The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  “Kate, dammit.” Percy hissed, drawing his horse close to hers, “don’t.”

  “What’s wrong? The lady waved to me. Would it not be rude to ignore her?”

  “No,” was his clipped response. He click-clicked his horse into a canter, and Kate was obliged to do the same. After some moments, she drew up beside him and tugged on his sleeve.

  “Percy, for heaven’s sake, who was that lady?”

  Percy stared doggedly between his horse’s ears.

  “Now, you’re being quite cowhanded, Percy, you’re jobbing your poor horse’s mouth.”

  “Cowhanded?” Percy screwed his head around, incensed at the attack on his equestrian skill.

  Kate chuckled. “Forgive me, my friend, but I had to get your attention. You’re behaving quite foolishly, you know. There’s no reason for you to be so very protective of me. It was Lady Sarah Ponsonby, wasn’t it?”

  As Percy regarded her in silence, she added in a flat voice, “She’s quite lovely, is she not?”

  “I suppose so, if one happens to like the china-doll variety.”

  “Don’t try to cozen me, Percy. We both know that the china-doll variety is quite to Julien’s taste. Oh, don’t look at me so strangely and don’t try to deny the truth. Perhaps I shouldn’t know about her liaison with Julien, but I do, and there’s an end to it.”

  “Exactly. It’s ended. Julien dismissed her the moment he returned to London before your marriage.”

  “It appears the lady perhaps disagrees with you, Percy.”

  Though Kate quickly changed the topic and chattered with seeming unconcern for the remainder of their ride, Percy wasn’t fooled.

  After depositing Kate in Grosvenor Square, Percy repaired to White’s, as was his habit. Although not one to let other people’s concerns trouble him overlong, Percy found, quite to his surprise, that he felt it his duty to seek out Julien and inform him of what had occurred. He ran him to ground in the reading room, conversing with the portly, somewhat vacuous marquis of Halport. It was a good five minutes before Percy was able to detach Julien from the garrulous marquis. “Don’t mean to be disagreeable, Halport,” Percy managed to insert during a brief pause, “but I must remove March here. Need his advice on this nag up for sale at Tattersall’s.”

  “Good Lord, not Otherton’s slope-shouldered bay, I trust, Percy. He’s a showy creature.”

  “Now, see here, March—”

  “Devilish fine horse, if you ask me,” Lord Halport said. Lord Halport turned to Percy and asked politely, “If you wouldn’t mind, Blairstock, think I’ll take a look at Otherton’s bay. As March says, he’s a showy creature. I always like to maintain a full stable, you know.”

  “Not at all, dear sir. Don’t mind a bit.”

  “Servant, Blairstock. My regards to your lovely countess, my lord March.” Julien and Percy returned Lord Halport’s creaky bow, and when the marquis was out of earshot, Percy said indignantly to Julien, “You, Julien, of all people, know that I would never consider that broken-down bay of Otherton’s. Just couldn’t think of another excuse to get rid of the fellow.”

  Julien grinned broadly. “Well, now that we’ve as good as sold Otherton’s bay for him, why don’t you join me in a glass of sherry?” Julien waved his hand to a somberly clad footman.

  “Now, Percy, whatever is the matter? You’re looking positively blue around your collar.”

  Percy rearranged his elegantly clad bulk into a more comfortable position and eyed Julien in profound silence. Seeing his friend so very calm and composed, he began to doubt the wisdom of poking his nose into the earl’s affairs.

  “Good God, Percy, it cannot be so bad as all that. Your tailor been dunning you?”

  “Dash it, March, Kate has seen Sarah.”

  “She was bound to, sooner or later,” the earl said mildly. “I see no cause for alarm. Don’t excite yourself. It raises your color alarmingly.”

  “Easy for you to say, Julien, but you didn’t see the look on Sarah’s face or the way she waved to Kate. Like a cat with her claws curled. I swear she’s up to mischief. You know as well as I do that she grows quite bored with Sir Edward. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if she decided she wanted you in her bed again.”

