The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  “The countess of March, Captain Marcham.”

  “An honor it is, my lady,” the captain told her, thinking privately that he was indeed fortunate that he and his men weren’t left longer to kick up their heels in Calais. Lord, were he the earl, he would have extended the wedding trip another six months.

  The Fair Maid was finely appointed, with small, elegantly furnished rooms and a deck and railing that shone to a high polish. During the nine-hour crossing, Kate spent the majority of her time contentedly bundled in fur rugs on the deck. As she sipped a cup of tea, offered by a shy young seaman, she remembered with some amusement her flight to France on the small, dingy packet.

  “We’ll dock at Plymouth within the hour, my lord,” Captain Marcham informed them after what seemed to Kate an incredibly short time.

  “Excellent time, Marcham. I hope you now have a better opinion of my yacht, Kate,” he added, turning to tuck the rug more closely about her legs.

  “It’s quite lovely, as you well know. It’s just that we’ve come so quickly back, and I’m not certain—” Her voice trailed off, and she stared out over the whitecapped water, her mind in some confusion.

  “Of what, my dear?”

  She withdrew, giving a tiny shake of her head. “It’s nothing. I’m being silly, nothing more.” Suddenly he saw fear in her eyes, stark fear. She quickly added, “I promise you, it’s nothing at all. I’m fine, more than fine. I swear it.”

  He would have howled at the moon if only there had been one. He felt sick with guilt and fear for her, even as he admired her more than he could say. She was brave, so damned brave, but she was hiding herself, hiding everything, and there was naught he could do about it, not yet at least.

  When they stepped ashore at Plymouth, it was teeming with travelers, harried seamen, and many indigenous specimens lolling about on the dock. Somehow the touch of English soil beneath her feet and the hearty cries in the English tongue sounding on every side of her made her feel terribly alone. Though Julien stood not six feet from her, giving instructions to Captain Marcham and to the men who were removing their luggage, she had the unaccountable feeling that the man whose life she had shared for the past two months was now drawing away from her, returning to a way of life that was alien to her. Two months ago she wouldn’t have cared—indeed, she would have welcomed it—but now she felt that what she wanted most was to return to the yacht and let Captain Marcham sail wherever he wished.

  “Come, Countess,” Julien said, taking her arm, “a hearty English meal awaits us at the Wild Boar.”

  Kate said nothing, for there wasn’t, after all, anything to the point that she could say. She looked one last time at The Fair Maid, then moved into silent step beside her husband.

  29

  “Good Lord, George, you don’t mean my mother is here? Now, at this moment?”

  “Yes, my lord. Her ladyship informed me she’d had the ‘feeling’ that you would be returning shortly. She has been waiting in the drawing room not above half an hour, my lord.”

  “I had no clue she had such powers. Kate?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s very strange.” She had a headache, and she still felt a trifle queasy after their long journey from Plymouth to London.

  Julien looked down at her pale face. “George, call Eliza. The countess is fatigued. I want her to rest now.”

  She didn’t disagree, thankful that she wouldn’t have to meet the dowager countess until she had had time to gather herself together and get rid of this wretched headache.

  “Mother will, of course, wish to meet you, Kate. But if you do not feel just the thing, I shall take you to visit her another day. Eliza, escort the countess to her room.” He patted his wife’s hand, turned, and strode down the long, marbled hall, disappearing through a set of double doors.

  “I will see to your luggage, my lady,” George assured her, snapping his fingers in the direction of a footman, whose presence Kate had not even noticed.

  “Thank you, George. My lord is right. I would like to go to my room now, Eliza.” It didn’t occur to her to question Eliza’s presence as her maid, in Julien’s house.

  She removed only her cloak and bonnet before stretching out on her bed. She felt less wretched after Eliza placed a cloth soaked in lavender water over her eyes. Her stomach settled, and some few minutes later she rose up on her elbows and said, “It’s the oddest thing, Eliza, but now I’m feeling much more alive than otherwise. Please fetch me a gown, for I would meet the dowager countess. Something modest, to suit a mother-in-law’s taste, I think.”

