by Untamed
Bea lightly touched her sleeve. “Are you all right, Kate? Can I bring you some tea?”
Her father answered for her. “Tea will not repair your sister’s soiled reputation.” Shifting his gaze back to Kate, he said, “If you care nothing for your own good name, only think of how this will reflect upon your sister. What chance will she have at making a decent match with a spinster sister who goes about kissing strange men in public parks?”
She opened her mouth to point out that, thanks to him, there were as yet insufficient funds for Bea’s come-out, but glancing sideways at her baby sister’s fresh face and guileless eyes, she held her tongue. Instead, she said, “He’s not a stranger. We met at the other night’s ball.”
“And so, of course, you let him take you riding without a chaperone.”
Kate slid a hand into her hair where a headache thrummed. She shook her head. “We will speak of this later. Please leave me.”
Lord Lindsey let out a huff. “I am master here, and your father. We’ll speak of this when I say, and I say now.”
Too numb to fear him, Kate looked up and speared him with a steady look. “I will not have this discussion with you when you have been drinking. Kissing Mr. O’Rourke puts me beyond the pale, to be sure, but if anyone has disgraced our family name over the years, it is you, Father.”
“You are obviously overwrought.” He hesitated and then backed away. “I will leave you to think on your folly.”
Bea scarcely waited until the door was drawn. She turned to Kate and took jiggling hold of her arm. “Did you really do it, Kat? Did you really kiss him?”
Miserable, Kate shrugged free. Subsiding onto the bed, she clapped a hand over her eyes and nodded.
“Well?”
Eyes squeezed shut, she said, “Well, what?”
“What was it like? I mean, was it… nice?”
Kate opened her eyes and peered up at her sister through tented fingers. “It was all right, I suppose. Oh, I don’t know, I scarcely remember.”
Liar, liar, pants afire…
“Are you going to kiss him again?”
“No!” Not a lie that time, but a sacred promise. “Oh, do stop badgering me and go to your room. Better yet, why don’t you bestir yourself for once and see if Hattie needs help with the supper?”
“But—”
“No buts. Off with you.”
Bottom lip sticking out like a spout, Bea rose and shambled over to the door. Reaching it, she turned back inside. “Wager or no, I think it’s grand you kissed Mr. O’Rourke. I mean, you are coming up on seven-and-twenty. This may be your last chance.”
That sealed it. Kate dropped her hands to her lap. “Go!”
Alone at last, Kate moved to the velvet-covered chair by the window. The view overlooked the walled garden, and though there wasn’t much in bloom in winter, at least the boxwoods stayed green year-round. The topiary wanted for trimming and the statues badly needed hosing down, but still it was a pretty scene. An oyster-shell path led to the gazebo at the very back. The thatched roof showed signs of rotting. Several boards needed to be replaced, if not the entire roof. Small acts of maintenance and repair, and yet all cost money.
The subject of money had her thoughts winding back to Mr. O’Rourke. She had her answer now. He hadn’t pursued her for money or sex, but for sport. He’d made sport of her! It was not to be borne. She would not bear it. In kissing her on a wager, a very public wager, he’d struck at her most sensitive spot—her womanly pride. Sitting there staring outside, she felt her heart hardening into something approximating genuine hatred.
The present situation called for “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” if ever there was one. Staring out into the garden, a plan began taking shape in her mind. At first it struck her as incredulous, but the more she considered it, the more certain she became that it just might work.
According to the Bible, pride went before a fall. Well, she would contrive a scheme to deal Mr. O’Rourke’s pride such a mighty blow that the Scot took a fall worthy of Humpty Dumpty. Like the nursery-rhyme character, once Rourke fell off that wall, there would be no chance of cobbling together the shattered bits.
CHAPTER FIVE
“If I be waspish, beware my sting.”
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Kate,
The Taming of the Shrew
One Week Later
our invitation to tea came as a rare surprise.”