  “You forget, Percy, that I spoke to her before Kate came to London. Just a woman’s jealousy, no more.”

  “Well, Kate seems to think that you much admire Lady Sarah. Told me so, in fact. Tried to act like she didn’t care, but you know Kate, she can’t hide her feelings worth a tinker’s damn.”

  Julien silently cursed Sarah but was obliged to admit upon brief reflection that he was not displeased that Kate was distressed. Could it be that she was jealous? A sure sign to him that she had truly come to care for him. He met Percy’s gaze and said quietly, “Don’t concern yourself further. I shall take care of the matter. And, Percy, I thank you for your kindness to Katharine. She is aware, I believe, what a very good friend she has in you.”

  Percy coughed. “I say, Julien, deuced nice of you to say that, but you know, well, Kate is such a trump, not at all like a woman, you know? She’s like a comrade in arms, or I think that’s what she’d be if I’d ever been in the army.”

  “That she is, that she is. Oh, by the by, Percy, what is François preparing for dinner this evening?”

  Percy pursed his lips in thought before replying cordially, “Thursday, ah, yes, poached medallions of veal in Port wine sauce with mushrooms, you know, and served with spinach noodles. Beefsteak stuffed with chicken liver, with vegetables and roasted potatoes. Many other side dishes, of course. I approved all of them.”

  “Thank you. I trust that you will grace us with your presence.”

  Percy beamed. “Dashed nice of you to offer, March. Don’t mind if I do.”

  After Julien and Percy had parted, Julien couldn’t help but wonder if he was not living in a fool’s paradise, pretending that there were really no problems at all, when in fact they were growing wildly in number. He knew that there had been no recurrence of Kate’s nightmare, for though she slept in her own room, he quietly opened the adjoining door each night before retiring.

  30

  Lady Sarah Ponsonby let her vellum-bound copy of Lord Byron’s The Corsair slide off her lap onto the pale-blue carpet, reached out for a sweetmeat on the table beside her, thought of her thighs, which were a bit too plump, and drew her hand back. She was bored, not only with her doting elderly husband but also with her lover, Sir Edward. Though his adoration for her hadn’t diminished over the past several months, she found him unimaginative both in lovemaking and in his flattery—her eyes were bluer than the pale-blue sky of midsummer? She couldn’t help but make comparisons between Sir Edward and Julien, and she found in all particulars that her portly lover was a decided second to the earl of March, who was not only a beautiful man but an excellent lover as well.

  She felt a sudden knot of anger at the thought of the pale-faced girl Julien had wed. She was far too tall, in Sarah’s estimation, and she found it altogether disagreeable that some considered the young countess to be quite beautiful. Well, beautiful or not, she thought, brightening, the baronet’s daughter wasn’t enjoying her good fortune, for all was not well between the earl and the countess. How fortunate it was that one of her lackeys was enamored of a talkative serving maid in the earl’s household, for he provided her with a steady source of prime information. From her own experience, she knew Julien to be a passionate man, and she had first dismissed the careless bit of gossip that he didn’t visit his wife’s bedchamber. But then she had wondered why their wedding trip had been of singularly short duration. Now, since the St. Clairs had been more than two weeks in London and many more bits of information were let slip by her lackey, she was convinced that something was definitely amiss with their relationship.

  Her vanity tempted her to believe that Julien realized he’d made a shocking misalliance and was simply biding his time to again seek her out. It was an exciting thought, and she refused to dismiss
it. After all, Katharine was but a girl—that rankled a bit—but she, Sarah, was an experienced woman, and a beautiful one, as she had been told countless times, by countless men, including Julien.

  Her smooth brow furrowed in concentrated thought as she cudgeled her brains for the most expedient way possible to bring Julien to his senses. It didn’t take her long to hit upon Lady Haverstoke’s ridotto, which was but two days away. What better opportunity to show Julien that he’d made a mistake in his choice of brides? She would dress as Cleopatra, perhaps even paint her toenails, and wear the golden sandals. Dampening her petticoat to make the flowing white gown cling to her body was a bit uncomfortable, but it would serve only to make her the more alluring. With more energy than she was wont to show, Sarah rose from her couch and rang imperiously for her maid. She found that she was even looking forward to riding with Sir Edward.

