* * *
That very afternoon, as she sat disconsolately at her piano doing great injustice to a Mozart sonata, Sir Oliver unceremoniously interrupted her. He stood over her, his hot breath fanning on her face, his voice filled with cold suspicion
“I am informed, daughter, that the earl of March is calling.” He pursed his thin lips, and his rather close-set eyes drew closer together. “He calls ostensibly to visit with me, a fact I have difficulty crediting. Would you be so kind as to tell me where you have made his lordship’s acquaintance? And be quick about it. Men of his rank do not like to be kept waiting. Tell me the truth, girl, all of it, for I do not like to play the ignorant fool.”
Though Kate trembled inwardly, she was long used to her father’s peremptory attacks, and her expression never changed. Her mind worked furiously. She could certainly not tell him the truth, for his retribution would be swift and unpleasant. She calculated rapidly that there was at least a slim chance to come through this unscathed, and if her attempt failed, the result would be the same in any case.
She looked at her father, who looked about as pleased with her as the worms on her fishing hook, and said calmly, “Last week Harry and I were riding through the village. His lordship, as it happened, was visiting his agent, Mr. Stokeworthy. It would have been unforgivably rude of us not to introduce ourselves, given the circumstances. His lordship mentioned that he might call, as he had never made your acquaintance, sir,” she added, embroidering the lie because it would perhaps serve her. Sir Oliver was vain; he believed himself stalwart and upright. He saw himself as a model of rectitude. Even the Regent himself, were he to ride by, would surely stop.
As her eyes didn’t waver and her improvised story sounded plausible to Sir Oliver, he merely grunted and said sharply, “Well, then, girl, you might as well come along with me and perform the proper introductions. I only hope that the present earl is not the dissolute arrogant sinner that his grandfather was. Probably a disdainful nobleman like his hypocritical father.”
He strode out of the room, Kate following on his heels, her mouth suddenly gone quite dry. She did not have time to ponder the earl’s intentions for visiting Brandon Hall. She ran her tongue nervously over her lips and, in an unconscious gesture, pulled on her gown to make it longer. Not only did she look provincial, she looked quite outmoded.
At the door of the drawing room, her father had the good manners to allow her to enter the room first.
The earl stood by the fireplace, elegantly dressed in riding clothes and gleaming Hessians, looking quite at his ease.
Kate forced her leaden feet to move forward. She extended her hand and said as calmly as she could, “How very kind of you to call, my lord. It’s very nice to see you again, and unexpectedly, even though you said you would perhaps call, for you are so very busy and have so little time for other matters.”
Julien clasped her slender fingers in his hand. Before he could make a suitable response, she added quickly, “I have been telling my father how Harry and I met you at Mr. Stokeworthy’s house in the village. I told him,” she hurried on, not meeting his eyes, “that you expressed a wish to pay us a visit. It is delightful that you have come.”
Julien gave only an infinitesimal start at her story. She looked up at him then, and he saw the fear in her eyes. No, surely not fear, that made no sense, but nonetheless, he gave her hand a slight squeeze before releasing it, and turning to greet Sir Oliver.
He extended his hand and said with exquisite good manners, “A great pleasure, sir, finally to meet you. I count it provident that I met Harry and Katharine so conveniently in the village, for I have long wanted to reestablish good relationships with the Brandons.”
Kate gazed with something akin to awe at her father, who had received the earl’s suave and fluent speech with an almost obsequious deference. His hard eyes softened, and he clasped the earl’s outstretched hand with the greatest alacrity.
“Indeed, my lord,” he breathed in a voice full of awe, “I am greatly honored that you have deigned to call.” He gave a slight cough that reminded Julien forcefully of Mannering, and added in an apologetic voice, “I presume your lordship is aware of the rift between our two families. An unfortunate affair, and if your lordship is willing, best now forgotten.”
Julien executed the most elegant of bows and replied smoothly, “I count myself grateful that you wish it to be so, sir.”
