Her heart catapulted, the unconscionable implication of such a reaction making her wish she’d just stayed upstairs. Kate exhaled, conflicted on what she should do. Even if Lord Wesley were the devil himself, her aunt would most likely shoo her away for interfering in the matter.
Best to wait, Kate supposed, until he was gone. Then she’d spring Edward’s disfavor of the man on his poor mother.
“My word, child, you look a mess!” Mrs. Dunkirk assessed, her meaty fists wrapped around a heavy tray of refreshments outside of the parlor.
Kate dragged her right hand through her hair and realized one of the golden combs Edward had given her on her sixteenth birthday was missing. She looked down the lighted corridor and across the red Turkish runner. Where could she have lost it?
“Oh no,” Kate breathed, as she remembered how her thick strands fell over Lord Wesley’s shoulders earlier in the day.
“Here. Lady Sophia is waiting for this,” Mrs. Dunkirk said, showing no sympathy by shoving the tray of tea and crumpets between Kate’s belly button and ribs.
Kate had, with some degree of peculiarity, begun serving her aunt and cousins tea. She believed it would help her adapt more easily as a governess. As well, no one saw anything wrong with her role, least of all her aunt.
Now, anxiety gripped Kate at the place above her left breast. “I…I can’t go in there.”
The woman, deaf on various occasions, turned and disappeared around the corner. Mortified, Kate prayed for Lord Wesley to have the worst of memories.
“Be brave,” she whispered to herself.
Chapter Three
Wesley stepped into the cheery parlor where four women stood, their shoulders shaking from the excitement and their mouths clamped shut to keep from giving into giggling outbursts. He tried not to scoff, instead, pasting on an amiable smile.
To his right, the orange rays of an early evening sun poured in through a tall semicircular window and three rectangular casements below it. On the walls hung gold silk, accenting the various gilded furniture scattered throughout the temperate room.
To his left, the chimneypiece lay quiet and black, surrounded by a whitewashed brick fireplace and a mantel decorated with a beautiful vase of freshly picked flowers. Hydrangea and white clover. He glanced back to the giddy women, giving them a slight bow as he wondered if one of them stood as Miss Kathryn Holden. They all appeared to come from the same bloodline: blue eyes, light-colored hair, and slight figures.
Not that he cared for one over the other, of course. He’d spent too much time in ruthless and corruptible deliberation to care what the lady he planned to ruin looked like. Anger and resentment continued to surge through him. He’d been trapped by a man he didn’t know and forced to marry a woman he didn’t love. Desperation and a little alcohol had driven Wesley here. He needed to take back control of the situation. To play the game by his rules, in his house. Compromising Miss Holden’s character served more than one purpose. Once the deed was done, he’d refuse to marry her. Then, he’d need only challenge Garrett to a game to win back what was rightfully his.
As his mind turned to Miss Holden, he couldn’t help but remember the beautiful, nameless girl from the meadow. Even now, the smell of her skin, her forest-green eyes, and the way her tongue lashed out at him for merely asking her name made his heart beat a little faster. He smiled, despite himself, curious to know if she might be a servant girl at Camden Hall. Although he had to wonder what servant was allowed to roam about in the middle of the day.
“Lord Wesley,” Lady Sophia said, scurrying forward to greet him, her heavy bosom leading the way. She was neither tall nor thin and held most of her weight from the waist up.
Adorned in a conspicuous beige day dress, she drew plenty of attention to her chest, her bodice low-cut and without an inch of lace to hide her modesty. Atop a mass of disheveled brownish curls, she wore a typical white mop cap. She stopped to smile at him, a spark of hunger glistening in her sky-blue eyes.
“This is Claire, my eldest; Deidra, my middle daughter; and Lilly, my youngest,” she said, gesturing behind her.
So, the cousin was not here. How disappointing.
