Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  Bea pivoted to their father. “I don’t mind the marrying part, but I don’t want Kate to go to Scotland. I need her here to coach me for my come-out.”

  The earl turned away from the window and dealt his youngest a distracted pat. “Don’t fret, my dear. We’ll find you a sponsor, your Aunt Lavinia, perhaps.”

  “Oh, Papa, not that old biddy, please! She’ll put me in hoops and feathers, and I shan’t have any fun at all.”

  Kate couldn’t take much more. “Oh, have done, both of you. Bea, mark that I am present in the room, so you needn’t discuss me in the third person as though I was in Scotland already. And, Papa, while you’re pouring the better part of that decanter down your throat, pray spare a glass for me.”

  Bea’s mouth formed a shocked circle. She cast Kate a scandalized look. “Kat, really! Ladies don’t drink port! Ratafia or sherry perhaps, and certainly champagne, but never port.”

  “Ladies, little sister, do not find themselves sold like livestock or traded like horses.” As it turned out, she’d had no more say in her future “master” than had poor Princess.

  Her father poured in silence, and Bea passed over the short-stemmed glass with a huff.

  Ignoring them, Kate knocked back the port in a single swallow, then coughed, throat ablaze. Really, how did her father manage to drink as he did day after day? She thought the sensitive skin inside her mouth must be peeling and a hole burned at the back of her tongue.

  Bea drew up toward her. Her gaze dropped to the empty glass in Kate’s hand and then snapped up to her face as though expecting a Jekyll-Hyde transformation to take place at any time. “You’re supposed to sip it, aren’t you?”

  Kate shook her head. Now that the fire was dying, she felt a mellow acceptance taking hold.

  “Not if you mean to get drunk, you don’t.” Kate held out her empty glass. “Hit me again.”

  Rourke was sitting down to breakfast in his Hanover Square town house the next morning when the sound of a throat being cleared called his attention to the half-cocked door. He looked up from the buttered kippers he’d been pushing about his plate. Ordinarily he brought a hearty appetite to the breakfast table, to any table, but leaving Kate near tears the night before seemed to have set him off his food.

  Ralph Sylvester, his “butler” and former flash-house friend, poked his sandy blond head inside. “May I, sir?” Rourke beckoned the former-felon-turned-respectable-butler inside.

  Coming up on the table, Ralph presented the usual precisely folded and still-warm copy of the London Times. “It came late today, but it’s hot off the presses and fresh off the iron just as you fancy it—sir.”

  “Thank you.” Rourke added it to the stack of newspapers at his elbow, which he’d as yet to give so much as a glance.

  As no one was about, Ralph helped himself to a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair. “I have something else for you, a wee wedding giftie, as you might say.” He slid a brown-paper-wrapped parcel across the cloth-covered table.

  Among his many talents, Ralph Sylvester was a first-rate mimic, which was why he’d been so invaluable to Johnnie Black. He could affect just about any accent, including that of a plum-in-the-mouth English butler. The kicker was, he really was a crack butler and a marvel of a valet. Rourke hadn’t read an unironed newspaper or put on a wrinkled shirt since taking his old friend into his employ.

  Rourke pushed his plate away and reached for the parcel, lifting it to assess its weight. The novelty came from growing up without ever receiving a single present, no doubt, but for whatever reason wrapped parcels always made him feel like he imagined a child must feel on Christmas morning.

  “What do you suppose this is?” He held the package up to his ear to see if it rattled.

  Ralph sipped his coffee with a casual air. “I’m certain I couldn’t say, sir. Perhaps you might contemplate opening it?”

  He tore the paper away and lifted out the contents. The smell of buttery new leather, all but untouched by human hands, wafted up to greet him. “It’s a book.”

  “How novel.”

  Glancing at the title, The Taming of the Shrew, Rourke couldn’t resist. “Actually, it’s a play.”

  The valet rolled his eyes. “I think you might find it to be more of a marital-advice manual.”

  “A marital-advice manual, hmm?” Turning the volume over, he examined the very familiar binding. “Why, Ralph, I’m touched. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this came from my very own library.” He’d ordered several hundred books, all bound in rich morocco leather, the tooled spines and gilded page edges mostly for show.

