Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  Kate, you’ve nay notion o’ the just desserts I’ll be dishing up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “By this reck’ning, he is more shrew than she.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Curtis, The Taming of the Shrew

  November 1891

  ate sat by the parlor window, the curtain drawn to allow looking out onto the rain-soaked street, the road itself dyed to deep obsidian, the sidewalks glittering like glass where ice from the previous week’s snow had melted and then refroze. Today, however, it rained. Every so often a carriage rattled by, splashing mud from the gutters onto the curb, but so far none had stopped. Her journal lay open in her lap, the pages blank, the fountain pen abandoned to rest in the binding crease. She wasn’t feeling especially creative, but then, these days she wasn’t feeling much of anything at all.

  Looking out onto the deluge, she wondered if later in the day the precipitation might turn to snow. She hoped so. Growing up in the country, she used to adore snow. Snow at least served some purpose. You could do something with snow—make snow angels, and snowballs, and, yes, snowmen—but rain in the winter only made things soggy and miserable.

  Today was her at-home day, and the fact of slippery roads and raw winds might be marked by some hostesses as bloody bad luck. Beyond that, it would be Christmas in another few weeks. Anyone venturing out would be most likely to head for Selfridge’s on Oxford Street or Harrod’s in Knightsbridge, where they might shop the myriad departments while staying snug and dry. She doubted she’d have any callers to eat the currant buns and seed cake she’d taken pains to bake, and then decided she didn’t really care. As she did every week, she thought back to that long-ago “at-home day” when Patrick O’Rourke had shown up unannounced on her doorstep and persuaded her to go riding with him. Of course, riding wasn’t all he’d persuaded her to do. That memory seemed almost to belong to another person, and yet coming on two years, she recalled every blisteringly vivid detail.

  She reached up and traced her mouth with her index finger, scratching the nail lightly over her bottom lip, reliving the magic of that moment, the gentleness of his kiss, and her own hungering response. Even with so much time passed, she marveled at her former boldness. She brought her hand down to her lap, examining the small white palm and slender pink-tipped fingers with a sense of disbelief. Had she really employed that very hand to unbutton his coat and run it down the length of him, mapping the terrain of strong neck, broad shoulders, and hard muscled chest—and in a public park, no less! That she’d taken him by surprise was clear—he’d only bargained, or rather wagered, for a kiss, after all—but she’d also astonished herself. Who would have imagined Capable Kate Lindsey, supposed ice maiden, self-avowed spinster, and proud-to-be shrew, might contain such a wealth of… passion?

  The miracle was that she seemed to have escaped a scandal, or at least much of one. The whole White’s betting book episode seemed to have blown over in a week’s time, no doubt eclipsed by some more savory scandal broth. As for the garden scheme, from what she gathered, those who’d participated must have been too ashamed or too bored by its lackluster result to speak much about it. Of course, she didn’t go about in society much, less and less if she could help it. There’d been one episode where she’d chanced to cross paths with Isabel and Penelope Duncan on Bond Street, their gloved hands laden with parcels from an obviously successful day spending their papa’s money in the shops. The sisters had looked straight through her, their pinched noses pointed north and thin mouths sneering, and then swept past. She hadn’t minded all that much. It hadn’t been empty bravado when at Lady Stonevale’s charity ball she’d counseled Caledonia, Callie, not to mind a single word they said.

  The suffragette and Hadrian St. Claire had married. Surely they would have heard about the cruel trick she’d played upon their friend. When she’d stopped into Mr. St. Claire’s photography shop to stage the Artemis sitting and to collect her latest installment from the previous quarter’s sales, he’d treated her civilly but had not been overly friendly. It was no better than she deserved. She hadn’t seen Callie since their brief meeting at Lady Stonevale’s charity ball. Though she thought about her a great deal, she’d been too ashamed of her behavior to renew their acquaintance—yet another loss.

  Outside, she heard a carriage pull up, the wheels screeching as the driver halted on the wet road. It seemed she was to have a visitor after all. Not certain if she was glad of that or not, she closed the journal, set it aside, and got up. Not terribly curious, she opened the door without looking out.

