But the likelihood of the marquis marrying, however fondly his daughter might wish it, was viewed with a good deal of skepticism by the rest of the household. He had been heard more than once to disparage the entire idea of marriage, and usually, upon any servant announcing an intention to form such a union, tried to counsel them out of it. If the hapless individual refused to abandon his or her quest for the altar, the marquis was known to sigh sadly and hand over a gold crown, with his sincere wishes that said individual find happiness, in such a tone that suggested such happiness was extremely rare.
And, Kate eventually learned from his lordship’s valet, the marquis had most recently been spending all of his time not in pursuit of a new mistress, but down at his club. Or at least, that was where Duncan was frequently sent with deliveries of fresh shirts.
Not that Kate had taken to listening to kitchen gossip. Only it seemed that whenever his lordship’s name was mentioned, she could not help but listen. Mrs. Cleary’s story, for example, of a time when it had snowed so hard one Christmas Eve at Wingate Abbey that the housekeeper—a Catholic—had resigned herself to forgoing mass, for fear of slipping on the way. Imagine her surprise when she’d awakened Christmas morning to the sound of scraping, and looked out her window to see the master of the house—he had given his staff the day off—shoveling a path for her through the deep white stuff.
“And wouldn’t take a thank-you,” Mrs. Cleary had informed Kate, over tea one evening, after a sniffling Isabel had fallen into a restless sleep. “Wouldn’t hear a word of it. And him not even a churchgoer! But he was always like that, since he was a wee little one, Master Burke. Always putting others ahead of himself, but doing it on the sly, like, so you would never know it, unless you caught him at it. I’ve heard there’s some as put his lordship down as having a violent temper.” Here the old woman’s voice dipped conspiratorially, “And I’ll not lie to you. He’s got the devil’s own. But only when he’s vexed, miss. Only when he’s vexed. The rest of the time, he is the best of men. The best.”
Kate might have thought Mrs. Cleary was exaggerating a little, as elderly ladies—particularly housekeepers—were wont to do, especially when speaking of their employers, except that she heard similar stories from all of Lord Wingate’s other servants, as well. Isabel’s father, it seemed, was generous to a fault, kind beyond all comparison, and generally perceived to be exactly what Mrs. Cleary had insisted he was: the best of men.
Except, of course, for his temper, which all agreed was extremely volatile. Kate was advised to steer a wide berth around any subjects that might engender the master’s wrath, and was even offered a list of those subjects, which included, among other things, matrimony and flannel.
Though Kate memorized the list, she thought it highly unlikely that an opportunity for bringing up any of these offensive subjects was going to rear itself, since she now saw so little of him. In fact, she’d lived in his home for nearly a month before she happened actually to sit down to a meal with him, and that had been a distinctly uncomfortable affair at which the marquis, who had clearly been expecting to enjoy his breakfast in solitary perusal of the newspaper, had attempted to find a subject upon which they might converse with one another, and failed, finally leaving the table with a hasty excuse.
Kate would, of course, not have been a woman if this had not irked her. It was obvious to her that Lord Wingate was avoiding her, just as it had been obvious to her before that he’d been following her. Strangely, his avoiding her dismayed her a good deal more than his following her ever had. She did not flatter herself that Lord Wingate was in love with her, despite what had happened in the Sledges’ library, but she had thought that he rather liked her, at least a little.
But that, apparently, had been a false impression, his lordship having proved that his time was better spent elsewhere.
Other men, however, were not so fickle with their affections. Mr. Geoffrey Saunders had remained a constant admirer, as Brigitte now proved, by taking away the offensive sugared peaches, and revealing, instead, a letter upon a silver salver.
“Perhaps,” Brigitte said, her French accent very thick. “Perhaps this will make her ladyship smile, then. It came just now, in the post. Another love letter, I think.”
Isabel groaned, her eyes closed. “Oh, how my head pounds! I haven’t the strength to read it. Put it on the table with the others, Miss Mayhew, would you?”