Wesley continued to smile and bowed. They curtsied again, and his curious gaze roamed over the young women, all sort of pretty in their own way. Claire was tall and skinny with light-brown hair curled around an elongated face. Deidra held his attention the longest with the same color hair, ice-blue eyes, and a pert nose. Lilly, much like her sisters and still somewhat of a child, giggled behind her hand and reminded him of many of the young girls he tried to avoid.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
A tick later, Lady Sophia sighed and shook her head. “Ah, Kate, there you are.”
Wesley turned and inhaled. There stood the young lady who’d occupied his thoughts for the better part of the day. He found her just as he’d left her, a bit unkempt, her rich mahogany hair still a tangled mess. She held a silver tray and upon it, intricate tea set and a few biscuits. This was Mr. Garrett’s infamous cousin, Miss Kathryn Holden?
His thoughts began to unravel. Did she even know they were to be married? If she did, why did she treat him with such disdain? Did she, like him, loathe the idea of such a union? He scoffed to himself. With so little to offer, she should be as happy to gain his favor as her cousins.
With more questions than answers, Wesley assessed her. Her full attention was pinned to some unknown object just above his left ear. He chuckled to himself, amused by the rose blush spreading into her puffed-out cheeks.
“I don’t believe we have been formally introduced,” he said, bowing and watching her dip into a reluctant curtsy.
“Oh, forgive me, your lordship. This is my husband’s distant relative, Miss Kathryn Holden of London.”
The bite of her aunt’s introduction did not go unnoticed. Behind him, Miss Holden ambled forward, and despite the pensive set of her luscious mouth, he’d never seen a more enchanting creature.
He smiled until a mental image of her wrapped in another’s arms caused Wesley to blow out a harsh breath. No! Wesley scolded himself for losing focus. He needed her compromised, and he needed himself to not care about anything but Penndrake.
He cleared his throat and turned toward Lady Sophia. “I don’t wish to take up too much of your time,” he said, Miss Holden’s distrusting gaze burning a hole in his temple. “But there are two reasons I am here. For one, I am a good friend of your son, Edward, and would like to know where he is at the moment.”
Miss Holden, who’d yet to put down the tray, dropped it hard onto the oak table between where he and Lady Sophia stood.
“Good God, Kate, you clumsy girl,” the older woman shrieked.
“I’m so very sorry, Aunt,” Miss Holden said, not a trivial amount of remorse evident in her quiet tone.
“Lord Wesley, please excuse my…niece. Her manners are somewhat lacking today, and all days, for that matter.”
Miss Holden dipped into a stiff curtsy before retreating to the fireplace. She stopped, turned, and fidgeted with her dress pockets. His interest stayed focused where her hand rested, curiosity growing at the object she yielded there.
“What’s the other, my lord?” Lady Sophia asked, pulling his attention back to her.
Somewhere between watching Miss Holden walk away and now, he’d lost part of his astute memory. He shook his head and leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”
The middle daughter, Deidra, skipped forward. “You said, my lord, you came for two reasons. The first, regarding my brother, Edward. What’s the other?”
Her eyes as wide as the moon, he could only stand and gape at her question. He drew a blank until it dawned on him he’d yet to receive an answer to the first. He sliced a glance toward Miss Holden, whose lopsided grin challenged him to stay focused.
“Well, I…” he began and paused on whether to press the issue of Garrett when it appeared no one in the house seemed too enthusiastic to give up a reply.
Instead, Wesley tried another tactic. “I found something that may belong to one of the young ladies in the room.”
He reached into his left breast pocket and drew out the gold comb Miss Holden had abandoned in the field. The memory of their tryst in a bed of white clover stirred his recollection of her body pressed firmly against his.
Roused, he flipped the glistening ornament in his palm, the lady’s delicate scent, like warm vanilla, still lingering and distracting him for a heartbeat. He cleared his throat and glanced up to where she stood. Her dark lashes blinked in a rapid rhythm against her stained cheeks as her evergreen eyes remained transfixed on his hand.
He relished her quick intake of breath but kept his interest on the three other young women who stood before him. Lilly squinted and lobbed her head from side to side. Deidra reached out a delicate hand and pulled it back. Claire lifted her enticing lips and sashayed toward him.