  Ralph swiped a kipper off the discarded plate and popped it into his mouth. “Ah, well, what to get the man who has everything?” Licking butter from his thumb, he added, “Since you’re hell-bent on being a bastard to your bride and making a hash of your marriage before it’s begun, I thought you might as well get it done right and proper—the bastard part, I mean.”

  Ralph didn’t know the half of just what a bastard Rourke had become. Kate’s father’s weakness for cards had afforded him the very opportunity for which he’d been waiting. It had been a simple matter of asking ’round to learn what establishments the earl frequented. Once he’d tracked him to Leicester Square, he’d begun making the rounds of the main gaming halls. The earl was already deep into his losses and his cups, a pretty opera dancer perched upon his knee and sliding red chips down the front of her frock. Rourke had paid the girl to go away, enough to keep her in gin for the next several nights, and sat down to watch the play. By the time dawn lit the sky, he’d had the old man’s marker warming his pocket.

  Telling Kate was supposed to have been the centerpiece of his revenge, only he hadn’t particularly enjoyed doing so. Actually he hadn’t enjoyed it at all. There’d been one moment when he thought she might cry, and he’d been hard-pressed not to go to her. Collecting his hat and walking back out into the rain, he’d felt as soiled as the leavings of tire-tracked snow.

  He reminded himself that the little shrew had made her bed that night two years ago in the garden, and by God, he meant to see her lie in it. His only worry was that she would insist upon doing so alone. The whole purpose of their marrying was to beget heirs; otherwise his railway legacy would die with him.

  Rourke cracked the cover and flipped through. At first glance he found the Italian names off-putting, but the variations of the shrew’s name—Katherina, Katerina, Katherine, and, of course, Kate—were easy enough to track. The shrew in Shakespeare’s play had the same name as his bride.

  Intrigued, he reached for his reading glasses. His tastes in reading material ran to newspapers and railway stock reports, not to literature and certainly not Shakespeare, and yet… Despite what he’d said to Gavin after the garden incident, he didn’t care to spend the rest of his life at odds with his wife, but trust on both sides had been badly breached. He didn’t see how a play written hundreds of years before could remedy all that, but reading it was a small investment of his time.

  Might a “marital-advice manual” masquerading as a play be the very thing he needed to steer his and Kate’s relationship back on course? Skeptical though he was of any advice offered between the covers of a book, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to have a look.

  Rourke put on his spectacles, cracked open the play’s cover, and settled in to a morning’s read. Engrossed, he didn’t look up when Ralph left, drawing the door closed.

  One Week Later

  Kate awoke on her wedding day to a gray drizzle outside her window. How appropriate. Her trunk had been brought down from the attic the night before, all but her wedding gown and traveling costume neatly folded and laid inside. It sat in the corner of her room, ready to be brought below when the time came to leave. Packing had driven home how very little she owned. Her clothes, books and journals, a few mementos, and her mother’s pearl earbobs summed up her worldly possessions. For being eight-and-twenty, she hadn’t much to show for her life. Certainly she had no “legacy,” rail
way or otherwise, as did her fiancé.

  Hattie came early to do her hair and help her dress, offices Kate usually performed for herself, but as the maid pointed out, it was her wedding day. Petite and blond and far younger-looking than her forty years, she’d been with the family since Bea was born. Kate considered her more relative than servant.

  “I don’t mean to talk out of turn, milady, but I’m not so sure your going off to Scotland is such a bad thing.” She stepped behind Kate to do up her laces. “Only I wish there’d been time to have a proper wedding dress made. You’re a good girl. You deserve to wear white.”

  Were hers a love match, Kate would have agreed. But Rourke wasn’t her choice for a husband, rich though he was. He didn’t want her for herself, but for the social status her blue blood would bring. He’d blackmailed her into this marriage, foisted himself on her in the vilest of ways. She told herself that whatever misguided spark of attraction she’d once felt for him had died the moment he pulled her father’s marker from his pocket. Until she saw him again, at the church, she had no way of testing whether or not that would prove true.

