Against the wall, in the center of the room stood a canopied four-poster bed, its sides draped in striped crimson, apple green, and gold satin curtains. On the bed lay a similarly patterned quilt and a stack of goose down pillows.
Across the way stood a Gothic-style fireplace that stretched clear to the high plastered ceiling. Kate gravitated toward the heat, her body beginning to ache from the weight of her clothes. She let go a shiver and realized she stood, unable to stop trembling.
“Oh dear, ye have caught a chill,” Mrs. Abram said, yanking at Kate’s stays and ties, the thick blanket falling to the floor to mingle with the rest of her soggy things.
Kate’s teeth chattered as the motherly housekeeper’s cool hands guided her to where a tub lay in wait.
Too miserable for modesty, Kate lifted a foot and dipped a toe into the vaporous water, shuddering when the hot liquid sent a thawing heat charging through her cold body. She sank down, submerging herself from the neck up. She breathed deep, the vanilla-scented soap filling her senses and relaxing her mind.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing the memory of the day’s events to seep out of her and into the hazy air.
“Lord Wesley would like for ye to rest after yer bath, miss.”
Kate popped her eyelids open and found Mrs. Abram through the balmy fog, her hands clasped together in front of her, a smile set upon her thin lips.
Reluctant to protest, Kate nodded. Still, if she chose, instead, to tramp right down the stairs and join the rest of her family for tea and cakes, then what could he say? Since he already appeared agitated with her, she need not worry about irritating him further.
“Good. I’ve placed ye gown on the chair.” Mrs. Abram pointed behind her.
Kate smiled, prompting Mrs. Abram to curtsy and exit the room. Left alone, Kate remained in the bath until her toes turned white and wrinkly. Resigned to take a nap over inciting his lordship, she stepped out next to the dancing flames of the fire and dressed in the nightgown laid out for her.
She promised herself she’d not rest more than twenty minutes and then she’d go explore, if his door wasn’t locked, of course. If his room held her missing letters, she could alert her aunt to the marquess’s deceit. The sooner the better. She knew if she stayed at Penndrake with Lord Wesley’s kisses beckoning her, she’d not leave with her innocence intact.
Chapter Eight
Wesley listened intently as Mrs. Abram whispered to him regarding Miss Holden’s condition. Since the time he’d left her on the road, he’d thought of nothing or no one else.
The worst part of all was his inability to stay focused on his plan. For him to secure Penndrake, he needed her cooperation, something she seemed hell-bent on not providing.
He remained optimistic, however. Although she appeared to dislike him, even loathe him, her kisses said something else. Bold yet unsure, independent yet vulnerable. She pretended his presence did not affect her, but he knew otherwise. He felt it in her touch. He saw it reflected in her evergreen eyes. He’d held enough women in his lifetime to know when his caress elicited more than just carnal curiosity.
On the other hand, maybe she just craved a man’s touch, any man’s touch.
Propelled into a bad mood, the last thing he wanted to entertain was a drawing room full of garrulous women, their gaiety vexing, their voices grating.
He did so with a smile, observing how they showed not one guise of concern for their young relative’s health or absence. Instead, they spun around the room in awe and wonder as he listened to his housekeeper, his concern growing for the lady he planned to ruin one way or the other.
In the last two years, he’d known, personally, four women in the peak of health who’d caught a fever and the next day lay dead from it. Unwilling to have Miss Holden suffer the same fate, Wesley excused himself from the room and darted up the stairs to where she lay. He’d strategically placed her across the hall from him in the hopes of knowing her curious presence every second.
At the door, he strained to hear any noise coming from the other side. Nothing, not even a breath. Fear gripped him, and for more compelling reasons than having her cousin blame him for her demise. Wesley wondered which weapon Garrett preferred—a pistol or a sword.
“The devil,” Wesley cursed, opening the door. He slid inside, his gaze going straight to the still figure lying on the bed. His breath caught at the ominous sight before him. With her dark hair fanned out around her paler-than-usual face, her lips red and slightly open, he thought she resembled death itself. Unexpectedly, his heart squeezed inside his chest.
