No. He never had. “Of course not,” she replied as calmly as she could manage. “You just need to…to protect yourself first. I do understand, Ned.”
She just wished she didn’t. She shut her eyes to stave off the salt prickle of tears. She wished she were impractical enough to threaten to run away. But this was what marriage meant: that even though she’d entered into another pretense with him, she would stay. She would learn to stop asking to become a part of his life. She would pretend that his refusal to trust her didn’t hurt. It was another disguise, one as cloying as the one he’d penetrated. And one a thousand times more painful. Because in this masquerade, she had to pretend that his distance didn’t hurt her. Even though it would, every single day.
He reached out and touched her, even now giving her strength that he would not accept in return.
She closed her eyes and let the feeling of loss run through her. His fingers were still on her elbow, strong and warm and steady. That steadiness ached now, and that gentle circling of his fingers against her seemed to sting some deep place inside of her.
Before the hurt could build up, she took her arm gently from his grasp and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FAT FLAKES OF EARLY SNOW were falling around the stores on Bond Street, but once they hit the ground, they melted into the slushy pavement. Kate remembered the little shop all too well; she’d visited it once, in that hectic flurry that followed her wedding. The night rail she’d purchased there, filmy and gauzy and full of hope, now sat in a chest of drawers in her room. She had used it only the once, a mere handful of days ago. It hadn’t worked as she’d intended it. And now it seemed a token of the dreams she’d once possessed: translucent and insubstantial. It wouldn’t have survived even a good hard rain.
The shop had placed bolts of fabric in the narrow window to advertise its wares. Behind the spread of silks and satins, some cheaper goods were laid out for the less privileged customers—thick, serviceable cottons and warm wools in sober colors. But the front of the display was taken up with colorful bolts of watered silk, satin, creamy muslin and fine striped cambric. Ribbons and lace and a welter of buttons were laid out in an eye-catching formation.
Kate’s eye was not caught by any of them. She brushed off the snow that had collected on her shoulders. In this weather, looking at all that filmy fabric just made her feel cold.
Before Ned had come back to England, she’d believed the feelings she’d harbored about him would simply dissipate over time. Now she wished they could. It was the marriages that could blow away that she envied. As if the people mired in them might simply close their eyes and puff and, like a dandelion, their wishes would be carried on the wind.
This thinking was rather too maudlin for Kate. She’d intended to go shopping; she was a duke’s daughter, and a wealthy gentleman’s wife. Everyone who was anyone—who’d read the gossip columns that were even now being distributed by dirty-faced postboys—would be watching her now. She was shopping, after all. She and Louisa would be famous for that for years.
And while she might wish things were different with Ned… Well. There was no use sobbing over what could not be. And so shopping she would go. Anywhere, that is, but here. She had no need for any more night rails.
Kate had just tipped up her nose and was on the verge of stalking past, in search of a really, truly incredible bonnet, when she felt something pull at her. She looked in the window of the shop more closely, at one of the bolts that her eyes had passed over before.
The fabric was not silky. It was not sheer. It was not the sort of fabric that a lady would use for a night rail. It was the sort of thing that a servant might order. Serviceable. Practical. Warm.
It had been a mistake to overlook that one. Hope tugged at her still, faint but unmistakable.
It wasn’t time for boots or bonnets.
No, she needed to purchase a night rail, after all.
THAT EVENING NED LAY IN BED, the cold of the room swirling around him. The predicament before him was impossible. For the moment Louisa was safe, but her husband still had a legal right to her. There would come a time when Harcroft might stand in court and simply demand that his wife be returned to him. They might be able to refuse, on grounds of cruelty, but no court in England would let Louisa keep her child.
The unscalable wall that was the law was as good a distraction as any from the pain in his leg, and an even better distraction from his conversation with Kate that afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to tell her. But then, after all that they’d been through, she deserved to know who he truly was—and why he couldn’t let himself slip, not even one little bit. The cold of the room helped with that.