  “You’re silent, Julien. Don’t you like my costume?”

  He remained silent for a few more moments, then said, “It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s simply not quite what I expected you to wear.”

  Secretly, he was appalled. He had supposed that Kate would perhaps choose a shepherdess costume for the Haverstoke ridotto, or some such costume that wouldn’t call attention to herself. Instead, unbeknownst to him, she’d attired herself as a courtesan of the last century. She powdered her hair and piled it high atop her head. Her gown was of a heavy dark-blue brocade, with full skirts worn over panniers, and cut very low over her white bosom, a narrow row of lace suggesting more than revealing the curve of her breasts.

  Perhaps what shocked him most were her reddened lips and the small black patch placed artfully beside her mouth. She wore heavy sapphire earrings and necklace, and even to the least exacting taste, too many bracelets adorned her arms. He thought she looked the whore, albeit a very expensive one.

  “Perhaps, Kate, you’ve become enamored of Madame de Pompadour’s portrait?” he asked, trying to check his anger at her appearance.

  It was her turn to be silent, and she turned the bracelets on one wrist before replying slowly, “Yes, I had the gown she wore in the portrait copied by Madame Bissotte. Of course, she was Louis XV’s mistress, but still—”

  “She was a trollop,” he said more harshly than he intended. “I don’t wish my wife to emulate such an example.”

  His anger died as quickly as it had come, for her face paled beneath the rouge and she turned quickly away from him. He realized with a shock that in some strange fashion, Kate was acting out the role of a whore because it was how she felt about herself. He wondered fleetingly if she herself was aware of what she was doing. He walked quickly to her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Do forgive me, sweetheart. It’s just that I have no great liking for the Pompadour. It was said that my grandfather even visited her bedchamber a long time ago in Paris. Indeed, my dear, you look striking, the flamboyance of your costume serves only to enhance your beauty.”

  He was lying, and both of them knew it. But he also knew that the Ton would see nothing amiss with her appearance and would even applaud her daring originality. “Come, it grows late and the Haverstoke villa is several miles from London.”

  She turned to face him, a look of confusion in her eyes. “You don’t go in costume, my lord?”

  “My concessions are a domino and a mask. Had I but known that you so admired the dress of the last century, I would have dressed as Louis XV.”

  “Oh, no, you could not have. Madame de Pompadour was only his mistress. It wouldn’t have been, that is to say—” She stopped abruptly and gave her head a tiny shake.

  With a flash of insight he realized that she didn’t see him as her lover, so in her eyes he couldn’t be Louis XV. “I hardly think it matters, my dear. Ah, here’s George.”

  “Your carriage is ready, my lord,” George announced, unaware that he had rescued the count and countess from a trying scene.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. I have but to fetch my domino.” She turned on her heel and brushed past George.

  Julien gazed silently after her before turning to his butler. “Thank you, George. Please inform Davie that we will be down presently.”

  He picked up his black-satin domino from the back of a chair and nonchalantly flung it over his shoulders. He fingered the soft black velvet mask before he slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He thought grimly that he was indeed living in a fool’s paradise, and it was crumbling bit by bit around him. He’d believed the stay in London would help her, and it had seemed to help, but now . . . He shook his head. When he walked past his butler into the entryway, his face was impassive.

  Kate met him presently, an even more striking picture now, enveloped in her long dark-blue-satin domino. She had fastened on her blue-brocade mask, and not one auburn strand was visible through the white powder in her hair. If he had not known she was his wife, Julien wouldn’t have recognized her.

  Their ride to the Haverstoke mansion occupied the better part of an hour, and after many minutes of strained silence, Julien endeavored to ease the tension between them by describing the various members of the ton she would meet. He maintained a steady stream of anecdotes, which was interrupted only at rare moments by questions from Kate. She became animated only at the mention of Percy’s name.