Forcing his feet to move, he stepped across the firelit room, his hand lifting to her face. He exhaled as his fingers touched the warm softness of her cheek.
He started to pull away when her eyelids lifted. “My lord?”
“Rest,” he commanded. She smiled, then sighed and turned away, peaceful, innocent, and beautiful. He blew out a conflicted sigh, transfixed and understanding, if only for a moment, Edward Garrett’s motives to secure a better future for his young cousin.
Then, afraid of losing himself further, he yanked his hand away and moved toward the door. A battle of will and conscience began to wage inside him, causing him to wander back downstairs to ask that Mrs. Abram sit with her and inform him of any changes to her condition.
Then he returned to the Garretts, settling into a white-and-crimson high-back chair until the shadows slid across the rose-colored carpet. As the women talked and giggled to excess, he watched the clock like a hawk.
His thoughts conflicted, he sat with growing agitation over Lady Sophia’s cackling and Claire’s hundredth story about herself until Mrs. Abram announced dinner. Resigned to eat without Miss Holden, Wesley glanced up only to find her standing in the doorway, refreshed and glowing.
Gone was the drab gray dress from this morning, replaced with a scarlet evening gown, the neckline swooping to reveal her rounded breasts and creamy, flawless skin. Until this moment, she’d taken great pains to hide them under lace and wool. He smiled. His Miss Holden was back and dressed for battle.
He grinned, noting how her beautiful expression was that of false assuredness. She blinked at him in silence, and he nodded his approval, not that he believed she elicited it. What she had in mind, he sought to uncover. She didn’t know it, but they had begun to spin their own webs. The question remained—which one of them would become the victor and which one the victim?
“Miss Holden, you look…radiant,” he said with a slight bow.
Her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyebrows narrowed, crinkling the skin above her nose. His gaze remained on her face until Claire brushed against him, pulling his attention to her annoyed face.
“You look radiant as well, Miss Garrett,” he said, his tone lacking in the same enthusiasm. She retained her ladylike demeanor. He knew Miss Holden would have harrumphed or challenged his assessment. Instead, Claire allowed him to lead her to her chair and seat her without an argument. He still managed to steal glances at Miss Holden, curious to what thoughts swirled in that intriguing mind of hers.
…
Kate intended to retrieve the letters from Lord Wesley this night. Upon her good conscious and her unyielding virtue, she needed to return home. For not only had she dreamed of Lord Wesley after laying her head down in his home, she awoke longing for his irritating company, his unrelenting comfort, and his dizzying kiss.
The dress she picked out to help capture his attention was one Edward always complimented her on during his visits to London. Although she’d planned on wearing a fichu with it to preserve a measurable amount of modesty, the mirror in her bedchamber revealed an improved chance of getting what she sought.
Never one to flirt her way into a man’s deliberation, she found she had no other choice. Braced to do what she must, she steeled her nerves and planted her feet. Her confidence remained ironclad until she lifted her head and found Lord Wesley’s steady and unnerving gaze drifting at an excruciating
ly slow pace from her breasts to her face.
Like a clattering drum, her heart pounded, his gaze wandering over her in a cunning and ravenous manner. If he saw through her scheme, she didn’t know. For a moment later entered the one person she thought she’d never want to see again.
Mr. Arthur Rourke.
He didn’t recognize her at first, his attention fixed a few inches below her neckline. She swallowed hard as the heat became unbearable in the overstuffed room.
“Dear God,” he said, wide-eyed. He strode toward her and clasped her hand in his, his satiny smooth skin a revelation after experiencing the calloused palm of Lord Wesley. “Oh my. Is it truly you, K—Miss Holden? It’s been so long.”
Still in an astonished trance, he lifted her fingers and touched them to his cool lips, the same lips that once kissed her in the warm and happy sunshine of her youth.
She waited for her heart to lurch and for her spine to tingle from his attention. She waited until Lord Wesley cleared his throat loud enough to cause Claire to jump and Lady Sophia to place a shaky hand over her frail heart.