He would rather think about Louisa. As little as he relished the prospect, he might call Harcroft out—death would solve all of Louisa’s problems. Except he wasn’t a particularly good shot, and fencing on a broken leg was simply out of the question. Besides, Ned didn’t think he could murder the man in cold blood, no matter what the bastard had done.
As for his other plan… He’d planned to draw Harcroft out himself, but how was that possible now?
In the midst of these thoughts, the door that connected Ned’s room to Kate’s swung inward on silent hinges. He didn’t hear it; it was only the movement of air that alerted him to her presence. He clumsily lurched onto his elbows. A warm breath wafted to him from her room.
Or maybe the warmth came from Kate herself. She had donned a night rail that trailed thick fabric, covering her hands, curling up to her neck. Far more demure than the flimsy scrap of material she’d put on before, and yet the tableau still struck him straight through to his gut. He forgot everything—the persistent, throbbing ache in his leg, the cramping worry that had taken over his mind.
Lit by moonlight, she seemed like some ethereal creature, scarcely touching her feet to the floor.
He swallowed. “Kate.” The word trailed off into nothingness. He didn’t know what to say to her.
She wanted to help him. It seemed such a reasonable thing for her to ask. From some other man, she would have had instant acquiescence.
But then, she’d married him. And he had nothing but a complex prickle of requirements that she had to negotiate. If he could not rely on himself, the only assurance he could offer her was the certainty of his failure. He’d failed before; he wouldn’t do so again. If he gave in to her demands, if he let himself grow soft…well, he’d barely be able to trust himself. He needed to be strong, not just for himself, but for her.
She held up one finger. “Shh,” she admonished. “Don’t say anything.”
And maybe she was right. Anything they said would disrupt this moment in the moonlight. It would break whatever spell ensorcelled him now. Words would only bring them back to reality.
She floated toward him. She was even walking silently, as if she were some unearthly spirit visiting him, rather than a woman composed of flesh and blood. The only sound she made coming forward was a gentle swish of fabric, coupled with the quiet exhalation of her breath. His own breath had stopped long ago. How, then, was his heart still thudding so monstrously?
Maybe this was the solution, then. To let their marriage lapse into this unreal thing by moonlight. No hard questions. No difficult thoughts.
She came up beside him and he turned on the bed to face her. The act caused his leg to twinge. Even the most ethereal of spirits could not hold off reality for long. Pounding rhythm did not, at this moment, appeal to him. Drat.
“I have a gift for you.” Her voice was low.
And oh, if he’d been able to get up on his knees, if he’d been able to grab hold of her and bring her beneath him, he would have had a gift for her, too. It was the only sort of gift he could imagine giving her, the silent caress of his body.
She lifted the thick material of her wool gown two inches, and set her foot on the bed next to him. He leaned forward, to trace a finger down her ankle—but caught up short. A discordant note sounded in the sylphlike fantasy he seemed to be having. She w
asn’t bare-footed like the pixie he’d imagined her to be. He glanced up at her in puzzlement.
“Stockings,” she explained. “Thick stockings.”
Her voice wasn’t low and spiritual; it was bright and cheerful. That tone sounded a second discordant note. He stared at her covered foot for just a moment too long, trying to reconcile his thoughts about ghosts and ethereal spirits with the undeniable oddness of warm, woolen stockings.
“Um,” he finally managed to say. “Stockings are the gift? Why are you wearing them?” He glanced dubiously at her tiny feet. “I don’t think they would fit me.”
She looked down at him and tilted his head up. “They’re for me. Like the night rail. So I can sleep with you in the cold.”
Something painful wrenched inside him. “Oh, Kate. There’s no need—”
She covered his mouth with her fingers. “You seem to be operating on the belief that when I tell you I want to help, that I want to swaddle you up so you can’t move and do everything for you. That’s not what it means, Ned. I want to help you. And if what you need is to make sure you feel strong, I will help you feel strong. If you need me to set you an impossible task just so you can complete it before breakfast, send me the word, and I’ll find you a dragon to tame. ‘Help’ need not be an empty, cloying affair. Sometimes…it really can help.” She sat down on the bed next to him and took his hand. “You don’t have to do everything alone anymore, Ned. Let me walk with you.”
