The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  He turned again and hastened away from her. He did not again look back. In an unconscious gesture, she raised her hand toward his retreating back. The overgrown garden soon blocked him from her view. Slowly she lowered her arm, and finding herself quite unable to support her own weight, she sank down onto the mossy bank. There were no tears, only a deep sense of loss.

  12

  Mannering was aghast when he opened the great oak doors to admit his lordship. The earl said not a word. His face was pale, his eyes a blank gray. Words of congratulation died on Mannering’s lips, and he stepped quickly aside. He watched his master walk the length of the hall, fling open the door to the library, and slam it behind him.

  A sense of unreality seized Mannering. Good God, he thought, Miss Katharine refused him.

  Mrs. Cradshaw, who had been waiting impatiently in the parlor for the earl’s return, came bustling out. Her smile vanished as she approached Mannering and saw the pained expression on his face.

  “Oh dear, Edward, what’s happened?”

  Mannering drew a deep breath to steady himself. “I fear, Emma, that there won’t be any congratulations for his lordship. It would appear that Miss Katharine has turned him down.”

  Mrs. Cradshaw drew back in stunned surprise. “No, Edward, surely not. Why, she loves St. Clair, she knows she would be happy here. His lordship is a fine young man, kind and ever so handsome. Oh, no, surely not.”

  Mannering seemed not to have heard her. She was suddenly indignant. “How dare Miss Katharine serve his lordship such a turn. I wouldn’t have thought such a thing possible. Does she believe herself too high for him? That’s nonsense, Edward, utter nonsense. It’s disgraceful, that’s what it is, and I’ve a mind to go to Brandon Hall and tell that young miss a thing or two. Turning down my boy. I’d like to smack her.”

  Mannering felt beyond tired. It was with an effort that he pulled himself up straight and squared his shoulders. He patted Mrs. Cradshaw’s arm in a soothing gesture. “I’m very much afraid, Emma, that there is little we can do about it, save wait and see what will happen. We will have to be very understanding with his lordship,” he added, realizing that it was his duty to protect the earl from the curious glances of the servants and any embarrassing questions that Mrs. Cradshaw might take it into her head to ask. He began to silently rehearse his speech to the staff, who were all waiting for his announcement that a new countess was to come to St. Clair.

  Mrs. Cradshaw nodded slowly. That such an unbelievable turn of events should happen to the St. Clairs. Arm in arm, the two old friends walked across the hall to the servants’ quarters. Mannering thought fleetingly of the vintage champagne that he’d unearthed from the wine cellar. It was chilled, the beautiful crystal flutes waiting. He must remember to return it and put the glasses away.

  Julien stood in the middle of the library, staring blankly ahead of him. His body felt curiously detached from his mind, and neither seemed capable of functioning. He’d managed to nurture anger at her for the greater part of his ride home, only to find that he couldn’t sustain it. A great sense of loss had descended over him.

  He flung himself into the large chair and sat brooding for a time before a deep sense of humiliation stung him to action. God, what a fool he’d been. He mocked himself bitterly as he remembered how he’d been so certain of her, how he’d even gone so far as to envision her every response to his gracious offer of marriage. And he’d been mortally insulted when she flung his declaration in his face. He realized he’d never been denied anything he really wanted in his entire life. He would set his eyes on something, and sooner or later it would be his. Or a woman. He would see a woman he wanted, and it wouldn’t be long before she was in his bed. God, was he such an officious sod?

  He could find no excuse for himself. Though he’d never believed himself such a wondrous specimen of manhood, a bloody paragon, for God’s sake, it was painful to realize that he’d behaved in the most reprehensibly conceited manner possible. And now he would pay for it as he’d never paid for anything in his entire adult life. He wasn’t used to pain or disappointment. Now, he feared, he would gain retribution in full measure.

  “Dammit to hell. If ever a demented man needed a drink—” He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the sideboard, carried it back with him to his chair, and hurled himself down again.

  Mannering hurried to the library when he heard the ring of the bell cord. He hoped that his lordship would be wanting his dinner, for it was growing quite late. The sight that greeted his eyes when he opened the door made him wince. The earl was sprawled in the large stuffed chair, his late father’s chair, an empty bottle dangling in his outstretched hand. His cravat was askew as if he had unsuccessfully tried to pull it away, and his fair hair was decidedly disheveled.