Ensconced in the wing chair across from her, Rourke, as Kate was coming to think of him, leaned over to take the cup and saucer she held out. The bone china looked impossibly small and fragile in his big hands. Remembering how gentle yet skillful at giving pleasure those hands could be, Kate felt shame shoot into her cheeks.
“A welcome one, I hope.” She leaned over the tea table and stirred a third lump of sugar into her own steaming cup. Perhaps it was the bitter taste of humiliation from which she still suffered, but she couldn’t seem to get the brew sweet enough.
“Aye, most welcome. When you didn’t return my messages, I thought you must be avoiding me.”
He had one leg thrown over the other in a manner in which no born gentleman would ever think to sit. The pose stretched his trousers taut over the cast-over leg, displaying its muscled breadth. Recalling the thrilling feel of being hauled up hard against his rock-solid thighs, Kate drew in a shaky breath. Even in the throes of conspiring to send him to rack and ruin, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from turning back to that astonishing kiss.
Focus, Kate, focus.
“Not at all.” Kate reached for her slice of seed cake and broke off a small piece, not because she was hungry, but because now that she’d poured out the tea, it was something to do. “I have been busy with my volunteer work, and, of course, my sister has a come-out soon.”
It had taken a full seven days to coordinate all the details of her scheme. So far her plan was playing out perfectly. Even better, he appeared to have no notion that she knew of his disgusting wager. Only why must he look so heart-stoppingly handsome? Was that the devil’s way of tempting her, she wondered. His tweed jacket, silk-striped vest, and gray flannel trousers showed off his muscular form to advantage. A cravat pin set with a good-sized emerald brought out the deep green of his eyes. She’d hoped that upon seeing him again, the flame she’d felt before would have fizzled, or better yet, died and been replaced by disgust, but such was not the case. She was still powerfully attracted to him, more attracted than ever, and as much as she hated him for that, she hated herself more.
“I’ve missed you, Kate. Your photograph, though a fair-enough likeness, makes for a poor companion.” From the window seat, their “chaperone,” Bea, let out a soft snort. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my thoughts all week. You are even lovelier than I remember.”
He ran an appreciative eye over her, and she fancied she did look rather fine. She wore her hair pinned up into a chignon in the French fashion. She’d deliberately left a few curls loose to brush her throat. Likewise, her rosewater-silk tea gown was a deliberate choice. The elbow-length leg-of-mutton sleeves showed off her slender forearms to advantage, and the low V-neckline and fitted basque waist made the most of her petite figure. It was like dressing for a play and setting the stage, though whether the outcome of her afternoon’s labor turned out to be a tragedy or a comedy depended upon where one sat—literally.
She affected a shrug. “I have been thinking of you, as well, most especially what you said when we last parted.”
His face fell. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If it was about the hotel, I’d hoped you would have forgiven me that ere now.”
“Oh, that. Consider it water under the bridge. I do.” Kate dismissed the subject of her near ruin with a flick of her hand.
Looking relieved, he settled back in his seat. “In that case, what is on your mind, lovely?”
That was Kate’s cue to lean forward. She set her plate aside and concentrated on affecting the earnest expression she’d been pra
cticing in the mirror for a week now. “Were you serious about marrying me, or was that only foolish wooing talk?”
Expression sobering, he shook his head. “Nay, I meant every word, Kate. I want you for my bride. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have been doing a great deal of thinking this past week, and I find my position on marriage has altered—considerably.” She punctuated the latter with a fluttering of lashes and a simpering smile.
“You have?” He set his teacup and saucer on the marble-topped table by his elbow and leaned in. “Is that true, Kate?”
She answered with a bright-eyed bob, or so she hoped. Like the teapot, she felt steam rising from her head. “It is said to be a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, especially where matters of the heart are concerned, and I have done just that.”
A broad smile broke over his face. “In that case, milady, I can have a special license warming my pocket within a few days.”