His head buzzed. He felt it like a tickle in the back of his throat. It filled him, those words, and he couldn’t even say why or how or with what. He pressed their en tangled fingers to his forehead, as if he could push the burn of emotion away. She was not a sprite, then, come in moonlight to tiptoe away at dawn, but a woman—one better than he could have imagined. And she wasn’t going to leave.
He didn’t have to be alone. He didn’t have to leave some part of himself stuck out there, still on that sea. Maybe he didn’t have to fear himself any longer.
It seemed a foreign concept, odder than anything he’d ever experienced. And still he didn’t know what to say in response. In place of speech, he kissed her hand. When she didn’t draw away, he drew her down next to him and put his arms around her. Even the touch of his lips to hers seemed like an importunity; and besides, he would have to draw back from her to do it. He would have to pull his head from where it rested against her shoulder, and if he did that, she might see there was something suspiciously like moisture in his eyes. She could no doubt tell that his breath was already ragged.
But maybe she knew. And maybe she held him so closely, stroking his shoulder, because he didn’t have to be alone any longer, not even in this final discovery of her. When his breath stopped racking his body, when he let out one last shaky exhale against her collarbone, he realized she’d been right. He was stronger for having her, not weaker. They lay next to each other, exchanging careful caresses. The comfort overwhelmed him.
“Do you know what it means, to help me?” He finally spoke against the edge of her collar. He was drifting off to sleep; his eyes would not stay open.
“Of course I do.” She sounded amused. And then she leaned forward. He could feel the bed shift under her weight, the heat of her against his face. Then she kissed his eyelids slowly. “It means I love you.”
“Oh.”
So that’s what love looked like—not some stifling, too-careful creature, who wanted to cut his meat into digestible pieces for him. It was something bigger, more robust. He ought to say something in return, he knew, but she was still running her hands across him, and for the first time in longer than he knew, he felt safe. Not alone.
He drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, she was still with him, a solid, warm presence. Overnight, all of the nonsense, all of his fears, the sheer impossibility of their situation seemed to have become manageable. He knew precisely what they needed to do about Harcroft, and now he finally knew how to do it.
For a long while, he watched her, afraid to disturb her rest. When her eyes finally fluttered open and met his, a slow smile spread across her face. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Some things were even harder than walking a handful of miles on a broken leg. But then, Ned had gotten quite good at doing things he didn’t want to do. He looked his wife in the eye.
“Kate,” he said softly. He took a deep breath and held her hand, for courage. “I am going to need your help.”
LONDON SOCIETY often constructed rumors out of nothing but glances, and gossip from little more than a few wrinkles on a gown. So it was no surprise when Ned discovered that everyone had taken an avaricious interest in the matter between Harcroft and his wife. Everyone knew that Louisa was staying with the Carharts—and speculation as to the reason ran rampant.
The most likely possibility listed in the betting books, was the one Louisa had announced in the courtroom—she was angry with her husband for putting her dearest friend in jeopardy of life and limb. But there were other theories.
Kate sorted the gossip papers into little stacks on the breakfast table. “Feminine pique,” she murmured. “Feminine pique. Masculine bravado. Feminine pique.” She looked up at him. “That makes three for feminine pique.”
“And nobody,” Ned said dryly, “has noticed there are double petitions filed in Chancery, on the subject of madness?”
Kate shook her head. “These things are kept quiet, you know. And besides, the petitions weren’t posted in a ballroom or penned in a betting book. The ton is substantially less likely to notice them.”
