by Regina Scott
“Why not? Surely you have had other suitors since I left.”
Her silence said otherwise.
“Kitty.” He took her hand again, her fingers stiff in his. “I promise you the most devoted, besotted betrothal. No one will doubt my admiration for you. Every one of them will have cause to rue the day they made light of you. You can retire to your moor with your head high, if it comes to that. Please say you will go along with my plan.”
Her gaze searched his face as if she could see more than the earnestness he’d erected. He willed her to agree. She could not know how cruelly her uncle had pressed his father, how he’d undermined their efforts to sell their sugar in England. Quentin had to keep Sir Thomas busy for the next few days if his plan to thwart the tyrant was to succeed. He’d been struggling to find a way to get onto the estate. What better than an engagement? Just the idea of Quentin joining the Chapworth family would be enough to drive Sir Thomas mad.
Just say yes, Kitty!
He must indeed have been convincing, for she nodded.
“Very well. I will join you in this engagement of convenience. I only hope it does not prove highly inconvenient for us both.”
Chapter Four
Kitty wandered back to the grange, Bollers dutifully at her side.
“Should I wish you happy, miss?” he’d asked when she came out of the folly, making her wonder how much of the conversation he’d overheard.
“Very likely not,” she’d told him. Indeed, she was already chiding herself for agreeing to Quentin’s outrageous plan. She wanted to help him, even if her role in his ostracism had been small. Seeing him prosper in some way undid the wrong Eugenia had done by betraying him and Kitty. Now she had only to wait until he called later that morning to put his plan into action.
She shook her head as she crossed the lawn. Quentin truly had changed while away from England. He seemed more determined, more in control of himself. He must take his position seriously to want to mend the rift between their families. If she’d had a chance to make peace with the man who’d beaten her, she’d have been more tempted to spit in his eye!
Only one of the gentlemen bowlers glanced up at her as she passed. Mr. Fredericks, one of the fellows in Lucy’s train, offered her a friendly smile. The rest ignored her. She was the chaperone, after all. No call to impress her. As it was, they seemed decidedly at loose ends without her fair cousin among them. Kitty went in search of Lucy.
The girl was awake and sitting up in bed—dewy-eyed and sweet-faced, despite the adventures of the night.
“Oh, Kitty,” she said, patting the brocade coverlet beside her. “Please, sit and talk to me. I don’t know how I shall go on today without Clive.”
Her look was more earnest than wretched, as if she were simply seeking an answer to a puzzle.
“I am certain you will survive,” Kitty told her, perching on the edge of the tester bed. “I know you felt yourself in love, sweetness, but it was clearly not reciprocated.”
Lucy sighed with great feeling. Eugenia had been similarly melodramatic, all to great effect, Kitty now knew. At least Lucy was honest about her emotions.
“You have had any number of suitors,” Kitty reminded her. “Did no one else touch your heart?”
Lucy rubbed her hand against the rose-colored fabric. “All of them touched my heart in some way. I never imagined there were so many presentable fellows in the world.”
“Well, we have several in attendance at our party,” Kitty said, fighting a smile. “Perhaps one of them will rise above the others.”
Lucy brightened at that, and Kitty directed the maid to dress Lucy in the blue cambric gown with the full sleeves, the one that brought out the sparkle in her eyes. Kitty’s gray lutestring was nearly as fine. Though Uncle preferred her to dress in drab colors as befitting a chaperone, he would not stand for any lady in his household wearing less than the finest materials, seeing as how it would reflect on him.
Still, her cousin might have been gowned in sackcloth, and the gentlemen would pursue her. They flocked to the lovely Lucy, even as they had to her older sister Eugenia. Lucy was far kinder and sweeter. Her chief fault lay in the fact that she was so very biddable. While it had stood her in good stead with her quarrelsome older sisters, all of whom adored her, it did not help her make decisions, about anything.