“A special license!” Kate nearly dropped the plate she was holding. Good Lord, but he must be eager.
He nodded. “I canna stay away from my business all that much longer, and my mate, Gavin, is a barrister on the Queen’s Counsel. But to do things proper, first I must speak with your father. When do you expect him home?”
For a smattering of seconds, panic flared. If he spoke to her father, the game would be up. Beyond that, now that he’d won the bet, why on earth would he wish to marry her?
From across the room, Bea called out, “Papa is ministering to the, uh … fallen women at Lady Stonevale’s academy. There is no saying when he will return.”
Kate sent her sister a grateful glance before returning her gaze to her “mark.” “Special license or not, I am afraid I shall require more of a proposal than that.”
He swept the napkin from his lap and rose. “Forgive me, sweeting, of course you deserve better.”
Rounding the tea table to her, he went down on one knee. Furious though she was, there was something enormously stimulating and more than a touch wicked about a big, brawny Scotsman kneeling at her feet.
Emerald eyes lifted to her face, the sight and his nearness bringing her breath to hitch. “I’m a plain-speaking man and not the poetry-spouting sort, but I’ll be a good husband to you, Kate, and a good father to whatever children the Lord sees fit to give us.”
Ah, so that was it. He wanted a brood mare to help him set up his nursery. The realization was akin to dousing her with chilly water. No doubt he figured she would do as well as the next woman, even better for being an earl’s daughter. It was all she could do not to rise up and dump the teapot’s contents, not tepid but quite scalding, over his head.
Reining in her temper, she focused on putting the wheels of her scheme into motion. “Ever since I was a very little girl, I’ve carried about a particular romantic notion of how my future husband would propose.”
“Tell me, then.”
She feigned hesitancy. “You will think me silly.”
“Nay, I willna.” Under any other circumstances, she might have found his eagerness touching, but not so now.
“Why not?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You might even say it is a fantasy of mine.”
“A fantasy, you say?” Clearly that got his attention. His eyes lit, and he lowered his voice, as well, making Kate wonder what it might be like to hear that throaty burr whispering to her in the dark. “Tell me, milady. I swear I’ll make it come true, or as close to true, as a mortal man may.” He reached for her hand and twined his big, blunt fingers through hers.
The slight contact sent desire shivering through her. Gooseflesh rose on her upper arms; her nipples pebbled. “Very well, then.” Determined to stay on course, she cleared her throat. “My beloved and I wait until darkness falls.”
He winked at her. “I fancy the dark.” His big thumb stroked her palm, drawing forth the familiar fluttering from the far reaches of her lower belly.
Furious at him though she was, it was dashed difficult to concentrate on recalling her rehearsed lines with him touching her like … like that. “Once it is quiet and pitch-black, we set out for a moonlit stroll in the garden, a garden very much like the one at the back of this house.”
He turned her hand palm up and bent to press a kiss into the sensitive spot just inside her wrist. Kate shivered again.
Lifting his head, he smiled up at her. “I always fancy a moonlit stroll. Go on.”
“My intended takes my arm, and we stroll down the path to the farthest reaches of the garden, far away from the house and the eyes and ears of anyone within.”
He whetted his lower lip, and Kate remembered how succulent his mouth had tasted, and his tongue, too. “Aye?”
“I let him lead me to a darkened corner hidden by hedge and sit me down on the stone bench. Thus seated, I ask him to grant me a very special, very private favor.”
She looked over to the window seat where Bea appeared to have her nose buried in a book. Kate knew better, of course.
His eyes found hers, snaring her gaze and drawing it back to him. He lifted her hand again, this time drawing her middle digit into his mouth, so warm, so wet. “I’d grant you any boon you ask, you must know that.”
His mouth wasn’t all that was wet. Moisture spurted between her thighs. Without looking, she knew that the crotch of her silk panties would be soaked through. Squeezing her legs tightly together, she focused on regaining control. “I ask him to kneel at my feet, lay his hands most daringly upon my …”
“Milady?”