  Patrick O’Rourke—Rourke—stood on her doorstep, shaking rainwater from the crown of his hat. Rain plastered his hair to his high brow and lean cheeks, the drenched locks looking more black than auburn.

  “Thursdays are your at-home days, are they not?”

  Kate could only stare. She couldn’t seem to find her tongue. She hadn’t expected to ever see him again. Though he occasionally came to London, and had purchased a house in Hanover Square, they hardly ran in the same circles. She hadn’t heard he was back in town.

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  She found her voice at last. “Yes, of course, I… Do come in.” She stepped back to let him enter.

  “Have you other guests?” He set his hat atop her banister and looked past her into the parlor.

  “No, I haven’t. Just you, if you’ll stay, that is.”

  Now that the shock was wearing off, she realized she was pathetically glad to see him. “I hadn’t heard you returned from Scotland.” You never said good-bye before you left.

  She led the way into the parlor, mentally cataloguing its shabbiness. Even for so-called old money, they were putting on a poor show of it these days. Keeping up appearances was harder and harder. The money Kate had been saving for Bea’s come-out had “mysteriously” disappeared from its hiding place, and she had to believe their father was the culprit. It was beyond depressing.

  He followed her inside. “I just got into town yesterday. I bought a place, a town house in Hanover Square.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard. That’s nice, very fashionable. Do you like it there? Will you take some refreshment?” Dear Lord, she was babbling like a brook.

  He stared at her, emerald eyes raking her face. He looked the same and yet different somehow, older she supposed. Fine lines had chiseled their way into the corners of his eyes. If they’d been there before, she didn’t recall them.

  Finally, he said, “I can’t stay long.”

  “It needn’t be tea,” she added quickly. “I’m sure we have some sherry or brandy about.” She was tempted to add, If Father hasn’t drunk it all, but held back. As much as she’d missed him, she wouldn’t stoop to using pity to win him back.

  Hat in hand, he stood stiffly by the door. “Nothing for now, thank you.” He glanced to the armchair, the same he’d occupied the first and last time he’d taken tea with her, the cushion slightly more worn. “May I sit?”

  “Please do.”

  She perched on the edge of the settee, doubly glad she’d thought to close the journal. Today’s pages might be blank and the ones from the day before, as well, but not so for the long days and months after he’d first gone.

  Silence descended. They traded glances, and Kate wished she’d thought to put on a more becoming gown. The chocolate-colored satin might bring out her eyes, but the fabric was rather faded, she was afraid.

  “Do you come to the city often?” Mentally she kicked herself. What an inane thing to ask.

  “If by the city you mean London, then aye—or rather, yes, I do. I hold property in the north, in Scotland, and it was grouse season, after all. But as you see, I am returned—like an ill wind, you might say.”

  Kate didn’t care for his cryptic tone. Her pleasure in seeing him again began to fade, replaced by a sharper version of the earlier unease.

  “What brings you into town?” His affairs weren’t any of her business, but she was at a loss for what to say.

  Rathe
r than answer, he said, “This isna a social call, Kate. Forgive me, I meant to say Lady Katherine.”

  Rather than answer and open up that particular wound, she asked, “If not, then pray what manner of call is it?”

  “A business one.”

  “In that case, I’m afraid my father is indisposed.”

  He seemed to find that amusing. One side of his mouth quirked upward, not the good-natured grin of her memory, but an unpleasant smile, a snide smile, a smirk. “I don’t doubt it.”

  Something of her father’s reputation must have reached him. The earl had come home that morning just as she and Bea were sitting down to breakfast. Ordinarily he was unabashed about his nocturnal carousing, but this morning he’d been unwilling to look her in the eye. Though she was always on pins and needles when he went out, his unusual sheepishness had set off an inner alarm. He’d poured himself a glass of lemon water from the pewter pitcher and stumbled upstairs to bed. It was coming on two o’clock, and he’d yet to emerge.

  “My business is with you, not him—unfinished business, you might say.”