  “My lord. Oh, dear.” Mannering was shocked. He’d never before seen his master so obviously foxed.

  Julien turned his blurred vision on his butler. “Get me another bottle of brandy, Mannering. And don’t give me one of your looks. There are times in a man’s life when brandy is not at all a bad thing. Trust me, this is one of those times. Indeed, this is probably the only real time. Do be quick, man. I’ve no intention of losing my hold on a world that is for the moment altogether tolerable.”

  “Yes, my lord. As you wish, my lord.” He left the room with dragging steps to do his master’s bidding.

  As he closed the library door, he heard a curse and the sound of glass breaking. He glanced hastily around, hoping that none of the servants, particularly Mrs. Cradshaw, were within hearing.

  Upon his return, he saw that the earl had thrown the empty bottle, shattering it against the marble fireplace.

  “My lord.”

  “Don’t you dare even think about preaching to me, Mannering.” Julien rose drunkenly from his chair and grabbed the bottle. “And don’t stand there gaping like a black crow. Get out of my sight. I’ll call you if I have further need of you.”

  Mannering stiffened at the harsh words but almost instantly forgave his master. He bowed, and with as much dignity as he could manage, walked out of the library, closing the door softly behind him.

  With considerable effort Julien forced his eyes open and looked about him. He was lying in his bed, fully clothed, a cover pulled over him. He winced at the bright sunlight and turned his head away, only to find that this simple movement brought on excruciating pain. He lay very still until the pounding in his temples lessened. He had no memory of how or when he had left the library to come to his room. He gave a loud groan upon seeing a half-empty bottle of brandy standing precariously on the night table, and wondered how much he had consumed before falling into a drunken stupor. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

  Too soon he remembered the events of the previous day, and he found himself almost welcoming the physical pain in his head, for it forced his attention away from less pleasant thoughts. He lay quietly in the silent room until finally, with a determination born of despair, he rose unsteadily. He glanced at the clock on the night table and was surprised that it was quite early, in fact, only seven o’clock in the morning. He began to feel disgusted with himself, for he had always scorned those gentlemen in his acquaintance whose sole purpose for getting drunk was to escape their misery. And here he had done exactly the same thing, weak sod that he was.

  He cursed long and fluently, and it made him feel better. He wanted to cleanse himself, to clear both his mind and his body of the effects of the brandy. He hurried from his room, not even thinking of the odd appearance he presented, made his way downstairs, and flung open the front doors. He strode past two startled footmen, who had barely enough time to bow, and broke into a run across the front lawn toward St. Clair lake. The rapid movement made the pain in his head near to unbearable, but he gritted his teeth and never broke his stride until he reached a large rock that formed a cliff about six feet above the water. He quickly pulled off his clothes and poised himself naked on the edge of the rock, panting a moment from his exertio
n, then dived, gasping with the shock of the icy water.

  His pounding head felt like it would split open and his skin tingled as if jabbed by sharp needles, but he ignored all of it and set out with long, firm strokes. He swam at a furious pace until he reached the opposite shore and then turned himself about and swam back. He found his footing and waded through the water reeds to the grassy bank. His heart pounded with the exertion, but he felt exhilarated, somehow renewed. He stretched out his arms and embraced the cold air against his wet skin.

  He turned and gazed out over the lake, a strange smile flitting over his face. Enough of being a sniveling fool. He said half-aloud to the calm blue water, “What a fool to think of giving it all up, a damned weak fool. I’ll wed her, just as I planned. And I won’t pay her court as does that half-wit Bleddoes.”

  As he dressed himself, he let his mind nurture the idea until it burst forth. He announced again to the silent lake, “Damn, but I’ll have her. I’ll use my brain this time, not drown myself in bottles of brandy. Damn, but I’ll make her love me.”

  Not bothering to tie his cravat, he strode with confident steps back to the mansion.

  Sir Oliver’s arm ached. He considered himself a pious man, and it angered him that this wretched daughter of his had made him curse to vent his spleen. “Damn the girl.” He sought fiercely for more curses, turning to his Bible for epithets that would fit what had come to pass. “I’ve nurtured a viper to my bosom, an unnatural, willful child. God, why didn’t she die? She should have, the damned little slut.” He massaged his arm. He’d been fair. Of course he’d been fair.

