The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2)

by Mary Lancaster

  “No, I couldn’t,” she said miserably. “I’m a selfish, restless, ill-natured woman and I’d make his life hell. I’d make both our lives hell unless we lived apart most of the year. Like Crowmore and me… God help me, I don’t want that either. I should run from this.”

  She even got as far as rushing to her wardrobe and taking out a handful of gowns, throwing them on the bed ready for packing, before she sat down beside them, her head in her hands because she didn’t want to leave.

  It came to her quite slowly that what she really wanted, what she really needed, was to talk to Tristram about all this. She knew instinctively that whatever his desires, he would understand her doubts and fears, would discuss them with her without judging her or trying to bully her.

  He was a remarkable man. No wonder she loved him.

  With a choke of laughter that was at least half sob, she jumped up and donned her pelisse and bonnet once more.

  Leaving the hotel, she walked briskly round to the vicarage. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided to glance into the church first. If he was there, she’d have no reason to face Mrs. Walsh at the house.

  And it seemed he was in the church. As she approached the door, she heard men’s voices, and one of them was surely Tristram’s. She would have gone in, then—after all, everyone had the right to go into a church, to speak to the clergyman—except that she suddenly recognized the other voice, too. Vernon’s.

  Her hand froze on the big brass door ring. Footsteps rapidly approached from the other side, but it was Tristram’s words that paralyzed her.

  “How were you planning to talk our father into this match?”

  Her blood ran cold and she barely heard Vernon, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do,” Grant said with a contempt she’d never heard in his voice. My God, was that contempt aimed at her? “You know how he feels about any scandal attaching to his name.”

  Her mouth opened in shock.

  “You’re walking proof he’s no angel himself,” Vernon retorted.

  “I don’t bear his name, and never would. I may have been looked after but I was never publicly acknowledged. To him, indiscretion is the cardinal sin. Do you really expect him to bless Kate’s entry into his family?”

  With a gasp, she tore herself away from the door and fled around the side of the church, just before it opened and Vernon stormed out.

  How dare he speak of her that way? How dare he?

  Panting, she acknowledged he’d spoken no more than the truth, and in her heart she knew his contempt had not been for her but for Vernon and their father. But still, he had no right to discuss her with Vernon, whatever his jealousy. That hurt her, as did the fact that he could be jealous at all. She’d believed he knew and trusted her, but it seemed he was not so different from everyone else after all. That hurt, too.

  Everything hurt. Not least because, as she walked swiftly back the way she’d come, keeping well behind Lord Vernon, she realized that it made no difference. She still loved Tristram Grant.

  Which didn’t mean she wasn’t angry and wasn’t ready to pay him back.

  Lord Vernon was crossing the foyer to the coffee room when she entered the hotel. His face was thunderous, although he did his best to smooth it when he caught sight of her.

  “Ah, Vernon,” she greeted him, much to his apparent surprise. “Just the man I was looking for. If you have nothing better to do, you may escort me to the Winslows’ ball tonight. I’ve ordered a carriage for nine.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kate had not arrived at Henrit House by the time the ball opened. Grant, anxiously wondering whether she’d decided not to come or if she were merely fashionably late, shared the opening dance with Mrs. Lampton. Grant had driven out to Henrit with them and learned that this would be her last occasion for dancing this year, since she was expecting her first child.

  Grant, delighted for them, had wrung Lampton’s hand and insisted on enjoying at least two of his wife’s last dances.

  “By all means,” Lampton had agreed generously. “If it gets me off the hook.”

  “You are a graceless oaf and ill-deserving of your beautiful wife,” Grant had informed him.

  “Oh, I know that,” Lampton had said with such sincerity that his wife had kissed him, and Grant had laughed.

  “And how go your own romantic entanglements?” Mrs. Lampton asked now as they came together in the dance.

  “You make me sound like the town rake,” Grant objected.

  They separated, turned, and joined hands once more.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Lampton said. “But the town is agog. You are seen so often with a certain titled lady.”