Kate put aside the book she’d been reading aloud—Our Mutual Friend, by Mr. Dickens, Pride and Prejudice having been finally disposed of the day before—stood up, and removed the letter from the silver salver the maid held out to her. Recognizing the handwriting on the envelope, Kate said airily, “Oh, look, another from Mr. Saunders.”
Isabel sat up with as much energy as if someone had suggested her bedclothes were aflame.
“From Geoffrey?” she cried. “Is it really? Oh, give it here, Miss Mayhew! Please give it here!”
Kate surrendered the letter, and Isabel fell upon it with savage eagerness.
“Oh,” she cried, reading happily. “Oh, he misses me, Miss Mayhew! He says he is pining for me.”
Kate said, “As he ought.”
“But supposing he does a harm to himself, for missing me so much? He says here he might. He says he can’t promise he won’t. Oh, mayn’t I answer this one, Miss Mayhew?” Isabel looked up pleadingly. “Please mayn’t I answer this one?”
“I don’t know.” Kate furrowed her brow, pretending to think. “How many is that this week?”
“Four, Miss Mayhew! Surely I may answer him after four letters begging to know why I haven’t sent a reply to any of his others, and threatening to do himself a harm if I don’t reply to this one.”
Kate sighed. “I suppose,” she said, “you may send him a brief note, explaining that you are ill, and—” Then, seeing that Isabel was scrambling out of bed and toward her writing desk, Kate broke off, and cried, instead, “Where do you think you’re going, my lady? Get back beneath those blankets. You heard what the doctor said.”
“How can I care what the doctor says,” Isabel wailed, struggling against Kate’s detaining hands, “when my darling Geoffrey is pining for me?”
“You’ll care a good deal,” Kate said tartly, “if you catch something worse than a cold, and are kept from him that much longer. Think what a harm he’ll do to himself then.”
Isabel stopped struggling immediately. “Oh,” she said, sinking back against the pillows. “You are right, Miss Mayhew. Darling Miss Mayhew, where would I be without you? For you are always right.”
Kate, tugging at her sleeves—which Isabel had frightfully wrinkled in her frantic struggle to get out of bed—said, “I am always right. It would help if you’d remember that, my lady. Now stay put, and I’ll go and fetch some stationery. And at your peril you spill ink on the sheets again.”
But she had hardly taken two steps toward Isabel’s desk when Brigitte’s startled voice stopped her.
“Oh, miss!” she cried, as a grey-and-white blur streaked past her skirts, and into the hallway beyond the door she held open. “La chatte ! La chatte !
Kate was up and running before the words were fully out of the maid’s mouth. Isabel had all but adopted Lady Babbie as her own, and the feline had fallen for her constant offerings of creamed herring and milk, and had taken to sleeping on her bed instead of Kate’s. Kate did not mind, since she knew as soon as Isabel was well again, she would forget all about Lady Babbie, who would then return to Kate’s room.
But in the meantime, it was a challenge to keep the animal contained in the sickroom, since the door to it was left continuously open, allowing Lady Babbie to escape and explore sections of the house not necessarily welcome to her. This time, Kate saw, as she ran after the fleeing animal, she was headed for the door to Lord Wingate’s private chambers, rooms which Lady Babbie had expressly not been given permission to enter. Her heart rate speeding up, Kate careened after the fleeing animal, and just missed seizing her at the r
oom’s threshold.
Kate did not hesitate. The door had been left partly open, most likely by the valet, who’d been conducting an inventory of his lordship’s waistcoats, having decided that morning that one appeared to be missing. It being made of flannel, it was supposed that Lord Wingate had disposed of it himself, but Duncan left nothing to chance, and had decided to make that determination for himself by conducting a thorough search of his master’s closets.
Kate pushed the door all the way open, then peered about the room, hoping to spy Lady Babbie right off, and spirit her away before Duncan happened to notice her presence.
The valet, however, was not in sight. And as it was the first time Kate had had an opportunity to enter the room, she was struck momentarily by the sheer immensity of the place, and could only stand there, panting and blinking, Lady Babbie completely forgotten.