  When she’d calmly informed him that she didn’t want to wed the earl of March, he controlled his immediate outrage and presented her with innumerable advantages to such a match. But she just stood stiffly before him, in that contemptuous silent way of hers, saying nothing, but he knew she would never agree. And when he threatened her with Bleddoes, she told him quietly that she’d already refused the squire. Obstinate, that’s what she was, unnatural and stubborn as the devil who spawned her. The little slut didn’t even cry, nor did she beg for mercy when he raised his cane and shook it in her face. She pulled her long hair away from her back and covered her head with her arms. When he stopped beating her, she rose unsteadily to her feet, gazed at him with hatred in those sinful green eyes of hers, and staggered to the door. He realized full well that the beating hadn’t made her change her mind. At least, he reflected, it had made him feel better.

  As he sat pondering his ill fortune, he was informed by Filber that the earl of March was here, asking to see him. A flicker of hope widened his eyes. “Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot, Filber. Show his lordship in.”

  Hastily he rose and removed the cane. There was dried blood on it, and it did not seem politic for his lordship to see it.

  Filber returned to the earl and took his riding crop and cloak. “Sir Oliver will see your lordship in the book room, my lord.”

  “Filber, just a moment. Is Miss Katharine here?”

  Filber’s calm facade nearly broke, and as he replied he was aware of the hardness of his own voice, “Miss Katharine, my lord, is physically unable to see anyone at this time and for some time to come.”

  Julien asked, his words so softly spoken that Filber had to strain to hear, “Has he hurt her, Filber?” To anyone who knew the earl well, the quietly spoken words would have been an instant signal that his lordship was in a deep rage. Filber, who didn’t know this, felt emboldened to say, “Yes, my lord, he hurt her very badly. She is in bed, her maid Lilly attending her. He wouldn’t even allow a doctor to see her. He beat her more savagely than he ever has before. It’s possible that he’s scarred her this time. Lilly will see that she remains still and quiet until she heals. She has always healed before, at least on the outside.”

  There was an infinitesimal pause before Julien said in a deceptively cool voice, “Thank you, Filber, for your honesty.”

  Julien stopped him again as he turned to go. “You may be certain that Sir Oliver will never touch her again.”

  Filber gazed at the earl with a thoughtful, arrested expression. He realized that he had been wrong about his lordship. The servants had been surprised at Miss Katharine’s refusal of the earl, but that Sir Oliver had dared to try to beat her into submission had left them all enraged. The baronet had suffered sullen looks and indifferent food prepared by Cook since that time.

  Julien was closeted with Sir Oliver only briefly. He stated his business in a concise, controlled voice. Sir Oliver stammered and fussed, but naturally he agreed to the earl’s demands. They were, after all, in his own best self-interest. Julien rose as soon as they had reached an agreement. “Very well. I will expect to see Katharine installed with Lady Bellingham in London within two weeks. Not longer, mind.”

  “As you say, my lord, within two weeks. But why not sooner? Surely I can have the girl off to London within days if you wish it.”

  “You miserable bastard,” he said, so calm that Sir Oliver didn’t at first realize the depths of the earl’s rage. “She is in bed, doubtless in great pain. You will see that the physician attends her. I care not if he tells the world of your treatment of her. He will attend her, and he will give her laudanum for her pain. And he will see her within the next hour. Do you understand me?”

  Sir Oliver nodded slowly, smart enough to keep his mouth shut. It didn’t occur to him to question how his lordship knew of the beating.

  “If you dare harm her again, you can be assured that she will be an orphan before the day is through. Do you understand me a second time?”

  Sir Oliver paled. He tasted real fear for the first time in his life. He nodded his head. “I quite understand you, my lord.”

  “If I discover that you haven’t done exactly what I’ve told you to do, I will take my own cane to your miserable hide and leave you in a ditch for all to see.”

  It was some moments before the hammering of fear lessened and Sir Oliver was able to walk slowly to a chair and sit down. He sagged against the back and closed his eyes. He could see her bloodied back, her dress shredded as she staggered away from him. Fleetingly he wondered if he had scarred her. He brightened as he realized that the earl, the autocratic, arrogant sinner, would perhaps not be so pleased with his bride. Indeed, he reflected with satisfaction, there would be much to displease the earl.