  They stepped back into their own lines, curtseyed, and bowed respectively as the dance came to a close.

  “And is the town outraged?” Grant inquired, offering her his arm.

  She took it. “Divided. Some are inclined to be scandalized, others to protect you, others again who believe there’s nothing to it but pastoral care. Cheer up, it would be worse if she were a permanent member of your congregation.”

  “I believe you encouraged me in that direction, too,” Grant recalled.

  “I never said I wasn’t mischievous. So what of the beautiful Lady C? Is she in your power, or are you in hers?”

  She couldn’t have timed it better if she’d tried. Before Grant could answer the question, a late arriving couple appeared in the archway that was the ballroom entrance. Three steps led down from it so new arrivals were highly visible, and this couple caught every eye in the ballroom.

  “Lord Vernon and Lady Crowmore,” the liveried servant announced.

  She took his breath away. Her raven hair was swept into a vaguely Grecian style, braided with glittering diamonds, with one long, apparently escaping curl just caressing one pale, sloping shoulder. The effect was classically decadent, especially in conjunction with the diaphanous, all but transparent gown that clung to her figure. She must have dampened it. It was pure white, its shapely neck revealing the beauty of her shoulders while, in contrast to other daring gowns of the time, maintaining the modesty of her breasts. A gauzy net that might have been made of air, were it not for the glimpses of red and gold, was draped across her elbows.

  One, white-gloved hand lay loosely on Lord Vernon’s arm. He, of course, was impeccably turned out in black satin knee breeches and a coat that fitted him so closely Grant had no idea how he got it on and off. His stance was haughty, and yet there was more than pride in the restless, swiveling of his eyes. He was uneasy, anxious even, and the cause stood beside him, eclipsing every other lady in the room with her style and beauty—and probably mischief.

  Grant’s inevitable surge of unworthy jealousy when he saw her with his brother, was quickly drowned in worry for her. Something was wrong.

  His instinctive start toward her was brought up short by Mrs. Lampton’s tightening grip on his arm.

  “Don’t run at her,” Mrs. Lampton instructed severely. “Contrive to encounter her by accident a little later.”

  Perhaps his movement had caught Kate’s eye, for quite suddenly, she looked right at him.

  His breath caught. He waited for the faint, lazy quirk of her sensual lips, the secret, conspiratorial smile meant only for him. It didn’t come. She didn’t even acknowledge him as her gaze slid free and she languidly descended the stairs.

  Mrs. Winslow hurried to greet her titled guests.

  “Don’t gawp,” Mrs. Lampton hissed. “Go and fetch us all a drink.”

  Grant obeyed, almost numbly. He’d been so sure Kate’s temper would be recovered by now, that he could make right whatever he’d done to offend her. But that look scared him. It said she didn’t want it put right. It said she wasn’t remotely interested in him.

  The wicked lady had finished with him.

  *

  Cornelius had made good time on his journey back to Blackhaven. They’d come partly by short cuts over bumpier roads, which his wound hadn’t li
ked although his urgent brain did. He had hopes that he might actually have passed Dickie Crowmore on the way and so would reach Kate first.

  His hopes were dashed as soon as he walked into the hotel and saw Dickie Crowmore himself, crossing the foyer at the side of an older man who looked vaguely familiar. Surreptitiously keeping his eye on the pair as they climbed the staircase, Cornelius sidled up to the reception desk.

  “Please send up to Lady Crowmore that I’d like a word,” he murmured. “My name’s Cornelius.”

  “Her ladyship has gone out for the evening, sir,” the polite clerk informed him.

  Cornelius scowled. “Where to?” Then he slapped his head in sudden memory. “Damnation. It’s the ball tonight!” Which meant not only Kate but Tris and Wickenden and the rest of the Muir household would all be out of town at the squire’s party. Damn them.

  Still at least, it would keep Kate out of Dickie’s way for the evening … though she still had to be warned.

