It wasn’t just what he did to her senses. She had enough of them left to realize that marrying a man for one attribute, however agreeable, would be folly. Just as a woman who married for money was a fool because if the fellow lost his fortune, she’d be stuck with the man, physical attraction was very fine but it might also be fleeting. Then, if it ever paled or was somehow lost, she’d be stuck with the man behind the male. But Alasdair was man and male enough for any woman.
He said he longed to lie with her as much as talk with her. She certainly understood that. She was delighted simply to sit and talk with him. She valued his opinion and sought his good opinion of herself. He was reserved, but warm, cool but caring, a mass of contradictions that fascinated her. And she loved to laugh with him. Of course, he lured her senses, too, and though she wasn’t sure just what she’d be getting into, she couldn’t wait to find out. In all, and in truth, she’d never known she was incomplete until she’d grown to know him. Now she didn’t know if she could ever be whole again without him. He lent balance and weight to her life.
So the thought of having to sit so far from his arms and yet so near to him for another hour, much less another year, horrified her. And the suggestion that she might have to sit a hundred miles away from him for that whole year, only dreaming of even this frustrating closeness, devastated her.
She wondered if he felt the same way, and was suddenly afraid to ask. Because maybe he did want her to take that year away from him. Because maybe, in spite of his kiss, and those yearning looks, he wasn’t ready for marriage—at least, not to her.
He saw her expression change from frustrated chagrin to something too much like fear. He saw the shadow come into her eyes, her lips parting in a suddenly indrawn breath as she looked at him with worried speculation. And then he saw her small, white teeth begin to worry at her plump lower lip.
A man could only take so much.
He pushed back his chair and surged to his feet. He reached for her, and didn’t have to take a step forward because suddenly she was on her feet and in his arms. He held her close and rocked her, one hand clipped round her waist, the other splayed on her back, pressing her near as he whispered, “What? What is it? What’s the matter, Kate? Tell me, please.”
He felt the breath hitch in her chest, “Oh, Alasdair. Have I presumed? What do I know of such things? Maybe it’s only right to wait a year. I don’t want to step wrong, I don’t know how to go right—Lord, when it comes to you, I don’t know a thing! Tell me the right thing to do, please, Alasdair.”
He did.
He drew back and cupped her face in both hands. He searched her eyes and saw no fear of him, but only some deep disquiet that slowly changed to the same helpless, hopeless longing that he felt as he stared at her. Satisfied, he brought his lips to hers.
There was nothing like her kiss. He marveled at it. There was nothing like the sweetness of her mouth, the special essential taste of Kate, the touch of her tongue that sent shivers along his neck, where her hands were now clutching him, locking him right where he wanted to be. He was a man who knew infinite and intricate variations of lovemaking. He knew the ways of the human body at lovemaking better than most physicians did, because he’d been taught much and discovered more in many lands, from expert partners, and yet he’d never felt anything so good as her kiss. It made him want more, but it was so incredibly delicious that even if he were never permitted more, he thought her kiss would be enough.
…for a few minutes.
Because, as if of its own accord, now one of his hands sought the roundness of her bottom. She willingly pressed closer. Her hand touched his hair as his mouth sought to taste the corner of her ear. “Kate,” he murmured into that ear, delighting at how his breath caused her dainty shudders, “Not a year. Never a year. My God, not a minute more, but certainly not a year.”
“Because of…this?” she asked, and he could feel her body tense and hear the trace of sorrow in her voice.
“Of course.” He laughed and kissed her neck. “And this, and this,” he added as he drew a line of kisses down to her shoulder. He was a very tall man, but had no trouble doubling over so he could avail himself of what she offered. He cupped her breast, drawing the neck of her gown down so he could kiss more of her perfumed, rising flesh. “And this…But also because I do love you.”
He drew back, marginally, and locked both hands behind her back, holding her as though they were connected at the waist. Tilting back a fraction so he could watch her expression, he added softly, “I don’t want to sit in stasis for a calendar year, just to placate the gossips. Nor will it matter. Be sure, my reputation will precede me, even if we pass this test, there will be others.