  Kate shrugged. “The brown silk will be fine. It’s not too terribly out of fashion, and the hat with the silk roses should look well enough with it.”

  At Hattie’s insistence, she glanced at herself in the mirror. A pale, pinch-faced woman with enormous medium brown eyes stared back at her. There were purplish shadows beneath the eyes and faint cracks about the corners. It occurred to her that for once, her father was correct. She really wasn’t getting any younger.

  The first person she saw upon coming downstairs was her father. He looked up from the foot of the open staircase, a glass of port in hand. “You look lovely, Kat.” He leaned forward to buss her cheek.

  Kate pulled back before he could. “I left the house keys with Bea, as well as directions for the laundry and recipe receipts with Hattie.” She would have liked to have taken Hattie with her—at least that way she could ensure she received her wages on time—but with Bea’s come-out approaching, her sister would need a maid.

  He opened his mouth as if to say more, and then closed it on a nod. “We will manage.”

  Kate took leave to doubt it, but for once held her peace.

  Bea trotted down the stairs behind her, looking fresh and lovely in one of the new gowns purchased from Rourke’s largesse. “Shall we go?”

  Rourke had sent a private carriage and driver to fetch them to the church. Even though Kate felt more like she was being abducted than driven somewhere, she had to credit the consideration of the gesture. The carriage pulled up at precisely a quarter ’til ten. Looking out the front window, Kate saw that the conveyance was the flashy sort, meant to turn heads, a broad, shiny, black-lacquered beast with gilding on the trim.

  The smartly turned out young driver met them at the door, a big black umbrella held aloft. “Mr. O’Rourke left very specific instructions you weren’t to be late.” He bowed. Rising, his gaze riveted on Bea crowding into the doorway.

  Noting the answering blush riding her sister’s cheekbones, Kate pushed her back inside and out of view. “In that case, let us not delay.”

  An hour later, Kate, Bea, her father, and Hattie sat in the front pew of the chilly church, tapping their toes upon the flagged floor. After the first few minutes, Hadrian and Callie rushed inside.

  Callie settled her gaze on Kate. “Katherine, it’s so lovely to see you again. I was so afraid we would be late.” Callie’s gaze left Kate to scan the other pews. Turning back to Callie, she asked, “Where is Rourke?”

  Arms folded, Kate shook her head. “Where, indeed.”

  Apparently Rourke had asked his two friends to stand as witnesses to the wedding. Callie explained that their other two childhood friends, Daisy and Gavin, were occupied with opening their newly restored theatre. Apparently the pair had wed the spring before.

  The newcomers settled in to wait. Desultory conversation made the rounds, mainly remarks on the recent spate of foul weather and voiced hopes for an early onset to spring. Hadrian broke away to set up the camera and tripod he’d brought along, apparently at Rourke’s direction. Several more minutes ticked by. After a while, the rector rose, stretched, and announced his intention to go next door to take a cup of tea. Hattie’s brown bonnet drooped, her cheek coming to roost on Kate’s shoulder. The driver, Ralph Sylvester, scratched his sandy blond head, paced up and down the aisle, and periodically fired off profuse apologies for his master’s lateness and assurances of his goodwill. Kate took note of how very often the driver’s hazel eyes danced their way over to snare her sister’s blue ones and of how often a pink-cheeked Bea looked back. If her supposedly eager “bridegroom” didn’t arrive soon, there might well be a wedding that day, only not hers.

  Clearly Rourke was not yet done with humiliating her. His latest lark sent steam rising kettle-style from atop her head. She was about to rise to leave when the vestibule door flung open, the crash echoing up to the rafters. Heads turned in unison to the back of the church.

  Rourke strolled down the aisle between pews, emitting the soft tinkling of bells. Jaws dropped and eyes popped. Hattie snapped upright and muttered, “Oh, dear.” On Kate’s other side, Bea giggled behind her glove.