  “Where is the wretched ball?” he demanded.

  “At Henrit,” the young man said, as if everyone knew that.

  “And how do I get there?”

  “Perhaps you could go with the gentlemen who just arrived, sir. I believe they plan to drive out to the ball just as soon as they can change their clothes. Lord Crowmore,” the young man explained, clearly impressed. “And Sir Anthony Mere.”

  Cornelius nodded his thanks. “No need to mention me to them,” he said hastily, forking over the last of the money Grant had given him for the journey. “I’ll make my own way.”

  “Mere,” he repeated to himself as he strode back across the foyer and out the hotel door. The doorman tipped his hat politely. “I say, give my driver directions to Henrit House, would you?”

  The doorman obliged, while Cornelius climbed back into the coach and racked his brain over the name Mere. He threw his head back against the squabs as the horses moved on their weary way.

  “Of course.” Sir Anthony Mere’s only daughter had married the late Lord Crowmore. Kate’s father was here in Blackhaven, with none other than Dickie Crowmore. Cornelius supposed that was a good thing. At least she had her father to look out for her.

  *

  Kate knew almost at once that her plan was foolish, hurtful, and pointless.

  She saw Grant long before he saw her. Waiting at the side of the arch for Vernon to readjust his cravat in the glass provided on the wall, she had leisure to glance into the ballroom.

  He was dancing with a woman she’d never met but had seen before, at the Assembly ball when she’d also been dancing with Tristram. A young, comely woman with a kind face. A kindness Kate would never have. She wore an old-fashioned and no doubt elderly blue ballgown, and yet, no one would ever notice what she wore. Grant didn’t. He talked and smiled with her, perfectly at ease, his expression occasionally sardonic or appreciative. They were clearly on friendly terms, friendly enough to tease each other. She could almost hear their banter as the dance came to a close.

  Is that how he is with me?

  Her throat closed up. In many ways, Kate was the victim of her own carefully played role in her social world. She knew she dazzled men without inspiring any deep or lasting affection. In truth, that had suited her, until Tristram Grant. She’d thought he was different, and he was. But Kate was still Kate. She could still dazzle the curate—the very odd curate—and inspire him to offer her a quite unequal marriage. It didn’t mean he actually loved her. Not in any way that mattered. Not any more than he loved the lady currently on his arm.

  Kate took Vernon’s arm almost mechanically, only vaguely heard the announcement before her eyes refocused on him. He looked straight at her, as if he was about to smile. Only he didn’t. Her heart twisted and she moved her gaze forward with her steps.

  I can be more than the dazzling curate’s wife. I will be more… But this was not the way, this pretense with Vernon just to punish him for discussing her as if her reputation were true.

  In characteristic, self-destructive Kate fashion, she was doing her best to ruin the only relationship that had ever mattered to her. And perhaps it would be best for him if she did.

  But to walk away would be laziness. Drat it, she would be good for him. She would make him happy if it took her decades.

  A funny choke of laughter escaped her lips, causing Vernon to look at her most oddly. However, civility compelled them both to respond to Mrs. Winslow’s welcome, which was surprisingly effusive given her previous coolness to Kate.

  Kate waited for Grant to come to her, surreptitiously watching him over her champagne glass, or over the shoulder of the man she was talking to. She didn’t dance, but she had plenty of male admirers, several of whom had been at the card party in the hotel. They made the waiting easier, for she didn’t need to think in their company. It was so familiar a type as to require merely mechanical responses, smile, flirt, tap the occasional knuckle with her fan, and say anything at all because they weren’t listening to her words. And all the time, she waited for Grant.

  He sat with Dr. Lampton for a little, and then he strolled over to Wickenden and Gillie who were unfashionable enough to be together at a party. She saw him dance with Miss Winslow, who gazed up at him with adoring eyes, and converse with several different groups of people. His head began to turn in her direction and she looked away.

  What was the matter with her? Why did she not simply summon him with her eyes as she could summon any man from Bernard Muir to Wickenden to Mr. Winslow?