  Eliza chose well, and not half an hour later Kate walked down the curved staircase, dressed in a demure, high-necked muslin gown of pale green, her hair brushed into a knot of clustered curls atop her head. She felt no particular trepidation at meeting her mother-in-law, for she really knew very little about her, save that the several times Julien had mentioned his mother he’d spoken with a sort of affectionate impatience.

  The doors to the drawing room were slightly ajar, and Kate paused a moment to smooth her gown before entering. She stopped, dismayed, upon hearing a woman speak in a reproachful, complaining voice.

  “Of course, I scotched any scandal, Julien, after you left in such unnatural haste for Paris. But how could you chase that girl in the most shocking way imaginable? I told you there was bad blood in the Brandon family, and now you have saddled me with this wicked girl. It is too much, and I fear I won’t survive the winter. Perhaps I won’t even survive until the beginning of winter.”

  Kate stood rigidly outside the door, waiting to hear Julien’s response.

  “Really, Mama, you’ve had two months to accustom yourself to the idea. I assure you that Katharine is a lovely young lady. You will see her for yourself soon enough.”

  “But even Sarah, my dear boy—”

  “You forget, Mama, that Sarah is married. Surely you prefer a wicked Brandon to my running off with a married lady.” Julien’s voice was sharp. Kate wasn’t privy to the gleam of sarcastic amusement on his face.

  She dismissed her immediate cowardly instinct to retreat to her room, raised her head, and rather like a condemned martyr, strode proudly to her judgment.

  She drew up short as she entered, her eyes fastened on the dowager countess of March. A small, dark-haired woman swathed in several fine paisley shawls, she sat on a sofa with her head pressed back against the cushions, her eyes tightly closed as if she were undergoing the most dire of upsets. One thin hand clutched a vinaigrette to her narrow bosom. Julien sat opposite her, his hands clasped between his knees, his look one of bewilderment.

  Kate cleared her throat and forced her feet to move forward.

  “My dear, do come in. Are you feeling more the thing now?” Julien gave her a smile and a wink before turning to his mother, who was now sitting bolt upright, her dark eyes open and assessing.

  Kate made a pretty curtsy and said, demure as a nun, “I’m indeed honored to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Julien has of course told me much about you. Your kindness, your generosity, your immense understanding.”

  “Well, at least, child, you in no way resemble that impudent father of yours,” the dowager said flatly.

  “I’m said to resemble my mother,” Kate said. She sat down beside her mother-in-law.

  The dowager was silent for a moment as she searched her memory for a picture of Lady Sabrina. She vaguely remembered bright-red hair set atop a rather pale, silent face. “Yes, perhaps you do, which has to be a blessing because Sir Oliver is a very homely man, so very unprepossessing, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, ‘unprepossessing’ is the very word for him.”

  “Ah, Mother, Kate, would you care for a glass of sherry?”

  “I suppose it would be a soothing agent to my nerves,” the dowager said with a sigh. As Julien poured the sherry, the dowager turned back to Kate.

  “You seem rather on good terms with my son now, young lady. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me why you r
efused my son two months ago and ran away in the most ill-bred manner possible and by yourself to Paris?”

  Julien was annoyed and didn’t hesitate to let it show. “Really, Mother, the past is in the past, and it’s no longer of any import whatsoever. Any misunderstandings Katharine and I have had are over and done with, and are certainly none of your affair, in any case.”

  The dowager gasped and pressed her hands to her palpitating bosom. To Kate, Julien’s measured words seemed only the mildest of reproaches, but it was not so, she perceived, to her mother-in-law. She quickly took one of the dowager’s limp hands in her own and patted it.

  “Of course you have a right to know, ma’am. You must forgive Julien, for he is quite fatigued from our long journey. You see, my father was quite Gothic in his attitude, demanding that I wed your son before I knew my own mind. Indeed you are right, ma’am, it was most foolish of me to travel unaccompanied to Paris. I can but attribute my thoughtless action to my, er, confusion of sensibilities. I do hope that you will now endeavor to forgive my irregular behavior.”