  Kate was not amused. She rose, stepped out into the aisle, and ran her gaze down the length of her bridegroom, then back up again. A jester’s cap perched upon her soon-to-be husband’s head, and his big feet were stuffed into pointed slippers such as a clown might wear. A musty scent rose from his suit of clothes, patched with a potpourri of materials from gabardine to crimson silk. He must have acquired the costume from a rag-and-bone shop or raided the poorhouse closet. A pirate’s enormous gold hoop hung from his pierced ear.

  “What the devil do you think you’re about, dressed in that bizarre fashion? You are out to make a fool of me, and I will not have it.” Kate marked the shrillness in her tone but was too furious to care.

  His craggy face split into a broad grin. “We are all fools in love, milady.” He reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it back.

  “Some of us are more foolish than others.” Aware of the others looking on, she folded her arms across her chest and dug in her heels. “If you wish to marry me, first you shall have to change into a decent suit of clothes. And take off that ridiculous hat and those shoes.”

  Her gaze drifted over to Hadrian and Callie, a silent appeal for support. In contrast to the bridegroom, the photographer was dressed to the nines in a pale gray wool flannel suit. Likewise, Callie was smartly turned out in a princess-cut carriage costume of dark green wool trimmed with lace appliqués repeated on the matching muff. Neither member of the couple would meet her eyes. Clearly she would get no help from that quarter.

  She swung her gaze back to Rourke. He stared at her for a disconcertingly long moment. A ginger-colored brow hedged upward. “Do clothes make the man, milady? As for the bells on my toes, I promised you as much the other day. Betimes, the celebration of a marriage is meant to be a joyous occasion, is that not so, Reverend?”

  In the midst of the chaos, the rector had returned. He strode down the aisle, sucking at his teeth, the Bible tucked beneath his arm, a white substance that looked suspiciously like frosting lodged in the corners of his mouth.

  Drawing up to the marrying pair, he turned to Rourke. “Have you the special license?”

  “Aye, I do.” Rourke reached into his pocket and handed it over. Kate would not have been greatly surprised to see moths fly out.

  The priest gave the paper a perfunctory glance. “I have a baptism in an hour. Shall we?” He gestured to the front of the church.

  Kate dug in her heels. “No.”

  Rourke gripped her arm and stepped forward. “Yes.” He turned to her, patted his patched pocket, and mouthed the word, “Marker.”

  Kate felt her face flush. Despite the draft wafting in through the vestibule, she felt her skin prickle with heat. To taunt her with the cause of her downfall, and on thei
r wedding day, no less! What manner of monster was she marrying? Patrick O’Rourke wasn’t only an ill-bred churl. He was pure evil.

  Teeth gritted, she leaned in and whispered, “I hate you.”

  Taking hard hold of her elbow, he steered them both toward the altar rail. “Dearest Kate, I wouldna have it any other way.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I must, forsooth, be forced To give my hand opposed against my heart Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen, Who wooed in haste and means to wed at leisure.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Kate, The Taming of the Shrew

  o you, Katherine Elizabeth Lindsey, take this man, Patrick Donald O’Rourke, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love, honor, and obey him …”

  Standing at the altar in the nondescript little church, Kate was hard-pressed to believe this was her wedding day. It seemed more a nightmare than a celebration, or, barring a nightmare, certainly a farce. Standing beside her, Rourke shifted feet, setting bells tinkling. Kate suspected he did so on purpose to distract her. She repeated her vows through gritted back teeth, her jaw screwed so tight it stood in peril of popping. Casting him a sideways look, she didn’t miss the wicked glint in his eye when she stumbled over the dreaded O word.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Looking relieved, the rector closed his Bible with a thump. His pale gaze lifted to Rourke. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Aware of eyes watching them from the pews, Kate tensed when Rourke turned to her to claim his kiss. She meant to give him only a quick buss and step back, but he captured her face between his callused palms and kissed her hard. The bruising assault was as unlike the previous kiss in Hyde Park as an embrace could be, and yet Kate felt herself swept away by it, her body melting against him and her mouth opening to receive his thrusting tongue. He dragged the tip along the roof of her mouth, and liquid heat splashed her inner thighs, her nipples swelling inside her gown’s tight-fitting bodice.