Kate cast a furtive glance at the earl. She had the strangest feeling that what had just transpired between her father and the earl had not—indeed, could not—have really happened. Why, her father’s very attitude was one of a condemned criminal being pardoned by royal command. It was unnerving. It made her feel inferior. She felt even more gauche and provincial. She became acutely aware of her old dress and the scuffed sandals that were all too visible beneath her hemline.
Sir Oliver turned to his daughter, who was standing literally openmouthed. He ground his teeth but managed to moderate his voice. “Katharine, my dear, won’t you see that Filber brings in the sherry? His lordship is undoubtedly needful of refreshment. Don’t dawdle now, my dear.”
Kate nodded and hurried to the door. In all likelihood, she thought, Filber had already heard his instructions through the closed door and was probably even now fetching the sherry and glasses.
“Yes, Miss Kate, right away,” Filber said, before Kate had time to speak.
She walked quickly to a mirror and regarded her messed hair with vexation. She was trying to smooth down errant curls when it occurred to her to wonder if the earl were here merely to mock her and her father. She felt a new wave of humiliation at her father’s toadying behavior and at the thought that the earl had seemed to find nothing amiss with such deferential treatment. She paced the floor in long, boyish strides waiting for Filber to bring the blasted sherry.
Sir Oliver rubbed his hands together and asked the earl to be seated. Kate was only partially right in her assessment of his attitude. Certainly he was impressed at his lordship’s courteous condescension to visit Brandon Hall, but more than that, he was aware that the earl was as yet unwed. It did not take him long to see the earl as a possible answer to the number of bills that lay piled on his desk.
Julien would not have been at all surprised had he known what Sir Oliver was thinking. In fact, he found himself watchful of Katharine’s father, hoping that he had made a favorable impression, that the natural desire of a parent to see his progeny well placed in the world and, he thought cynically, to line his own pockets would work to his advantage. He hadn’t been deceived by Sir Oliver’s deferential treatment of him. Having read the fear—and yes, he knew now that it was fear he’d seen—in his daughter’s eyes, he realized that to his family Sir Oliver was an altogether different man.
The thoughts of neither of the men were at all perceptible on their faces or in their painfully polite and mundane conversation. Bonaparte was always a safe topic, and Julien, in his most respectful manner, elicited Sir Oliver’s opinion.
“It has now been nearly three months that Napoleon has been on Elba,” he began. His choice of topics seemed at first an excellent one, for Sir Oliver immediately sat forward in his chair, his eyes blazing.
“Would for the safety of all men’s souls, that the Allies had not allowed the monster to live. For years I trembled for fear that an invasion of those degenerate French Catholics would throw our land back into the hands of the papists.”
Papists. Good Lord, Julien thought, as he tried not to blink with surprise, didn’t he realize that Napoleon was an atheist? Evidently not. Sir Oliver was suddenly moved to explode in religious fervor. “I would have sought them out and destroyed them and all their loathsome, filthy idols.”
“Ah, you are doubtless quite right. An England returned to Catholicism after so many centuries wouldn’t be acceptable to Englishmen.” He wondered, now more worried than ever about Katharine, wondering if Sir Oliver were not a bit mad.
Sir Oliver gave a start. Perhaps he’
d been a bit too dogmatic in stating his view. He said in a more moderate voice, “We must pray that the Allies are able to keep Bonaparte on Elba.”
“As I understand,” Julien added gravely, “the French people have welcomed back the Bourbons with open arms. Louis seems quite firmly planted on the throne.”
Julien was greatly relieved to see Katharine return, followed by the butler bearing a rather discolored silver tray. He rose quickly, and she seated herself on a small sofa facing him.
While Filber served the sherry, Julien was freed for a few moments to regard his future wife. He wasn’t at all disappointed by her appearance. He’d wondered how she would look dressed in something other than her boy’s clothes, and although the gown she wore was rather outmoded, her grace and bearing were clearly evident. And her poise delighted him. The rich auburn hair hung long down her back, secured with a simple ribbon. Tendrils curled over her ears. He wished he could lightly trace his fingertips over the freckles on her nose, a very nice, thin nose. He wondered how she would react to her new station. As his countess, she would have anything that she wished. And he would have her.