  “It’s him,” Vernon said abruptly beside her.

  She blinked him into focus. Lord Vernon had left her and returned to her side several times since they’d arrived, though she couldn’t quite recall when he’d last reappeared. Irritated now with her admirers, she shook them off and allowed Vernon to lead her away.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Tristram. You asked me to bring you to make Tristram jealous.”

  “Of course I didn’t,” she said irritably. Then she frowned. “Well, it wasn’t quite as simple as that, but perhaps it was something similar.”

  “Seriously, Kate? You and the curate?”

  “He is much more than the curate and you know it!”

  “Of course I do, he’s my brother,” Vernon retorted. “What I don’t understand is why you know it? Why do you even know him in the first place and what the devil is he to you?”

  “That is none of your business,” Kate said loftily. She cast him a quick smile. “On the other hand, I apologize if I misled you. You know I’m selfish and mean. I won’t marry you, Vernon, but I hope we can be friends.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you throwing me over again?”

  “No. You merely remain thrown.”

  Vernon gave a reluctant smile. “Damned if I know why I like you, Kate.”

  “Find yourself a congenial heiress,” Kate advised. “You’ll come about.”

  “Maybe I will,” Vernon said as his erratic gaze fell on Jenny Smallwood tripping onto the dance floor on Bernard’s arm.

  “Not that one,” Kate said severely. “She’s too young and too vulnerable.”

  “Well if you think I’m going to let you chose which heiress I—” He broke off, staring at the ballroom entrance. “Good God.”

  Kate followed his gaze and saw Cornelius in the archway, smiling at Mrs. Winslow while clearly apologizing for his improper dress. Obviously, he hadn’t had time—or means—to don evening wear.

  “Cornelius,” she said, starting toward him. “He isn’t meant to be here.” Vernon allowed himself to be dragged. And approaching from the nearer side of the room, Grant was already there, patiently waiting for Mrs. Winslow to release her uninvited guest.

  Despite his improper dress, it seemed Mrs. Winslow was prepared to tolerate the Honorable Cornelius Fanshawe. Certainly, no one was rushing to arrest him as an escaped French prisoner of war. Of course, he no longer looked the same savage, bearded, ragged person who’d leapt over the harbor wall. Although Kate hoped Major
Doverton, who was somewhere in the ballroom, would not come too close.

  “Ah, your brother is here, my lord,” Mrs. Winslow told Lord Vernon as she rustled past, smiling. “What an unexpected reunion.”

  “Unexpected indeed,” Vernon murmured to Kate. “Tris told me he wasn’t here.”

  “He wasn’t. He’s come back.”

  Cornelius was talking quietly and rapidly to Grant, who finally glanced up and saw Kate and Vernon. And this time there was definite alarm in his eyes.

  “Gil, take her away from the door,” he said urgently.

  To her surprise, Vernon actually began to obey, guiding her into a swerve. But she wasn’t having that. Pulling her hand free and turning back to Grant and Cornelius, she demanded, “Why are you here, Cornelius? What is—”

  “The waltz,” Grant interrupted. “Definitely, mine.” And before she could think, Grant was at her side, his hand at her elbow, sweeping her onward.

  “It is not the waltz,” she disputed. The orchestra, in fact, was silent.

  “It will be any moment,” Grant assured her. “I’ve been counting.”

  She narrowed her eyes. All over London, it was known as a danger signal. “Do you imagine I can be passed among you like some parcel? Pushed and ordered around like an importunate child?”

  “God, no,” Grant said so fervently that the wind suddenly vanished from her sails. “Look, I’m well aware you can shake me off one way or another, though you should know I’ve steeled myself for the blistering verbal attack that I’m sure has sent hundreds of grown men running for cover over the years.”

  “Would you run?” she asked, distracted.

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t want you to see him until you’re ready. Or at all, really.”

  “See who?” She tried for coldness. “You’re not making any sense, Mr. Grant.”