“I see you’ve met my cousin, Miss Holden. With what I’ve just witnessed, I assume it’s safe to say you know each other?” No syllable went unpronounced as Lord Wesley’s once confident stance shifted, his arms crossing over his chest, his legs locking into a stiff position.
Her throat dry, she answered him. “We…we do.”
Arthur’s features fell, and his eyes held a truthful regret. He said nothing, leaving her to blurt out the first thing that came to mind. “I trust Mrs. Rourke is well.”
Silence followed her words until, somewhere back in her memory, she recalled reading about his wife’s death. She squeezed her eyelids shut until the mortification of what she’d said faded enough for her to speak.
“I’m so very sorry,” she said.
Arthur smiled, still dimpled, still charming. “Thank you.”
She regarded Arthur’s ageless features, years of memories, heartache, and decisions descending on her like a relentless rainstorm. She shivered from the loneliness and rejection and then glanced up to find Lord Wesley stalking toward them. He stopped close to her. So close his hand brushed against hers.
“Now that introductions are out of the way, let us eat,” Lord Wesley said, stiffly. With everyone’s attention on Arthur, Kate slipped into her seat between Lady Sophia and Lilly, while Lord Wesley sat at the head of the table with Claire on his right and Arthur on his left.
The dinner table was laden with flickering candles, soup tureens, and frosted French wine decanters. She noticed he had three fewer footmen than most houses of this size. As well, the decorations seemed sparse on the painted red walls.
Throughout the first few courses, Lord Wesley’s conversation with Claire had pulled Kate into a jealous and prickly mood. Confused by her thoughts, she remained closed-lipped, with Arthur offering his attention to Lady Sophia, who seemed all too eager to oblige. This continued for an excruciating amount of time before Lord Wesley raised his voice to say, “So, how do you know Miss Holden, Arthur? You must tell us.”
Kate’s soupspoon clattered into her bowl and Arthur choked back a sip of wine, with Lady Sophia quick to toss him her starched napkin and pat him on the back, her breasts heaving against his left shoulder.
Lord Wesley relaxed into the wingback chair, one wrist resting next to his plate, the other hidden beneath the table.
Afraid to divulge anything about their relationship or her broken heart, Kate swallowed a reply. Lord Wesley blinked until finally turning to Arthur, who squirmed like a worm under his interrogation.
It appeared their relationship, once again, fell upon her shoulders. Choked with emotion, Kate cleared her voice and tried to speak in a detached tone. “Well,” Kate said, tossing an exasperating glance toward Arthur, “we met several years ago when I was fifteen.” And that’s where she left it, smiling and picking up her spoon and praying her hand didn’t tremble on the way up.
“Yes, I believe that has been well established.” Lord Wesley nodded, motioning with his hands to encourage her to continue.
Resigned to give in as Arthur’s weasel-like qualities bubbled to the surface, she sat back and contemplated her response. “Mr. Rourke was a friend of my cousin Edward, my lord.”
Kate’s attention remained steady on his lordship’s face. She could not help but smile and notice how his mouth twitched with what seemed like uncomfortable displeasure.
“As well, my lord, how exactly did you come to know my dear cousin?” Kate continued, her valor growing bolder. She hoped she was turning the tables in this cross-examination. She wanted Lord Wesley to confess, before everyone, the reason why he brought them all here.
To her dismay, the marquess’s neat eyebrows rose and his lips twisted into that devilish smirk meant to steal the virtue of women and scare the souls of men.
“Your cousin has something of mine I’d like to have returned to me.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if the “something” was as insignificant as a bottle of cheap wine.
The other guests at the table twisted their heads from her to Lord Wesley.
Kate nodded. “Have you thought, perhaps, my lord, Mr. Garrett does not believe this ‘something’ belongs to you any longer?”
Lord Wesley’s smile disappeared, swift and harsh, suddenly weakening her conviction.
“Trust me, Miss Holden, your cousin will change his mind very soon.”