The chamber was three times as large as her own, containing a massive fireplace, before which there was a comfortable arrangement of leather chairs and a sofa, and above which hung a crossed set of rather wicked-looking swords. At the opposite end stood an equally massive bed. Dark blue curtains fell from all four of its posts, sweeping the floor of the raised dais on which the bed stood. Matching dark blue material curtained the fourteen-foot windows that looked out across the park, and the carpet below Kate’s feet was also that same deep blue.
It was a very grand room—a very grand room, indeed—and yet, as Kate stood there looking at it, she was struck with a feeling of pity for him. Because it was a terribly large room to have all to oneself, and it seemed to Kate that the marquis must be very lonely in it, which was undoubtedly why he spent so much time out, away from it.
It was as she was standing there, thinking this perfectly ridiculous thought, that she became aware of the sound of vigorous splashing from behind her. Turning, she saw a half-open door, behind which stood a standing mirror.
“Duncan?”
Kate’s blood froze in her veins. It was Lord Wingate’s voice.
“Duncan, where have you got to with the towels?”
And then, to Kate’s horror, she glimpsed something so disturbing that, without another thought, she turned and bolted from the room. She did not stop running until she reached her own chamber, into which she flung herself, locking the door behind her.
Nor did she unlock it until some time later, when she was forced to, in answer to an irritated, “Miss Mayhew? Miss Mayhew, are you in there?”
Collecting herself as best she could, Kate went to the door and undid the lock, then opened it a fraction of an inch. His lordship’s valet stood in the hallway, holding an extremely irritated and rather damp Lady Babbie in his arms.
“Miss Mayhew,” Duncan said, with wounded dignity, as he thrust the cat toward her. “May I ask that in the future, you restrain this creature? I found it a moment ago, lapping water from his lordship’s bath.”
Kate took the cat silently and started to close the door, but the valet stopped her with a concerned, “Miss Mayhew? Are you quite all right? Do you want me to fetch Mrs. Cleary for you? Because if you don’t mind my saying it, you look as if you had seen a ghost.”
But it was not a ghost Kate had seen. It had been quite the opposite of a ghost, being very much alive. So alive, in fact, that the sight of it had burned itself into her memory, and Kate was quite certain it was never, ever going to leave.
Now she could only smile at the valet in a sickly fashion and say, “Oh, no. I’m quite well,” and then close the door, and lean upon it some more, perfectly unconscious of the fact that Lady Babbie was struggling frantically to escape her arms.
For what she had seen, of course, was Lord Wingate, in the flesh ....
Chapter Fourteen
The two of them were back in the Sledges’ library. They were wearing very much the same things they’d had on the day Lord Wingate had first made his extraordinary offer. The sun was filtering weakly through the stained-glass window in much the same manner. And, as had happened that day, Lord Wingate suddenly, quite without any warning, seized her about the waist, and pulled her against him.
Only this time, Kate didn’t stop him. She didn’t lay a finger on the nearby atlas. She didn’t so much as glance at it. Instead, she threw her arms about Lord Wingate’s neck, and raised her face toward his in a perfectly scandalous manner ....
And she didn’t care. She didn’t care a bit what happened.
And when what happened was that Lord Wingate lowered his mouth over hers, well, that was just fine. More than fine, as a matter of fact. It seemed to be exactly what she’d been longing for him to do all these weeks.
And when he tightened his strong arms around her, and she found herself molded to every contour of his lean, muscular body, his heat seeming to singe her through her clothing, well, that felt right, too. So right, in fact, that it seemed perfectly natural for her to run her hands along those rippling muscles, first the ones she felt beneath the sleeves of his coat, and then the ones beneath his shirt, along that hardened, thickly haired chest, and then the ones that made up the deeply ridged wallof his stomach, until finally she sunk her hands even lower, low enough so that she could feel the firm flesh of his thighs beneath his breeches ....
Only now, conveniently, he was bereft of those breeches. Lord Wingate was perfectly naked, and so was she. A second later, they were sinking down upon Cyrus Sledge’s cracked leather couch, their limbs and tongues entwined ....
It was at this point Kate woke up. Woke up panting, and with her hand between her legs.