He frowned as he saw her hands twisting nervously at the folds of her gown. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and gazed alternately from her lap to her father. There was no vestige of the spirited, self-assured girl who had crowed when she caught many more trout than either he or Hugh. There was no more poise. He felt hesitant to address even the most innocuous of comments to her for fear that her answers would draw the wrath of her father after he left. He contented himself with simply enjoying her presence until he would have the opportunity to speak with her alone.
“It is a pity, my lord,” Sir Oliver said jovially as he toasted Julien, “but you have just missed my son, Harry. He left but this morning to return to Oxford. A brilliant young man, if you’ll forgive a father’s natural pride. He has the makings of an accomplished scholar. Doubtless he will someday make his mark in some area, perhaps in science or mathematics.”
Harry, a scholar? Mathematics? Julien repressed another blink of surprise, but said easily enough, “Yes, a fine young man. You say he excels at scholarly matters? He enjoys history, or perhaps religion, in addition to science and mathematics?”
Kate choked on her sherry, and Sir Oliver cast a look of ill-concealed dislike at her. He remarked with some reluctance, “No, it would be, of course, my wish, but Harry is intent on being in a cavalry regiment. You know boys, my lord—they wish for adventure. I hope and pray he will return to a calling for which he was meant. If he doesn’t choose to—why, then, he is still my son and the future Sir Harry Brandon of Brandon Hall.”
“I see,” Julien said pleasantly. “Yes, Harry would become that eventually.” He took a sip of sherry, which was not nearly as good as the St. Clair sherry. It occurred to him again that perhaps Sir Oliver’s finances were in need of a healthy settlement, given the rather frayed appearance of the furnishings here in the drawing room.
Not at all a stupid man, Sir Oliver had seen the earl’s eyes on Kate as Filber served the sherry. Had his lordship already fixed his interest in her? The thought seemed preposterous to Sir Oliver—indeed, absurd—but nevertheless he decided to test his observation. After all, stranger things had been known to happen. He briefly saw his long-dead wife in his mind’s eye. Ah, she’d been so beautiful, beyond beautiful really, and he’d wanted her more than anything in those first months, been wild to have her, until he realized she was weak and not of his level in religious faith and scholarship. She’d also hated him in her bed after but a few weeks. She’d suffered him, damn her, when he insisted. And then Katharine had been born and she’d refused him. And he’d watched his daughter grow up and look what she’d become, despite all his efforts.
He cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps your lordship would like to see the Brandon gardens. They are not, of course, at their full beauty, but still they are not to be despised.” He turned and trained his gaze full upon his daughter. “Kate, conduct his lordship to the gardens. Show him the roses, which will improve their appearance in but a few months.”
Kate looked at her father with blank surprise. Whatever could he be thinking of? The gardens? The mangy roses? They were a mess, beautiful to her but overgrown and wild. Surely the earl would feel abused were he forced to walk amid the tangled vines and rosebushes.
Julien rose, placed his glass on a table, and said with no humor whatsoever in his voice, “I would enjoy seeing the gardens, Miss Brandon, if you would not mind.”
Kate rose somewhat unsteadily, nearly knocking over the small table beside her. She could almost hear her father cursing her for her clumsiness. She raised a pale face to the earl and replied in a small voice, “I would be delighted, my lord. Please come with me.”
Sir Oliver also rose and extended his hand to the earl. “If your lordship would deign to take dinner with us, say tomorrow evening, I would count it a great honor. We can seal our new coming together, if you like.”
A slight smile hovered on Julien’s lips as he shook Sir Oliver’s hand. “The honor is mine, sir. A new beginning it is, sir.”