“Kate,” he said seriously, “I’ll never be able to smile at another female without there being suspicion. I won’t be able to come home late to dinner without causing gossip. I promised you before, I’ll do it again: I will never betray you. I hope you continue to believe me, but I assure you others will always doubt me. If you can accept that, then, yes, accept me now. A year won’t make a difference, except to torment us more. Ten, twenty, won’t matter either. I’m flattered and relieved that you want to marry now. Nothing could please me more. Let’s do it.”
She smiled up at him. He let out a sigh of relief. She closed her eyes. His lips were only centimeters from hers, he lowered his head to remedy that miscalculation.
“Kate!” a shocked voice said.
Alasdair’s head went up, and he stepped back. He kept one hand around Kate’s waist, but the other fell to his side. Kate turned a flushed, dazed face to her cousin, Lady Swanson. Sibyl and Henrietta were by their mother’s side. They all stared. Kate’s lips were swollen, her curls mussed, her gown askew. She looked confused, as though she’d just been pulled out of bed during an erotic dream.
“Kate and I have decided that we’d like our wedding to go forth as soon as possible after the banns have been read,” Alasdair said. He looked cool and collected—if one ignored the strain in his eyes, and the slightly elevated color on his lean cheeks.
Sibyl was big-eyed; her sister Henrietta stared at the couple enviously.
“So soon?” Lady Swanson said in a faltering voice, gazing from one flushed face to the other.
Alasdair drew himself up. “As there’s no reason for a hasty wedding except for our own eagerness to begin a life together, I’d think that those three weeks, plus the two since our adventure, and perhaps three more, should be enough to eventually quell the gossips. And if not, we simply don’t give a damn, madam.”
“Yes, so I see,” Lady Swanson said. “And so, discretion being the better part of valor, I find I must agree. Because speak of discretion! If there’s not a problem now, there may be one tomorrow. At tea! Sir Alasdair, it is simply not done.”
“I agree,” he said, wooden-faced. “Nor would I have guessed I’d do it. So, eight weeks of waiting is certainly long enough, you’ll agree?”
“Only if the waiting is observed during those weeks, sir,” she said sternly.
He winced. “You’ve my word on it,” he said. “Kate?”
“What? Oh, yes,” she said, blinking like an owl at sunrise. “Oh my! Eight weeks, yes, please.”
Alasdair sat in the bath with a cigarillo clenched between his teeth, and scrubbed at his back with a sponge. “Yes, it’s six weeks from now,” he muttered through his cigarillo. “The invitation was waiting when you got back to London because we sent them soon as they were ready. We got them out today. The ink must still be wet. You were out of town when it was decided. I sent a letter telling you, but it must have been delivered to Boxwood as you were leaving it. Nothing amiss, was there?”
“No,” Leigh said, “Estate matters. But a wedding in six weeks?”
“Eight when we decided. By the time the arrangements were settled enough to issue invitations it was six. Believe me, I keep count. Leigh, I’m as astonished as you are.”
His friend leaned back against the porcelain fittings
in Alasdair’s sumptuous bathing room. “I’m delighted. So I assume there’ll soon be another St. Erth arriving on this poor old planet to pester the virtuous and otherwise complicate people’s lives?”
Alasdair surged up from the porcelain bath he’d been sitting in. He stood, soapy water sluicing down his body, slopping over the rim of the bath to the mosaic floor tiles. His eyes narrowed, he clutched his sponge till it flowed like a spigot. He was a powerful man and every muscle in his body was corded with tension, most of them on view. He looked dangerous, but his friend only stood and watched him with an expression of inquiry.
“No,” Alasdair said through teeth clenched so hard on the cigarillo that they met in the middle. “There is not. By God!” he muttered, obviously checking whatever he was going to say next. He cast the cigarillo into the bathwater and, picking up a bucket of water, poured it over his head to rinse the soap away. “You too?” he asked angrily as he stomped out of the tub and snatched up a towel.