  His cryptic tone sent Kate’s heart thumping. “How can that be? We have not spoken since—”

  He cut her off with a shake of his head. “Humiliating me in front of half of London hardly seemed conducive to keeping up our acquaintance.”

  She resisted the pettiness of pointing out that “half of London” had been only a half-dozen people. Whether she’d enlisted one confederate or legion, what she’d done was wrong. She’d hoped he would have forgiven her by now. Apparently he had not.

  She folded her hands in her lap to hide their shaking. “You should know that I was … that I am very sorry about how things ended between us.”

  “Is that an apology, milady?” He regarded her beneath raised brows.

  “Yes, yes, it is only …” She left the sentence unfinished, unsure of what more to say.

  A year ago, she would have seized on the opportunity to add that the humiliation meted out had cut both ways, but that only now she found she did not care so terribly much. The wagering episode struck her as more in the way of a schoolboy prank than mean-spirited mischief. From the little she’d cobbled together of Rourke’s upbringing, she suspected he’d been lured into accepting Dutton’s challenge more to prove his worth than to humiliate her. Looking back, it was difficult to believe she’d mustered the upset she had, but then appearances had come to mean less to her than they used to. She wasn’t nearly so angry anymore. In point, she wasn’t angry at all.

  He frowned at her. “I didn’t come for an apology.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  The feral glitter in his gaze had her palms perspiring. “I came to collect my winnings.”

  He slid a big hand into his inside coat pocket. Drawing it out, he produced a small folded slip of paper. Holding it out, he asked, “Do you know what this is?”

  Kate felt her stomach drop. Without rising to examine it, Kate more than knew. His reference to “winnings” was a dead giveaway.

  “It is my father’s marker, I dare say.” Still, she waited for his reply, dread pinning her to the chair.

  Rourke nodded. “Aye, it is. I happened upon the earl at one of his haunts in Leicester Square the other evening.”

  Pinned no longer, Kate shot to her feet. “You lured him into deep play.”

  He scoffed at the suggestion. “I hardly had to lure. He and his mate, Haversham, were already in over their heads. When I offered to stake your father for the evening, he willingly accepted. I didna have to offer a second time.”

  Numb, she heard her voice as though it were an echo inside a tunnel. “How much?”

  He turned his face up to look at her. “Five thousand pounds.”

  Kate staggered back a step. Feeling the edge of the chair at the backs of her knees, she sank back down into her seat. Five thousand pounds was a small fortune. She scoured her brain for what he might possibly hope to collect from them in the way of recouping so large a sum. Apart from the estate, thankfully entailed, they’d no property. The town house was let, the carriage on its last spring, the two horses long past their pasture age, the silver and fine china long ago sold. She touched the pearl drop dangling from her left ear. Dear God, not Mama’s earrings. The matching pendant hung about Bea’s throat. The thought of giving up precious mementos pierced her heart.

  She reached up to slide the backing of the earbob out of the hole in her lobe. “Take these until I can find the means to come up with the rest, only pray allow my sister to keep her necklace. It is all she has of our mother.”

  He sent her an incredulous look. “What am I to do with a pair of earbobs?”

  Her gaze honed in on his pierced ear, sporting a small ruby today to match his crimson cravat. Humble origins or not, he really was a most stylish man. “Wear them or sell them. Oh, I don’t know.”

  He shook his head. “Keep your baubles, milady. The prize I’ve come to collect is dearer than those.”

  “What is it you mean to collect?”

  “You.”

  “You want me as your mistress, then?” If he’d set out to humble her, to bring her low, he couldn’t have hit upon a better way.

  Rising to stand, he shook his head. “I don’t need to buy a mistress, and if I did, I could set one up for far less than five thousand pounds.” His tone might have cut glass.

  Kate stood, as well. “Then what do you want with me?”

  “The same thing I wanted two years ago—marriage, children to inherit the legacy I’ve built, a hostess to preside over my dinner table.”

  Kate shook her head. “But you can have those things with any woman.”

  He speared her with a dagger-sharp look. “Not every woman is the daughter of an earl.”