“Then I bid you good afternoon, my lord.” With those words Sir Oliver darted a sideways glance at his daughter, then removed himself from the drawing room, nearly lightheaded, he was so pleased with himself. It was all he could do not to rub his hands together.
Kate frowned after her father, gave her head a tiny, perplexed shake, and walked to the side door beside the windows. As she opened the door, she said over her shoulder, “The gardens are wretched. I cannot imagine why my father would wish you to see them. Truly, you don’t have to risk your beautiful Hessians if you don’t wish to.”
Julien smiled at her naïveté and declined to comment. It had been quite some time since he had been treated to such blatant tactics as Sir Oliver’s.
8
“Lead the way, ma’am,” he said.
Kate said nothing more as they walked through the overgrown, ill-kept bushes and brambles. She finally drew to a halt and seated herself on a stone bench that stood in the middle of what must have been at one time a lovely rose bower. Her mother had loved the roses and had taught her daughter to tend them along with her. But when she died, something had died in Kate too, and she’d grown to hate touching the now-straggling wild roses.
She was certainly no gardener, Julien thought. He sat down beside her and gazed at her lovely profile. He very much liked the straight, proud nose and her firm chin. Tendrils of soft hair blew gently against her cheek, and he felt a fleeting urge to smooth them away, to touch her cheek, to feel her soft, warm skin under his fingertips. He felt other urges as well, but held himself well in control.
She turned to him suddenly, and he saw the dimples deepening and readied himself to be charmed, which he was indeed when she said in a wondering voice, “However did you manage to turn him so sweet? I have never seen anything like it in all my life. He unbent so far, I feared he would fall at your feet.”
Julien arched an elegant brow and said in his father’s haughtiest voice, “My dear Miss Brandon, would you accord any less treatment to the great earl of March?”
She gave a crow of laughter, the dimples he found so endearing making her whole face alight with amusement.
“Great? Surely it is more infamous than great. But you know, truly, my lord, he was positively toad-eating you. I found it intimidating. Actually, I didn’t like it at all. I also thought for a moment that you were perhaps mocking us, but then I realized that couldn’t be so.”
“Perhaps I was mocking your father, just a bit, but never you, Katharine, never you.”
“I should cosh you were you ever to try it.”
“Ah, then you tempt me to be outrageous just to see what you would do.”
She just shook her head, her dimples still in full force. She continued with undisguised wonder in her voice. “And dinner tomorrow evening—Cook will be in such a flutter of nerves. I shall probably have to spend the greater part of
my day tomorrow polishing silver so our noble neighbor will not be disgusted.”
“I trust you will do a good job, for I will have you know that I am very aware of what is owed to me and won’t lower myself to eat if the silver does not sparkle.”
“You are quite horrid, and I haven’t laughed so much in a very long time. I thank you, my lord.”
He grinned at her, trying not to look at her mouth, trying not to imagine what she would taste like, how she would feel to his tongue, how she would shiver when he kissed her and began to caress her. Good God, he had to stop this or he would drive himself mad.
Quite at her ease now, she said, “Have your guests left?”
“Yes, Hugh and Sir Percy departed just after lunch to return to London.”
“Why did you not go with them?” she asked, utterly without guile.
Julien was jolted for a moment, for he hadn’t expected her to be so completely ignorant of the intent of his visit. He pulled himself together and managed to say smoothly enough, “I do have quite an estate here, and there are matters which require my attention.”
He added in an easy voice, “It is also possible that I wish to further my acquaintance with Katharine Brandon. You know her, that pert chit who thinks she’s such a great and skilled angler?”
“That she is, my lord. Still, I can’t imagine why you’d want to waste your time with her. That girl is nothing but a graceless provincial, quite unworthy of the attention of the great earl of March.”
“Don’t ever say that again.” His voice was so harsh that she jumped. She couldn’t imagine why he was so incensed by the simple truth. With disarming candor, she said, “One should never be blind to what one really is. I don’t see why it should anger you, my lord. After all, it is I who am the subject of my own stricture, not you.”
The Rebel Bride Page 7