“You could simply say no,” Leigh said mildly. “Now your man is going to have to spend the night mopping. There’s no sense building yourself such a lavish modern bath if you’re going to treat it like a woodland stream. So, it is no? I don’t mean to be insulting, but given how lovely she is and how powerfully you react to her, plus how soon you’re getting married, I am surprised.”
Alasdair ran a hand over his sopping hair. He gave Leigh a level look. “There is no way on earth she could produce another St. Erth right now, trust me on that. I know the proprieties and that she values them, and have some semblance of dignity and a scrap of discretion left to me. As well as control. The problem is that it’s eroding.” He tossed the towel over his hair and rubbed at it. When his head emerged again, his lips were lifted in a curious smile. “Leigh, the thing is, I can’t keep my hands off her. Me! Isn’t that absurd?”
Leigh smiled. “No, that’s very good.”
“But even at teatime! Tea time, in the Swanson parlor! Her aunt walked in along with Sibyl and one of those fierce older sisters. They were shocked. By God, I was shocked. We were entangled, but vertical, you can put your eyebrows down now. But that’s not like me. I seem to have no control when it comes to Kate, and so I reason we’re better off marrying now. Leigh, she’s wonderful. I’m lucky beyond my deserts. I’m glad my body made up my mind for me. I don’t believe I deserve her, but I can’t and won’t disgrace her or give her any more cause for concern. Given my past, and the way gossip flies, she’ll have enough on her plate just by marrying me. There’s nothing for it but wedlock, as soon as may be.”
Leigh picked up a shaving brush and admired its silver handle. “Will it be lucky for her, too?” he asked softly.
“I intend to make it so.”
“And so you’re giving up your vengeful plans for her cousins?” Leigh asked too mildly.
Alasdair swung around and padded out to the door to his dressing room and waiting valet. “No of course not,” he said over his shoulder. “The best is yet to come. But don’t worry, and don’t nag at me. It’s almost done. You can wait here, or in the library,” he added before Leigh could ask any questions. “I’ll only be a moment, then we can be off to dinner. Then, it’s the theater, isn’t it?” He stopped and turned. “Come to think of it, this may be your final performance at the theater, at least on my behalf. I thank you for all your help, but my mission’s accomplished. You don’t have to shepherd the littlest Swanson anymore.”
“Yes, maybe so,” Leigh said. “But if I suddenly cut the child off, it would hurt her feelings, I think. I’ll keep accompanying you, if I may, and with Sibyl in tow, at least for a while longer. Given the circumstances, even if she doesn’t need me, you may. You need someone who feels free to stop you when you verge on something ill-advised. Kate’s obviously too besotted by your famous charm. On the other hand, I am not. If I’d been with you at that fateful tea, you might not be sending out invitations so hurriedly now. For example, I knew you weren’t going to hit me when you emerged from the tub. The time to worry about you is when you least think you have to. I’ll wait downstairs,” he added, as Alasdair laughed.
Alasdair dressed in silence, only replying to his valet in monosyllables, his thoughts far from cravats and waistcoats. Lately he found himself enjoying thoughts of where Kate would be and what they’d soon be doing when were married, especially as he engaged in the most intimate, commonplace activities. He was dressing to go out for the evening. If they were already wed, would she be perched on his bed, casting a critical eye on his toilette? Or would she hint his valet from the room and help him undress instead?
He blinked. Would she want her own bedchamber? He’d have to remember to ask her that, and pretend to be pleased if she did. No, he wanted her with him when he woke in the morning and went to sleep at night. He’d better state his preference, because she was still shy of him. By God, he couldn’t wait to see what he could do to end that. He smiled, thinking of all the ways he could.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” his valet asked, because he was done ministering to his master, yet Sir Alasdair stood, not moving from the spot. The valet’s keen eye could see nothing amiss. His master’s hair was brushed and shining, his jacket fit his broad shoulders without a wrinkle, his black satin evening breeches were flawless, his high neckcloth a work of art, his hose spotless. In all the man was perfection.