“Oh, I’ve been looking for that everywhere.” Her overzealous advance forced him to take a step back. Undaunted, she closed the short gap between them and brought her long fingers to slide over his. Cold. He closed his palm around the glittery comb and canted his head in the direction of Miss Holden.
She stared at him, grabbing her pink petal lips between her dainty teeth and nibbling on them until they turned a nice shade of crimson. Mesmerized by her alluring mouth, he lost himself in her naive seduction. Only when he could tear his attention away did he realize she did not dispute the fact that the comb belonged to someone else.
It made sense, however. To him, she appeared less than wealthy in a simple dull day dress, worn at the hem, the gray fabric faded and frayed. He wondered how such a person could afford the rich accessory he held in his hand—unless it was a gift. From her lover perhaps.
Were her indiscretions the reason why her cousin needed to find her a husband so quickly? The answer did not sit well with him. He stifled a surge of anger and a stab of surprise jealousy at his thoughts and sought someone to blame for his current situation. Was it his father for setting the tragedy in motion or Edward for his selfishness to take from the rich and give to the poorer? On the other hand, was the girl’s subtle, yet bewitching beauty to blame for all of this?
Damn it, Wesley didn’t know. Furthermore, he didn’t care. Someone was going to pay, and since his father was dead, that left Edward or Miss Holden. By deduction, the latter lay in his direct path, an easy enough target, if not a more enjoyable one.
Once his focus returned, he knew what he needed to do. He wished to lure the Garretts and Miss Holden into his den. He imagined the circumstance of their demise, the moment where he would charm Miss Kathryn Holden into a willing and ardent surrender.
The devil!
“Lord Wesley?” Her soft voice reached through his impure thoughts, rattling him. He glanced around the room at the gathering of gawking females.
“I…uh”—he drew his attention away from Miss Holden and back to the eldest Garrett sister—“must request you to show me the match to this first so that I may place it in your hair.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open until she recovered enough to inquire further. “The…other one, my lord?” she asked.
Wesley smiled. “Yes, the match to this one.”
“Well, you see, I was out picking flowers the other day, and they must have just dropped right out. I have been unable to locate them ever since.”
Wesley nodded, unsurprised. “What kind of flowers, Miss Garrett?” He did not tolerate liars very well.
He watched the woman’s eyes glaze over and her jaw drop, this time clear to her raised bosom. “I beg your pardon?”
He bent forward and slowed his speech so she could understand him better. “What kind of flowers were you picking, Miss Garrett?” While he waited for an answer, the ormolu mantel clock ticked over the fireplace behind him.
“Hydrangea and clover?” Claire answered, her face twisted in painful uncertainty.
“Hmmm,” he said, stepping away to where Miss Holden had rooted herself. Behind her, the bouquet of heady blue flowers sprang out of two identical bronzed vases. On his languid approach, she pulled her shoulders back and raised her delicate chin.
“Of course,” he said to Claire Garrett, while his attention remained locked upon Miss Holden’s striking features. “By chance, I’m quite familiar with one of them.”
He spied the wilted petal of a white clover snuggled between the untidy locks of Miss Holden’s dark hair and smiled. With confidence and easy prowess, he reached up, his fingers weaving themselves into her silken tresses.
She stood firm and quiet before him, a deep and shallow breath fanning across his right cheek. He pulled the flower from her hair, noticing the other comb, itself hanging on by mere strands. Taller than her by at least six inches, he remained within her intimate space, his gaze raking over the delicate curve of her jaw, her small nose, and green eyes.
Her dainty eyebrows pinched together and her copious long eyelashes blinked like the wings of a flitting butterfly. He dared a step closer, and in a tone low enough only for her to hear, said, “It would be a shame to lose such an exquisite gift from, perhaps, one’s devotee.”
She stopped blinking then. Hell, he even believed she stopped breathing. Had he voiced the secretive truth to astonish and surprise her enough not to be able to deny his claim? Disappointment over his correct assertion swept over him. He realized he wanted her innocence, and he wanted her all to himself. Of course, it would be much easier to take her if she had some experience with a man.