Once Lucy was dressed and coifed for the morning, they made their way to the library to bid Sir Thomas good morning, as was their custom. The paneled corridors, the elegant staircase, were thoroughly familiar to Kitty. She’d learned the history of the house at an early age. Chapworth Grange had been built in the 1600s, when their shared ancestor had been granted a baronetcy and estate for his services to the Crown. But each generation had attempted to expand its glory. Now the warm stone manor looked out across the Somerset countryside, with a reflecting pond and deep lawn directly at the back, terraced gardens alongside, and a sweeping drive at the front. Her uncle was the king of all he surveyed.
And he knew it.
He leaned back in the leather-bound chair as they entered, brown banyan encasing his widening girth, booted feet upon a cushioned hassock, and The Times open on his lap.
“There’s my girl,” he proclaimed with a nod to Lucy. “Come here, child. Are you enjoying your party?”
“Oh, yes, Father,” she said as she went to sit on the chair nearest his. Kitty took her usual place on the settee among the glass-fronted bookcases. She knew she was not the only Chapworth to take comfort in the surrounding sea of knowledge, the tomes crammed close together and dog-eared from generations of use. A shame she could not be certain her uncle had ever availed himself of their wisdom.
Now she could not help studying him to gauge his mood. She’d learned the telltale signs of anger well over the years. His bulbous nose would darken; his blue eyes would turn sharp as glass. And one hand would tighten into a fist. The best thing to do at such times was disappear until he took his temper out on something that felt no pain.
Now his customary bright smile sat on his florid face; his hands rested on the belly that strained the tie on his banyan.
“And what have you done with your newest toy, eh?” Uncle asked Lucy. “I did not see Mr. Bitterstock at the breakfast table with the other gentlemen.”
“Well, I . . .” Lucy glanced to Kitty, blue eyes wide in an obvious plea for help.
Kitty straightened her skirts around her on the settee. “Alas, Mr. Bitterstock remembered he had pressing business in London. I fear he will miss the remainder of the party.”
“Run off on you, has he?” her uncle said to Lucy. “Shall I set the hounds on him?”
“No, thank you, Father,” Lucy said. “Kitty already offered.”
Kitty kept her head down. Perhaps that was why her first indication that things were about to get worse was the butler, Ramsey, clearing his throat.
“Mr. Quentin Adair to see you, Sir Thomas.”
It took every ounce of will not to react. Kitty studied her hands as his boots made soft thuds on the Axminster carpet. She would have to chide their maid, for her stays felt overly tight. She could not look up as Quentin spoke her cousin’s name in greeting, thanked her uncle for receiving him.
“So you’ve crawled back to Somerset,” Sir Thomas said.
Kitty cringed at the superior tone.
“I left a prosperous plantation to see about my father’s health,” Quentin replied, his tone polite and polished.
“Ah, yes.” She heard Sir Thomas shift on the chair. “Your father has been droning on about your endeavors in Jamaica, how you turned the plantation around. Made a name for yourself, I take it.”
Kitty looked up in time to see Quentin spread his hands. Funny how one glance at him and everyone else vanished. The black cutaway coat was commanding, his boots gleaming, and what she could see of his cravat spotless. Did he instruct his valet to make his hair curl so effortlessly, or was that nature? Her fingers itched to touch the dark strands.
She fisted
her hands instead.
“I am what you see,” Quentin was telling her uncle. “A man determined to return to the bosom of his family and friends.”
Prettily said, but why he thought to find any friends here was beyond her.
Her uncle slapped his hands down on the chair’s arms. “Good for you. Unfortunately, we are entertaining at present. I cannot spare Lucy to visit with you.”
Quentin offered him a bow. “Understandable. I believe this was her first Season, and I hear she is tremendously popular.”
Lucy blushed becomingly and lowered her eyes.
“I came for another reason,” Quentin continued. “I have longed to speak with Miss Chapworth.”
Uncle frowned as if he could not understand.
Play the game, Kitty reminded herself. She pasted on a smile. “I’d be delighted to speak with you, Mr. Adair.”
