Thank goodness for choir practice, Katie thought. He wouldn’t be there.
Thank goodness for choir practice, Forde thought. She wouldn’t be home. He knocked on the door, pretending surprise when the cook/housekeeper told him the ladies were away.
“I’ll wait, if I may, and if you have any of those raspberry tarts from last night’s tea. I need to speak to Mrs. Cole about the wedding, and I have been away from my own home far too long to delay. I promise I shall not keep your mistress up too late.”
Mrs. Tarrant was highly susceptible to handsome smiles, pretty compliments, and gold coins. She tucked one of the last into her apron pocket and left his lordship alone in the library. For two gold coins he could have waited in Mrs. Cole’s bedchamber—or Mrs. Tarrant’s own. Forde asked to be shown to the library so he could find a book to read to wile away the time.
The small room was more an office than a library, filled with old ledgers and new agricultural journals. After a cup of tea and an excellent pastry, Forde let his curiosity overcome his manners. He opened the topmost ledger, justifying his shameful intrusion by telling himself that as a conscientious guardian he had to know what Gerald was getting into. The lad would feel obliged to help his wife’s mother if the need arose, wouldn’t he? Forde might as well be hung for a wolf as for a sheep, so he read Mrs. Cole’s bank statements, too. He was amazed that two women could live on the income from that annuity. His sister-in-law could not have paid her dressmaker’s bills with that amount, much less fed and clothed her daughters. Now he felt guilty not only for trespassing but also for not sending over another ham.
In remorse, or so he almost convinced himself, Forde picked up Mrs. Cole’s Bible, the one inscribed to her, or the name she was born with, anyway, the name she used on her graduation from Mrs. Meadow’s Select Academy for Gentlewomen.
Chapter Seven
The first inkling that the following day would not be one of Katie’s favorites came with the morning post. Gerald was delayed, he wrote, due to a promising mare. He would try to arrive in Brookville on Saturday, in time for the last reading of the banns on Sunday. And, he added, he had a wonderful surprise: He’d be bringing his mother and two younger sisters. They were eager to meet their new relation. Wasn’t that a delightful treat?
Three houseguests, used to a lavish London life-style, a week early? Lovely.
Katie was in a frenzy and Susannah was in tears, that dear Gerald cared more about his horses than her. That was before the wedding gown was delivered from the dressmaker. As Katie unwrapped the parcel, she knew she’d been right to urge her daughter to wear it. The gown was even more stunning with the blue ribbons and the circlet of blue forget-me-nots tacked to the neckline and at the hem. Just holding it made her certain her daughter’s marriage would be a happy one, and to the devil with anyone—any viscount—who thought otherwise.
Then Susannah tried it on, to make sure the alterations were correct.
The hem that had been too long, fitting Katie’s taller height, was now too short. Susannah’s ankles showed. The skirt that had been too full for fashion was now so narrow that Susannah could not take any but the smallest steps. The bodice that had been too loose was now so tight the gown would not close. The silk flowers fell off in the struggle to fasten the buttons, and the trailing ribbons trip
ped Susannah so she fell against the standing mirror, putting a crack in it.
“It’s this awful gown! It’s bringing bad luck! Gerald is late and his mother is early and now the mirror is broken!”
Could it be? Katie’s own wedding gown had burned in a fire; then, when she was about to wear this one, her fiancé died. And yet, when she picked the gown up from the floor where her daughter had thrown it, Katie felt lucky and hopeful and full of love.
“No, my pet, it is not the gown. It is Mrs. Peebles, the seamstress. We always knew she tippled. I will make the alterations myself and sew the flowers back on. The mirror is not shattered, which might have meant bad luck. It is only slightly cracked at the corner. As for the unexpected company, I am certain Squire Doddsworth and the Carlsons will help us entertain them. And we do have that leg of mutton, the brace of partridges, and the ham Gerald’s uncle brought us. You will have nothing to be ashamed of in front of Mr. Wellforde’s family.”
Which was not what Viscount Forde thought.
He’d left before confronting Mrs. Cole last night, needing to ponder his discovery. He also wanted to consult with his valet. Campbell knew everything about fashion—and a great deal about fashionable society, past and present. He had his Debrett’s Peerage memorized, as well as more old gossip than any ten sharp-tongued spinsters.
He confirmed Forde’s conclusion.
Mrs. Tarrant let him into Cole Cottage without hesitation, and without waiting for a coin, she was that busy. “Young miss is upstairs crying her eyes out because her beau is late, the mistress is ruining her eyes in the library because Mrs. Peebles is a tosspot, and I am supposed to fix a fancy supper on Saturday, with one day’s notice. I suppose you’ll be coming, too?”
Not if he had any choice. He’d be long gone by Saturday. Forde said he could show himself into the library, where he stood outside the opened door, wondering what Mrs. Cole was reading by dim light on this overcast day. Instead he saw that she was bent over a pile of sheets, not surprising if company was coming, he supposed. But no, the stuff in her lap was that infernal gown from the clothesline, as pale as a dove now. Mrs. Cole seemed to be trying to affix flowers and ribbons to it, but her thread kept breaking, and she kept pricking her fingers. Instead of cursing, the peculiar woman just smiled, as if she knew a joke no one else heard.