  Kate chewed absently on her thumbnail as she sat gazing out her window overlooking Berkeley Square. She marveled that the peaceful scene below was yet another face of London. The Pantheon and Bond Street, where she’d shopped with Lady Bellingham, were filled with the clatter of carriages and horses, the shouts of coarse vendors in words that she barely understood, and the bustle of linkboys clearing the way for their masters and mistresses. It had been difficult to believe that so many different kinds of people contrived to make their way in one city.

  There was a light knock on her door. Eliza stepped into the room and swept Kate a slight curtsy. Kate rose slowly from the window seat, mindful of the red weals on her back. They were healing, but still brought pain if she moved suddenly. She was yet unable to face her maid without embarrassment, since Eliza had attended her first bath and without a word produced an ointment and gently rubbed it into her tender skin.

  “Yes, Eliza, what is it?”

  “It’s Lady Bellingham, Miss. Some of your gowns have arrived, and she requests you to come to her sitting room.”

  “That is good news indeed.” Her embarrassment was momentarily forgotten in her excitement. “But Eliza, good heavens, it’s only been three days. There was so very much to be done.”

  “Lady Bellingham is never one to be put off,” Eliza said as her mistress straightened a flounce in her old gown and patted her hair into place. She thought fleetingly, and with no regret, of Harry’s old breeches folded out of sight at the bottom of her trunk. Her disreputable leather hat she had carefully hidden with her fishing pole in a dark recess of the stable.

  Kate made
her way down the carpeted hallway to Lady Bellingham’s sitting room and tapped lightly on the door. She heard a muffled “Come in!” and opened the door to see her hostess pacing back and forth in obvious agitation, her brow puckered and her plump, beringed hands clasped to her bosom.

  “Ma’am? What’s the matter? What can I do?”

  “Oh, my dear Kate. Do come in, child, yes, come right in and sit over here on this chair. That’s right. Your new gowns have arrived. Madame Giselle has performed marvels with the materials we selected. Just look at the evening gown, my dear.”

  Kate was perfectly willing to be distracted at the sight of all those wonderful boxes. She opened them with great enthusiasm, tossing the silver tissue paper about as she unearthed her clothes. There was a severely cut gold-velvet riding habit with a plumed, high-poked hat to match, a morning gown of soft yellow muslin with laced frocking, and the most beautiful dress she had ever beheld, a pale-blue-velvet evening gown, fashioned high in the back in the Russian style, with plunging neckline and long, fitted sleeves sewn with tiny seed pearls on the cuffs. Kate drew the gown from its silver tissue paper and held it in front of her.

  “My love, it suits you to perfection. How very elegant you will be tonight, to be sure.”

  “Tonight?” Kate ceased her exuberant pirouette and looked at her hostess.

  Lady Bellingham refused to meet her eyes.

  “What is happening tonight, ma’am?”

  Lady Bellingham sat heavily down on a settee and began to wring her hands.

  “My dear ma’am, whatever is the matter?” Kate quickly sat down beside her and captured her fluttering hands in her own.

  Lady Bellingham embarked on a somewhat tangled explanation of what she had unwittingly let slip, “Oh, dear, I hadn’t intended—that is, dear child, of course I was going to tell you. The earl, you know—”

  Slowly Kate pulled her hands away. So that was why Lady Bellingham appeared so very upset. The good lady didn’t have to finish, for Kate knew that tonight, dressed in her beautiful new gown, she was to be escorted by the earl of March to some occasion. Did Lady Bellingham think her dim-witted? From her first day in London, when her hostess had begun making oblique yet complimentary references to the earl of March, she had realized that it was he who was responsible for her presence here. She’d cursed her stupidity for not understanding from the first, when her father had been so adamant that she visit the fashionable Lady Bellingham, whose relationship to her own family was so tenuous as to be laughable. She hadn’t even known of the relationship until Sir Oliver brought it up. She had passed from shock at the earl’s sly maneuvering to outrage when she discovered that even the lowest scullery maid considered her all but betrothed to the earl. She felt even now, as she gazed with a hard look at Lady Bellingham’s crumpled features, that he had taken ruthless advantage of her. She had known that it was just a matter of time until he came to pay her court, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.