“Are you ailing?” her uncle demanded, peering at her. “Haven’t seen a woman look so green since your aunt cast up her accounts. See here, Kitty, I won’t have you ruining the party for my guests.”
“I wager it won’t be sickness that strikes the other guests around Miss Chapworth,” Quentin put in smoothly, with a smile to Kitty, “unless it’s love sickness.”
“Eh?” Uncle looked at him askance. “Did you spend too much time in the Jamaican sun, boy? You can’t be talking about Kitty.”
Much more of this and she would speak her mind to her uncle, which was never a good idea. Kitty gathered her skirts and rose.
“Perhaps we should take our conversation elsewhere, Mr. Adair, so as not to disturb my uncle. Will you promenade with me in the garden?”
“Charmed, Miss Chapworth,” he said, holding out his arm to her. Then he glanced at her uncle. “If you can spare her delightful company, sir.”
Her uncle blinked his protruding eyes. “Well, certainly. Go on, girl.”
Lips pressed tight, she placed her hand on Quentin’s muscular arm and let him lead her from the room.
“Clamp your jaw any tighter, and you’ll likely break a tooth,” Quentin said as the carved door shut behind them with a funereal thud.
She made a face at him. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have to grit my teeth if your conversation wasn’t so sickeningly sweet.”
“We are supposed to be besotted, madam,” he reminded her as he led her down the corridor to where twin glass-paned doors provided access to the gardens.
“And how exactly did that happen?” she challenged. “We haven’t spoken to each other in ten years.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, holding the door open for her. The sunlight caught on her auburn hair, setting flames dancing along the length. There was something determined, purposeful about her. Perhaps it was the way she glided along beside him, gray skirts fluttering about her slippers, as if nothing or no one could break her stride.
“And you concluded?” she prompted as they walked past the reflecting pond where urns displayed a profusion of flowers.
“We wrote to each other,” he explained, “sending the letters through my father.”
“I did, you know.” Her gaze clung to the stone-paved walk rather than her reflection in the pond. “I wrote you a letter of apology. You never responded.”
“I never received it,” he said, starting down the stone steps to the next terrace, where bright blooms perfumed the air. “I wrote once to Eugenia. She never responded.”
“She wouldn’t have.” She sighed. “She truly isn’t the shining star we all thought her, Quentin. She wasn’t worthy of you.”
Now, there was a switch. All his life, he’d been told his family wasn’t as good as the Chapworths in their grange on the hill. He’d been stunned and flattered when he’d come upon the beautiful Eugenia while riding one day to find her more than willing to speak with him. An hour of her charming company, and he’d become her most devoted follower. Weeks of secret meetings and a few fervent kisses had convinced him their love was real, real enough to offer her his mother’s pearl ring in token. Now he knew she’d seen him merely as a challenge, a test of her standing, to pull him away from Kitty. What a fool he’d been!
Was he any less foolish now, hoping to stop Sir Thomas from ruining his family? The old fox had hidden his tracks well. It had taken Quentin months to determine why their shipments of sugar languished so long on the Bristol docks, finally going for pennies on the pound. Sir Thomas had worked through intermediaries to bribe the customs officers and port officials. As Kitty said, her uncle still bore a grudge.
All the more reason to convince him to trust Quentin.
“Eugenia no longer haunts my thoughts,” he told Kitty as they walked through the avenue of greenery that led to the lower lawn.
“Yet you never married,” she said with a glance his way. “Was there no daughter of a plantation owner to tempt you?”
He chuckled. “I was too busy working to pay much attention to society.”
“What’s it like?” she asked. “Jamaica and the sugar plantation?”
He could give her the usual answer he supplied people asking about his work, that Jamaica was hot and humid and they were well off staying in England. But he sensed she was truly interested.
“When I think of Jamaica,” he said, “I think of color—red flowers and dusky green palms, water as blue as a sapphire. I think of people with warm smiles and willing hearts.”
Her face puckered. “Slaves.”