Ned smiled and felt a grim sense of satisfaction. Everyone knew there were only three ways to end a marriage. Divorce—but Harcroft would retain all rights to his son, and so the result was unacceptable. Annulment—but it would be impossible to prove nonconsummation, particularly given aforementioned son. And there was death, but nobody had the stomach to kill the man.
And with Harcroft’s suit pending in Chancery—a suit that claimed Louisa was mentally incompetent—her ability to testify even in divorce proceedings might be cast into doubt. If he had her declared a lunatic, his victory over her would be complete. He would not only be her husband, but her guardian, the trustee of all her care.
For the first time in days, Ned smiled.
Everyone knew there were only three ways for a marriage to come to an end.
Everyone was wrong. And tonight, Harcroft was going to discover it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
KATE WAS NOT ENTIRELY SURE of their ability to succeed when they arrived at the musicale. Her role for the evening had been set out and discussed, time and again. She was to keep Harcroft away from Louisa for as long as she could, and make him as angry as possible in the process.
This objective turned into a dance—one in which the steps were constantly thwarted by the other members of the ton, who hoped that Lord and Lady Harcroft would strike public sparks. Kate led Louisa from one room on a pretext; minutes later, Harcroft followed. On one of their stops, Kate caught a glimpse of the Lord Chancellor, decked out in his full regalia. The gold-embroidered stripes on the sleeves of his robes glittered in the shining lights.
He turned when he saw Kate and Louisa enter the room, but it wasn’t yet time for Kate to make their introductions. Besides, the Chancellor was Ned’s bailiwick. She ushered Louisa from that room quickly.
It was only when Harcroft began to show signs of distress—a tight line drawn across his forehead, and his hands clenching in his gloves—that Kate brought Louisa to the last refuge.
With everyone in the music hall and the adjoining rooms, the ballroom was dark and deserted. In the corner, a screen had been set up; behind it, a door led to the servants’ quarters. The two women hurried across the room. Kate left Louisa behind the screen and turned to face the entry.
She heard the door open behind her.
It took Harcroft a few seconds to find her shape in the darkness. She saw his silhouette in the doorway
. He stared at her and shook his head. Finally, he started toward her, footsteps slapping in percussive rhythm across the floor.
“And what have we here?” Harcroft sounded tired. “Why, it’s Kathleen Carhart. Are you proud of yourself? Do you wake every morning, delighting in the knowledge that you bested me? Your success won’t last long.”
“What sort of nonsense is this, Harcroft?” Kate did not let her voice drop. She could hear her response echoing throughout the hall, around the parquet dance floor. She hoped their words carried far enough. “Bested you?” The door to the servants’ quarters was behind that screen, she reminded herself. He couldn’t see behind it—and Kate still had not heard that door close behind Louisa. She would just have to trust that this would all work out.
“So you’re playing the innocent.” He stepped forward again. “You’ve made a mockery of my marriage, and all in the name of…shopping. You made the sacred frivolous. You’ve stolen from me.”
He advanced on her. Slowly she backed away from him. Her back hit the ballroom wall distressingly quickly.
“Harcroft, I think you might need to sit down. Rest a bit.”
He grabbed for her wrist and twisted it.
“Don’t do that.” Kate spoke calmly, although she could feel her pulse beat threadily in his grip. Nobody could see her; at best, she had to hope that someone would hear what was happening. “Harcroft. Let go of my wrist. You don’t need to resort to violence. Not again. We can resolve this rationally.”
“I don’t believe I hit you hard enough last time.”
He raised his fist; Kate ducked. She pulled her wrist from his grasp, and his hand hit the wall behind her.
“Be careful—you might hurt yourself,” she suggested, and the glint in her eyes made the suggestion less kind than her solicitous tone suggested. “Harcroft…”
He whirled around swiftly. “Goddamn you,” he spat out. Before she could react, he set his hands against her shoulders and shoved, pushing her off balance at an odd angle. The hard wood floor smacked against her backside with bruising force; her head missed the wall by inches. He dropped to his knees and leaned over her, pinning her shoulder to the floor.
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