Adamant about keeping the object, he gripped it in his palm, the sharp teeth biting into his calloused skin. He placed the comb, as well as the petal, in his jacket and turned to Lady Sophia. “Very well then. I would like very much to invite you to a dinner party, a…tradition at Penndrake after the season has come to an end. You are welcome to stay a fortnight, with your husband away, if you’d like.”
All four women gasped and talked over one another, the last louder than the first. Temptation urged him to look toward the fireplace where he expected to find Miss Holden in a defiant stance, arms crossed and toes tapping.
Instead, he saw nothing but empty space. She’d gone, disappeared like the mist on the moors at sunrise.
“Oh, Lord Wesley, this is a grand day. A grand day, indeed,” Lady Sophia gushed and clapped her hands together. “We will accept your invitation to come to Penndrake right away.”
Wesley forced a tight smile, nodded, and allowed the family’s rotund housekeeper to show him to the door. Outside, he grabbed at his horse’s reigns and was about to lift himself into the saddle when he saw the backside of Miss Holden’s dress disappearing into the stables.
Against his better judgment, he followed her footsteps, slowing his pace as he approached.
…
Kate tramped to the stables, needing a ride across the fields to clear her mind. She strode with purpose, mumbling insulting words to the man who had barged into her life this morning and accused her of some scandalous affair.
“You’re a…a…liar,” she’d said aloud at least a dozen times. Lord or not, he had no right to come snooping after Edward, especially after the warning she’d received from him.
She inhaled the pungent air, regrettably, and remembered the sealed letter she’d seen lying on the letter tray on her way out to the stables. Her cousin had sent her yet another one.
Too impatient to discover what Edward wanted to warn her about this time, Kate tore the seal with eager fingers. She squinted more from the scribbled lines than the lack of light, having to bring the letter up to decipher at least one word out of three.
She managed to translate Please before a man’s boots crunched over the pebbled path leading inside the stalls. With trembling hands, she jammed the letter back into her pocket and jerked her attention to the stable doors.
In all her life, she’d never beheld a more heart-lurching sight. There Lord Wesley stood, his tall form both intimidating and enthralling. Spontan
eous behavior eclipsed rational thought as she brought up a finger and waggled it in his direction. “You…you…Old Nick.”
The smile he wore, dimpled in the convoluted light, never wavered. Well, she thought, one can not do worse than calling his lordship the devil. Defeated by his casual stance, she turned and tried to storm away.
She managed to go a step, maybe two, before his hand clamped down on her wrist. The force of his strength swung her back around, hard.
Her body careened into his. One of his arms snaked around the small of her back and locked her into place. The corded muscles of his chest rippled under several layers of clothing, shocking and exciting her at the same time.
Oh, what a scandalous position she found herself in. If she wasn’t careful, she might end up married to the man in another fortnight. Her rebellious heart skipped another beat.
His face was shadowed, but his eyes flashed with stern intolerance. “Would you like to repeat that, Miss Holden?” His caressing breath grazed her wet lips. Courage she never thought she possessed bubbled up from deep inside.
“I was trying to say, my lord, not so eloquently, that you are a liar.” She refrained from saying anything else for her own safety and lifted her chin high despite the urge to bury her face into the smoothness of his neck and whimper.
His eyes widened, mocking her almost. “Incredible. Never have I been called a fraud and Satan all in one day.”
She writhed from his firm hold, but it only spurred him into a deep, rumbling bout of laughter. Out of energy and patience, she wrapped her fingers around his upper arms, rock-hard and strong under her virtuous touch.
She swallowed her pride and rose on her tiptoes to make herself appear taller.
“What do you want, my lord?” she asked. “Why are you here? What has you so intrigued with the Garretts that you invite them to your home, to a dinner party, when they have never been graced by your family’s presence before?”
His smile faded, replaced by a harsh grimace. “Either you’re pretending ignorance or playing games. I’ve neither the time nor patience for either.”
A Mistress for Penndrake Page 3