And that was not all. Not only was her hand there, pressed up against the part of her which was throbbing so tenderly, but when she brought that hand away, it was damp.
And even as she sat there, trying to catch her breath, she realized that she was damp all over. There were rivulets of sweat between her breasts, not just between her legs.
She looked around her dark bedroom. Everything looked exactly as it had when she’d gone to bed a few hours before. But there seemed to be something different, something not quite right.
And then she remembered. Yes, of course. The difference was with her.
It wasn’t any good, of course. Try as she might, Kate could not get the image of what she’d seen in Lord Wingate’s bedroom out of her head. How could she? She had never in her life seen a naked man, except in paintings, and the occasional statue. And frankly, in her newly enlightened opinion, paintings and statues did not even begin to tell the story. Statues had no hair, for one thing, and paintings ... well, all Kate could think was that most painters were men, and that when presented with a model who looked like Lord Wingate, they’d undoubtedly—out of sheer jealousy, if nothing else—underplayed the sheer immensity of ... things, conscious that their own was nothing to it
Or so Kate supposed. There really was no other rational explanation for it. The thing had been huge. Lord Wingate was a big man—she had always known he was a big man. But she had seen plenty of paintings and sculptures of big men, and their things had never been as big as Lord Wingate’s.
And that hadn’t been all. It had been enough, of course, but it hadn’t been all. Because Kate had seen the whole man—with the exception of his head, the mirror having cut off his reflection at the neck. But then, she already knew what Lord Wingate’s head looked like, so what did she care about that? It was what she’d seen below his neck that she found impossible to stop thinking about.
His back had been to her, but the mirror had reflected everything she might otherwise have missed. Nothing was left to the imagination, from that broad expanse of chest, covered thickly all over with crisp dark hair; the flat, copper-colored nipples hidden within that hair; the firmly ridged abdominal muscles along his flat stomach; the concave indentations on either side of his smooth white buttocks; even the thick patch of hair between his legs, from the center of which hung that appendage that had Kate so thoroughly convinced artists throughout the ages had been sadly lacking in worthy models.
It was th
e sight of the whole man to which Kate kept returning in her mind’s eye—and now even in her dreams—despite her efforts to expurgate all memory of it. A few quiet hours of reading to the invalid Isabel had done nothing to drive it from her head. Even as she was pronouncing Mr. Dickens’s words, she kept thinking, Why, his shoulders were every bit as big as I imagined. And, I suppose I shouldn’t wonder at his thighs looking so very strong. After all, he rides every day. I wonder if he fences, too. He certainly looks as if he might.
Several times, Isabel had to call for Kate’s attention, and point out to her that she seemed to have skipped a page. Which, in her distraction, it appeared she had.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Mayhew?” Isabel wondered.
“Certainly,” Kate replied, too quickly. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t seem at all yourself. Your cheeks are very pink.”
Kate pressed her hands to them. Her fingers did, indeed, feel refreshingly cool against her hot face.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s nothing. It’s quite warm this evening, and the windows are closed against your catching a greater chill.”
“Perhaps you are becoming ill, as well,” Isabel said, sounding quite delighted at the prospect “Oh, and then I shall have a chance to nurse you, Miss Mayhew. Won’t that be excellent fun?”
Kate found the idea of being nursed by the Lady Isabel Traherne highly amusing. But she managed to keep herself from laughing, and only said, “How very charitable of you, my lady.”
Still, later, before she climbed into her bed, Kate looked at her reflection in the mirror, and thought that Isabel was correct. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright. Bright with newfound knowledge, Kate thought wryly to herself. How was she ever, she wondered, to look Lord Wingate in the face again, knowing as she did how his chest hair fanned out in a wide furry arc across where he was broadest, then tapered down as it neared his belly, thinning to the merest ribbon of hair beneath his navel, before flaring out into a thick nest between his thighs? How was she ever to sit across that vast plane of a dining table and attend to his polite attempts at conversation, while picturing him as she’d seen him last? How was she to keep herself from thinking of the smooth tanned skin stretched so taut over the swell of each of his biceps, or the obvious strength, so tightly controlled, of his broad back?
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