  “I believe Percy plans to appear as a medieval lord of the manor, complete to battle-ax, so he told me.”

  “I do but pray that he won’t drop it on his foot.”

  “Rather on his foot than on yours when you dance with him.” Julien grinned into the dim light.

  “And will Hugh be present?”

  “Certainly. Like me, Hugh will relax his taste only to the point of domino and mask.”

  Kate didn’t comment, for the swaying of the carriage was making her stomach churn uncomfortably. She leaned her head back against the white-satin squabs and closed her eyes.

  The Haverstoke mansion was a two-storied pale-red-brick structure dating from the Restoration, set back from the main road by a rather rutted graveled drive. Lights blazing from every window and countless carriages lining the drive gave ample evidence of the success of the ridotto. As Bladen opened the carriage door for his master to alight, his eyes veered to the lighted servants’ hall, where he was certain he and Davie would enjoy frothy mugs of ale and the smiles and teasing of some of the maids.

  Lady Haverstoke had rigged out her entire staff in the formal livery of the last century, a startling yellow and white, and had insisted, much to their consternation, that each wear a wig of sugarloaf shape. Thus it was that her hawk-nosed butler was busy grumbling to himself and twitching at his wig when the earl and countess of March were ushered into the main hall. Elkins, his second in command, looked like an exotic yellow bird, a canary, the butler decided with a curl of his thin lips, for a canary sounded both exotic and yellow. And the way he was fluttering about, ingratiating himself among the guests—his strutting manner was simply not to be borne. The butler grimly resolved to put the little creeper in his place the moment the guests departed. He was obliged to cloak his violent intentions as the earl and countess approached. The butler’s bow to the earl was of the perfect depth, though his knees trembled in complaint as he straightened more slowly than he had descended.

  “If your lordship and ladyship will please to accompany me.” The earl nodded briefly, and the butler smiled smugly as he conducted them up the winding stairway to the large ballroom on the second floor. Elkins, with his thin, high-pitched voice, would never be able to perform this duty with such a deep rich baritone.

  He managed to gaze surreptitiously at the new countess of March and was disappointed that he couldn’t make out her features through her mask and her powdered hair, as white as his sugarloaf wig.

  “The earl and countess of March!” came his booming voice. He hoped that not too many more guests would arrive, for the assembled company was so boisterously loud that he was growing quite hoarse in trying to be heard over the laughing c
hatter and that wild German music—the waltz, it was called, Elkins had condescendingly informed him.

  Kate had only a few moments to scan the startlingly colorful sea of guests for a familiar face before a large woman with a more-than-ample bosom, swathed in yards of purple satin, swooped down upon them. Her hair was tightly crimped, and a myriad of tiny sausage curls fluttered about her heavy face. Kate blinked at the two enormous purple ostrich feathers implanted atop her head, which swayed precariously as she walked.

  “Ah, my dear March. And your new countess. So delighted you could come. Quite unusual you look, my dear. Marie Antoinette, I daresay. And you, my lord March, so disobliging of you not to come in costume. But no matter.” She beamed at them, revealing large, protruding teeth.

  “You look quite dashing, Constance,” Julien said when the lady halted her monologue for a moment. “Yes, this is Katharine, my wife.”

  Lady Haverstoke favored Kate with a tap on the arm with her ivory brisé fan. “The hair creates quite an effect, my dear. So very white, ah, but you are in good company.” Lady Haverstoke pointed her ubiquitous fan in the general direction of a small knot of elderly women, each attired more outrageously than the other. “Lady Waverleigh and that monstrous pink wig. That lady in the lavender silk, Elsbeth Rothford, how very youthful she would like to appear. And, of course, there’s Lady Ponsonby, surrounded by her gallants—her court, as I call it.” She looked expectantly to see some signs of agitation in Katharine, but seeing none, hid her disappointment and added for effect, “Scandalous, in my opinion. Cleopatra, she informs me, and garbed in that clinging wisp of material. And her toenails painted gold.” Still observing no noteworthy response from either the earl or the countess, she contented herself with the fact that the evening was far from advanced.