  The dowager found herself in a quandary. She saw from beneath her lashes that Katharine’s prettily spoken speech had found favor with her son, and there was a kindness of expression, a warmth in his eyes that she had never before observed. Having, however, cataloged a rather impressive list of complaints, she decided to take a nip at her daughter-in-law on another matter.

  “My dear boy, your Aunt Mary informed me that Katharine was a lady of quality, and now I suppose that I must concur. But she also told me that you, Katharine, appear to be no breeder. Of course, I don’t in general like to speak of such indelicate subjects, but I think it is a matter of great importance that an heir be provided quickly for the St. Clair line—at least one, perhaps two or three, just to be safe, for life is so very uncertain, don’t you think? Is it true, Julien? Does she have narrow hips?”

  Kate couldn’t think of a word to say. She sat there like a stick, her head down, wanting to cry, wanting to scream at her mother-in-law that none of it was any of her business and she was a witch. But she held silent and still.

  Julien was at the end of his patience, his anger fanned by the misery in his wife’s eyes. He stood over his mother. “All right, Mother, this time you’ve gone too far. It’s obvious you mean only to make mischief. I won’t have you badger Katharine with your tactless and altogether unnecessary comments. If you can’t bethink yourself of any conciliatory words, then I would suggest that you take your leave.”

  “Julien!” the dowager shrieked, clasping her hands to her meager bosom and falling back against the cushions. “Oh, what a mother must bear, turned upon by her only dear son, to whom she gave her life, nearly her last breath. It was only by the veriest chance that I survived your birth, and now you turn on me. Oh dear, what else will happen before I must leave this earth, possibly even before the winter?”

  “Now, Julien, surely—” Katharine said. Above all things, she didn’t want Julien to have a falling-out with his hitherto fond parent, though the parent in question deserved a good kick.

  She removed the vinaigrette from the dowager’s unresisting hand and waved it under her nose.

  “Come, ma’am, let us try to forget this unpleasantness. Julien, will you not apologize, please? One can see that your dear mother is upset, and her devotion to you is laudable.” She gave her husband a significant look.

  To Julien’s surprise, his fast-fading parent turned half-tearful eyes to Kate and uttered in a tremulous voice, “Dear, dear child, how well you understand the frailty of my constitution. Gentlemen do not, nay, cannot share the sensitivity of our feelings, even my beloved son who occasionally forgets himself and says things to wound me utterly.”

  Julien looked from his mother to his wife, gave her a wink, then threw up his hands as if in bafflement. He strode to the long, curtained French windows.

  “You must forgive him, child,” the dowager said sadly, leaning toward Kate and patting her arm. “I’m certain that you will coax him out of his masculine mood. Alas, a mother’s influence wanes so quickly. As a new bride, you have all the power that I once had but obviously don’t have anymore.”

  Kate hesitated to think of Julien’s mother as a remarkably foolish woman, but the truth was the truth, and besides, Julien appeared to deal well with her. If not precisely well, the two of them together certainly did. Her husband was not only smart, he was also guileful. It was a good thing in this instance.

  “I shall certainly try to bring him to his former good humor,” Kate said, her voice calm, without a quiver.

  The dowager looked rather soulfully at her son’s back, and with the sigh of one sorely used, she began, with the assistance of Kate, to gather her shawls into a semblance of order about her thin shoulders. She even allowed her daughter-in-law to assist her to her feet.

  “Julien, your mother is preparing to take her leave. Would you not like to bid her a good-bye?”

  Julien turned about, a harried expression on his face, one manufactured, Kate knew, just for his mother. He walked to her and planted a light kiss on her thin cheek.

  “My dear son, at least your father is not here to see what you’ve done.”

  “Mother, for God’s sake, my father’s misunderstanding with Sir Oliver has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Katharine. I would that you contrive to forget it, and now, or at least very soon from now. Do you understand me?”

  Katharine added, “Dear ma’am, I would assure you that my father was always alone in his views regarding your esteemed family. My brother Harry and I have long been in disagreement with Sir Oliver in this matter. Indeed, after your acquaintance, ma’am, I am more convinced than ever that his actions were quite ill-judged.”