“My … person and … Well, I can’t very well finish telling you here, now can I?” She jerked her chin to the window seat where Bea sat with her head cocked and her hair tucked behind her upturned ear.
He nodded his understanding. “Very well, when, then?
“Meet me later tonight a few minutes before midnight. The house will be abed, and we will be quite alone.”
“Kate, are you certain?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, quite. Come through the alleyway behind the mews. I’ll meet you at the gate and let you in.”
“Why must we wait ’til then?”
Kate let out a huffing breath, releasing the tension building within. Lord, was he to argue with her already? “We just must. Who knows, maybe it has something to do with midnight being the witching hour. I don’t know. Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?”
He nodded. “Aye, I do. Go on.”
“There is a bench at the far end of the garden. I want you to take me there, go down upon your knees as you’re doing now, and ask me to marry you—in a song.”
His brows shot upward. “You want me to sing to you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What difference can it make for me to sing the words as opposed to simply saying them?”
“I’m not sure. It just does. That’s why it’s a fantasy, I suppose. Fantasies aren’t bound by reason or regular rules. Singing just seems so … romantic. I confess I can feel my heart fluttering and my knees trembling just imagining it. But if you’d rather not… I mean, if singing goes against the grain of some cherished principle, well, then, please forget I ever mentioned it. We can carry on as we are with a more traditional leisurely courtship—weeks, months, even years, if you wish.”
“Nay, if it’s singing you fancy, then it is singing you shall have.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “I can’t wait to have you, Katie. I’m half-mad with wanting you.” He leaned in to kiss her.
Not trusting herself, Kate jerked back. “And have me you shall, sir, only wait you must, at least until midnight.”
She flattened both palms against his chest, intending to stay him. She’d forgotten how hard-muscled and big and strong he was, not only to look upon but also to touch.
“But, Kate—”
She cut him off by laying her index finger across his protesting lips. “Please, Rourke, I’ve dreamt of this day, this moment, since I was a little girl. I want everything to be just right, simply perf
ect.” Lord, but she was laying it on with a trowel.
He looked dubious, yet resigned. “If it means that much to you—”
She cut him off with a flutter of her hand. “It does, I assure you it does.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll sing to you, of course. But be forewarned, I have a fantasy, too.”
“You do?” Even in the midst of playing coy, her body betrayed her, the slow strumming of her sex aching for release.
“Aye, I do. Someday, sweet Kate, I’ll want you to look into my eyes and call me Patrick.”
Rourke showed up at the back gate five minutes in advance of the agreed-upon meeting time. The sky above him was a canopy of grayish white, and the air held the knife sharpness that usually portended snow. The moon peeped out from a bank of clouds, its bleached rays breaking over the walled garden. Touched by its translucent light, the statuary shapes within seemed more ghosts than cold stone.
Stamping his feet and clapping together his gloved hands, he considered Kate’s odd request. A singsong marriage proposal was an odd romantic fantasy, but if indulging her whim meant her saying yes, then so be it. Betimes, the garden was deserted. It would be only the two of them. With no one but his future wife and the moon and stars to witness his folly, there was no good reason not to simply throw himself into the spirit of the thing.
And yet something beyond the fear of looking foolish wouldn’t let go of him. Earlier that day she’d seemed entirely too eager for a woman who but a week before had declared she meant never to marry. Sitting in her snug parlor sipping tea, suspicion had flared, but he’d tamped it down by telling himself his guilt must be reflected back to him. Damn the wager, damn Dutton, and damn him for letting himself be goaded into accepting. He’d been looking over his shoulder ever since accepting Dutton’s marker. Assuming the young lord made good on his word, Rourke meant to give the money to charity, either the Tremayne Dairy Farm Academy or Roxbury House, whichever institution’s need was greatest.