“No,” he said. “I have only freedmen on my plantation, and they earn a share of all profits. We may on occasion have been less prosperous, but our workers want to work.”
“And did you not miss your family?” she asked. “England?”
“Only at Christmas.” Without really meaning to, he found himself prosing on about life in the Indies, answering her eager questions, sharing stories he had told no one but his father. Something about Kitty made it easy to talk, to share his thoughts. He had forgotten how companionable they had been before he’d stupidly decided to pursue her cousin.
They came to the end of the avenue, and she touched his arm to stop him. Ahead, a young man and woman were strolling, heads together, as they came closer to Quentin and Kitty.
“That is Mr. Danvers and Miss Gaffney,” she said, “Lucy’s friends from London. Do you wish me to introduce you as we come abreast?”
“No,” he said, going down on one knee. “I wish you to accept my proposal of marriage.”
Chapter Five
Kitty stared as Quentin took her hand and cradled it in his. His dark eyes gazed up at her, earnest with entreaty.
“Darling Kitty,” he said, deep voice ringing, “I have thought of you often over the years of my cruel exile. Never do I wish us to be parted again. Can you find it in your heart to look kindly on my suit?”
He ought to have gone on the stage. Every part of him seemed tensed to hear her answer, as if he had any doubt of it. Even if they had not reached an agreement on this engagement of convenience, what woman of any character would have refused him?
How could she refuse him?
“Miss Chapworth?” Miss Gaffney’s incredulous gasp lent steel to Kitty’s spine.
She beamed down at Quentin. “Yes, my dear Quentin. Nothing would make me happier than to play the role of your bride.”
He sprang to his feet and swept her into his arms. Before she knew what he was about, his lips met hers.
And the world disappeared.
She’d always wondered what it would be like to share a kiss. It actually sounded rather messy. What if he had eaten onions for dinner or did not follow Mr. Brummel’s advice to bathe regularly? And what was she to do about her nose, which, though not overly large, was certainly bigger than the little buttons her cousins had been blessed with.
But the moment Quentin’s lips touched hers, none of that mattered. The gentle pressure, the sweet caress, made her bones liquid, and she wrapped her arms about his waist to stay upright as sensation after sensation rolled through her.
Quentin pulled back to eye Kitty, and, for a moment, his smile looked as wobbly as she felt. Then he turned to the side, slipped an arm about her shoulders, and held out his free hand to the other man.
“Gladly accepted, sir, for I am the most fortunate of fellows.”
“Mr. Danvers, Miss Gaffney,” she said, amazed her brain was capable of coherent thought, “may I present my betrothed, Quentin Adair, late of Jamaica. His family’s estate lies to the north of Chapworth Grange.”
“I’ve known Kitty since I was a callow youth,” Quentin told them after accepting their good wishes. “Never did I think she would agree to marry me.”
“And why not?” the honey-haired Miss Gaffney said with a pretty smile. “You are clearly a gentleman who knows what he wants from life.”
Did all women look at him so adoringly? Miss Gaffney’s blue eyes positively glowed as she gazed up at him. Was she hard of hearing or simply dense that she did not remember that Quentin was now engaged?
My word. Just because her name was Kitty did not mean she must show her claws.
“Indeed.” The dapper Mr. Danvers, brown hair carefully arranged around a pleasant face, was gazing at Quentin more thoughtfully. “I’m certain I’ve heard your name before. Were you at Eton?”
“Alas, no,” Quentin replied. “I learned at the vicar’s knee. And I’ve been spending the last few years managing the family lands in Jamaica, so I doubt our paths crossed.” He turned to Kitty. “Let us tell your uncle our good news, my dear. I know he will be delighted.”
Somehow, she doubted that.
Mr. Danvers and Miss Gaffney followed them to the house as if intent on seeing the second act of the play they had interrupted. Kitty left them in the entry hall, where Lucy was welcoming the latest arrivals, an older couple named Eglantine with two giggling debutantes who immediately eyed Quentin as he passed. She wanted to shout, “Engaged!”