  “Ah, dear Katharine, how noble you are, so refined in your observations.” The dowager’s dark eyes grew bright, and the thin line of her lips turned up at the corners, albeit with some effort. She turned her face to Katharine and allowed her daughter-in-law to kiss her upon the cheek.

  “I’ll escort you to your carriage, Mother,” Julien said, taking her arm. He wasn’t about to risk a reversal of his parent’s recently acquired good humor.

  When he returned to the drawing room, he was obliged to smile, for Kate wore an impish grin, which delighted him.

  “You’re a baggage, my dear.” He took her hand. “You speak of my turning Sir Oliver so sweet, and here you handled my mother like a master strategist. It was well done of you, and I thank you for it.”

  “Oh, you’re quite welcome. Oh, yes, ah, Julien, who is this Sarah person? I couldn’t help but overhear your mother speak of her, and I wondered. Oh, I’m sorry if it discomfits you, truly—”

  “A beautiful, charming woman,” he said outrageously.

  She whipped her face up, her eyes darkening with sudden anger. “You wretched man,” she began, only to pull up short as her own shame seared her mind. She drew a deep breath and planted a tight smile on her face. “I look forward to meeting this paragon.” He was looking at her, and she quickly turned away. Sometimes she felt that he saw too much, that he could probe her thoughts.

  Julien dismissed further provocative comments. “Well, my dear, what do you think of my humble establishment?”

  She drew an easier breath and gazed about the drawing room. “It’s quite elegant. Naturally, until I see the rest of the rooms I can’t make a final judgment.”

  It didn’t take her long to applaud Julien’s excellent taste in the furnishings of the town house and to compliment the quiet efficiency of his staff. She was particularly drawn to the stolid butler, George, whose unruffled dignity she found comforting. It was he who eased her transition as mistress of the house, unobtrusively giving her advice on the management of the servants and the protocol of receiving visitors. In this matter, she was profoundly grateful, for in the next week the knocker was never still during the morning visiting hours. It appeared that all of London society wished to inspect the new countess of March. Because of her
own inescapable abstraction, she was a great deal less nervous in the presence of her exalted guests, and many left the St. Clair town house to spread the gossip that even though the countess was, unfortunately, from the country and a mere baronet’s daughter, she did seem to know her way rather well.

  Of all the ton who paid visits to the St. Clair town house, it was Percy who found instant favor with Kate. After eyeing her for some minutes through his quizzing glass, he turned to Julien and blithely remarked that he was a lucky dog and quite unworthy of his good fortune. Kate felt a tightening in her throat at what she thought to be undeserved praise, when, but a moment later, Percy turned to her and asked what François was preparing for dinner. She blinked several times at this unexpected question, noted that Julien was grinning widely at her, and said truthfully, “Do forgive me, Sir Percy, I really have no idea. If, however, you will be patient, I shall ring for George.”

  “Not at all the thing, you know, Lady Kate, not at all the thing. I shall be over first thing tomorrow morning, and we shall plan the week’s menus.”

  Indeed, Percy arrived punctually the following morning, and he and Kate spent a comfortable hour devising menus that would test François’s culinary abilities. “After all, you pay the damned fellow one hundred pounds a year. You don’t want to have him lazing about. Those Frogs take advantage, you know.”

  She could find no fault with this logic, and discovered after Percy took his leave that she had quite forgotten herself while in his company. She sought him out, and more often than not, it was Percy who accompanied her to Bond Street to do her shopping and to the park to ride at the fashionable hour of five in the afternoon. It was during one of these excursions that Kate chanced to see a very lovely lady dressed in the height of fashion raise her parasol in greeting. She was seated in an open carriage beside a gentleman who seemed to be remonstrating with her. Her piquant oval face was framed with blond ringlets, and her eyes were a startling blue. Kate raised her hand in a hesitant reply and observed a rather mocking smile pass over the lady’s lips. She wondered whether she should turn Astarte and make the lady’s acquaintance.