Kate tried not to gasp or appear affected by his words. What did he have planned, not only for her and Edward but for the rest of them?
…
By the time Wesley called in the last course, his shoulder ached like the devil and he’d developed a pulsing headache just above his right eye.
It didn’t help how the woman Arthur had talked endlessly about for half a decade was the very one Wesley contemplated ruining.
He’d let his guard down, and he knew the moment the latch clicked open.
“So, of all the stories you told me about Miss Holden, or should I say, K, I don’t believe I remember how you two met,” Wesley said when he and Rourke were secure inside his study. Of course, Wesley knew the answer. He’d known the moment her gaze landed upon his cousin, a mask of astonishment and wonder overtaking her already bewitching face.
“She was such a child then,” Rourke began. “Pretty, trusting, devoted. She fed my soul like no other human being.”
“Yes, you’ve said that.” Wesley turned away and stared into the dark night, the once dismal sky now twinkling and cloudless. “On several occasions,” he added from behind his snifter of brandy.
“She loved me, you know.” His cousin laughed as if he’d told a joke and believed it funny yet inconsequential.
“No, I didn’t,” Wesley said from the window, Rourke’s reflection along with a dozen or so strewn candles shimmering in the glass before him.
“Like Juliet loved Romeo,” his cousin replied and raised his glass in a toast-like gesture. “She wrote the most poetic letters to me.”
Wesley fisted his free hand, repeating the words I don’t care over and over in his mind.
“I still remember one of her proses: ‘You are my life, my breath, my love.’”
Wesley exhaled at such a personal acknowledgment, the words recited as if they meant nothing to the recipient. To now put a face to the lady he’d heard so much about forced a slight tug of sympathy for Miss Holden. She’d suffered a foolish broken heart by an ignorant ass at such a young age.
Having had enough of the conversation, Wesley lifted his brandy and threw it back, the liquid burning all the way down to his gut.
“Now, though, cousin,” Rourke continued, unprompted. “She is a sight to behold. Her hands warm and her…heart…much more voluptuous.”
Wesley whirled around to face his ridiculous relative, ready to defend her reputation until he realized—he’d planned on having it destroyed. He also realized the lover everyone rumored her to have sat a mere fiv
e feet away. Only the story was a smidgeon true and severely out of date.
Frustrated and confused, Wesley rubbed a hand down the length of his face to gain his composure. He knew why his cousin had carried on with her and then decided not to marry her. “Are you very proud of yourself for what you did to Miss Holden?”
Rourke made a face and stood from his slouched position.
“Believe it or not, I had planned on requesting her father’s permission up until the night I met Samantha. Fifteen thousand pounds a year can persuade any man to change his mind, do you not agree?”
Wesley felt sick. He could not imagine a young girl’s heartbreak after learning the man she loved planned to marry someone else.
Agitated enough to move, Wesley turned to his desk and rested his backside on the edge, crossing his arms. “So how did you break the news to Miss Holden? She must have been devastated.”
Rourke’s mouth opened, but the words he’d planned on expressing never formed. Wesley waited until he realized his cousin had scurried like a rat away from the woman, leaving her to find out some other way than from his lips.
By chance, Wesley’s eyes shifted to the coat of arms. The dragons appeared to come to life, mocking him from where they stood above the mantel. He had to wonder if his family had been cursed by the creed, somehow living a life of dishonor and bad choices to affect the next generation.
“The devil!” he voiced aloud, bringing his hands up to rub at his forehead.
No! He would not feel sorry for her. He remained as much a victim of his father’s demons and her cousin’s ambitions.
“Come, let us return to the women. There is much to be had there,” Rourke said halfway out of the door.
Wesley shook his head to protest, but it was too late. His self-centered and ridiculous relative had disappeared through the door leading to the drawing room. Resigned to follow in case Rourke decided to pick up where he left off with Miss Holden, Wesley pushed away from his desk and tramped up behind him.
The muted women stood upon his entrance. For reasons he cared not uncover, he sought out Miss Holden first, her lithe form coming to light in front of the tall, rectangular window.
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