  So it was her blue blood he was after. The thought had crossed her mind two years before, but for whatever reason she’d set it aside.

  Kate felt on the verge of throwing up her hands. His kissing capabilities aside, she’d no intention of marrying a man who plainly loathed her. “Mr. O’Rourke, we’ve been through this before. As deeply as I regret the circumstances of our last … parting, I cannot, and will not, make amends by marrying you.”

  He shook his head. “You have a choice, milady. You can marry me or see your father hauled off to debtors’ prison. That would cause you and your sister quite a scandal, I should think.”

  Kate felt as if invisible hands cinched about her throat, cutting off her breath. Chest heaving and head reeling, she regarded him, fighting for control, fighting for air.

  She hauled up in front of him, hands fisted at her sides. “The first time I set eyes on you at Lady Stonevale’s ball, I thought you resembled a pirate. Now I see you don’t only look like a pirate. You are a pirate.”

  He shrugged. “Aye, I am, just as you are a mean-spirited, sharp-tongued shrew. Given the defects in both our characters, I wouldna be surprised if we didn’t rub along well enough. Be that as it may, I will send word as soon as I have the special license. In the meantime, I advise you to begin packing what things you wish to bring with you.”

  “Bring with me? Where am I going?”

  “Why, home to Scotland, of course.”

  “Scotland isn’t my home.”

  “It is now.”

  A throat being cleared had her whipping about. Her father stood on the threshold. By now she should know there would be no aid from that corner, and yet she so desperately wanted to believe. Thoughts ran through her head, ghosts of a little girl’s pleading.

  This once, Papa, show yourself to be a better man. This once, let the bad news be a mistake, or at least not so very bad as it seems.

  Instead, Kate rounded on him. “You lost me in a card game!”

  He hung his head and nodded. “Essentially, that is so.”

  “You staked me like … like chattel. Of all you’ve done, this deed puts you beyond the pale.”

  He acknowledged Rourke with a nod and then crossed the room towa
rd her, moving at a crawl as an old man might, though he couldn’t be much past fifty. “All will be well. These things have a way of righting themselves in the end.”

  These things have a way of righting themselves in the end. How often over the years had she heard that tired excuse?

  “Mr. O’Rourke has agreed to pay off our debts and to settle a dowry on your sister. We can reopen the house at Romney, pay our creditors off, and even give Bea her come-out in grand style.”

  Kate’s lower lip trembled. His lack of remorse was dispiriting at best, infuriating at worst. “And what of me, Papa, what shall I have?”

  He drew up in front of her. She could smell last night’s spirits on his breath. “A wealthy husband who can give you a fine home and children is not to be lightly dismissed. You are not growing any younger, my dear.” He reached out a trembling hand to pat her shoulder, but she pulled back.

  “Pray don’t add hypocrisy to your long list of sins by pretending for a moment that any of this has to do with me.”

  She turned away in disgust. Her gaze alighted on Rourke. She’d expected to find him gloating. Instead he stood silently looking on, green eyes grave and mouth unsmiling.

  “You’ve your revenge on me at last, sir. You must be mightily pleased with yourself.”

  He didn’t answer. Something flickered in his eyes, pity perhaps? But no, such a villain must know nothing of pity or remorse, either.

  She looked between the two men, hard-pressed to know which of them she hated more. Her father, she decided, for he was supposed to protect her. Mr. O’Rourke, on the other hand, had put forth his predatory claim in the most straightforward of ways. He had never pretended to be ought than the bounder he was. Not a bounder, but a pirate.

  “Very well, Mr. O’Rourke, since you leave me no choice, I suppose I shall marry you.”

  Later that evening, Kate sat on the edge of the settee, holding her head in her hands, looking glumly on as Bea paced the rose-patterned carpet and her father stood at the wine table by the window quaffing glass upon glass of port. Marrying a man who plainly loathed her and meant to make her miserable was a bitter pill to swallow, but there was no help for it. Rourke held her father’s marker, and, without the funds to redeem it, she could either marry him or see her father imprisoned, her baby sister left dowerless, and her family name forever besmirched.