“What? Oh. No, you’ve done well, as always,” Alasdair said. “I was just thinking…Don’t wait up for me.”
Alasdair took the long stair downstairs. “No time to dawdle,” he called to Leigh as he did, summoning him from the library. His butler helped him on with his evening cape. He took his walking stick, and went to the door his footman, Paris, held open.
Then he paused.
“A moment,” he told Leigh. “Was the invitation delivered?” he asked Paris.
“Yes, sir, as you asked.”
“And was there an answer?”
“No, sir. But I told their man that he was to give it directly into their hands, and I’d wait for an answer, as you said I should. I waited, and when he returned he said they’d read it, but that neither of the Scalbys had an answer.”
“Very good,” Alasdair said.
“You said it was almost done,” Leigh murmured as they went out the door. “It seems far from it. What will you do if they do come to the wedding? Surely you can’t mean to accost them there? With all their family around them? And Kate, on her special day?”
Alasdair gave him a tilted smile. “Surely? A word I seldom use. I don’t know what I’ll do if they come. But neither do they, and there’s the pleasure in it.”
Leigh stopped on the pavement. “A wedding is a holy event,” he said sternly.
“And the Scalbys are unholy,” Alasdair retorted. “Let be. The plan has a life of its own now. Love is one thing, justice, another. They have nothing to do with one another. If my wedding is accompanied by unholy glee at a final victory, how much sweeter the taste of my wedding feast. What better gift could I be given? For that matter, what better gift for Kate than a husband with a free heart and mind? A clear future, all grudges forgotten, all debts paid—and paid in spades.”
“In front of her?”
“Give me more credit than that,” Alasdair said. “If it’s done in back of her, it’s just as good for me.”
“But can you give them more credit? Even snakes fight for their lives.”
“Their lives, as they knew them, are already over. They know it. Why else are they in hiding? Do you think they’d actually come? The invitation is merely a knife to twist in their wounds. I’ll settle it before I face the minister. I have six weeks, after all. Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo took less time, for that matter, so did Creation itself. Forget it. Don’t worry. I don’t.”
Leigh gave him a troubled look as they stepped into Alasdair’s carriage. Alasdair told the coachman to drive on, and as they did, he chatted with his friend as though he hadn’t a care in his head. He’d told Leig
h the truth. Tonight, he didn’t worry. He refused to. He didn’t forget, though. He never did.
25
Kate’s parents didn’t dislike him, Alasdair realized, or even distrust him, in spite of his reputation. They just didn’t want him.
Marion Corbet was a handsome woman who wore her years well. Though she had blue eyes and was taller than her daughter, it was clear where Kate had got her curly hair and heart-shaped face. John Corbet was a handsome man of fifty-odd. His brown eyes were like his daughter’s, except they didn’t warm when they looked upon his future son-in-law. Kate had gotten her laughter and easygoing charm from her parents, too, Alasdair realized, to judge from the way they reacted to everyone else, aside from him.
The Corbets hadn’t brought their three sons to London to meet their daughter’s fiancé, to Alasdair’s great relief. Two people ignoring him was enough. He was used to distrust and had expected dislike, but he wasn’t used to being so obviously excluded and roundly ignored.
The first night the Corbets arrived in London they were feted at the Swansons’ house. There was a merry dinner, a laughter-filled evening, even the grumpy elder Swanson sisters were jovial. There were many tender good nights when the Corbets went back to their hotel. The next night, everyone went to a fine restaurant, where old family tales were retold until the waiters were yawning and leaning against the walls. The third day Alasdair took them in his carriage, with Kate, to drive through the park as Alasdair pointed out the sights to them. That was all he could do, since they addressed all their questions to Kate. Then they all went to the theater, where it was even easier for them to ignore him.
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