by Lauren Royal
Kit dug into his belt purse. “For the damage,” he said, shoving a few coins at the maid. “With my apologies.” He gave her a curt tip of his hat.
Gripping the piece of brick in his pocket, he made for the stairs without another word.
THIRTY-SIX
THE NEXT DAY, Rose answered the door herself, all but dragging Kit into the town house without so much as a good morning. “I need to talk to you.”
He grinned as she pulled him toward the drawing room. “Missed me, did you?”
“No,” she said, although in truth she’d missed him entirely too much. She shut the door behind them and waved him toward a blue brocade chair. “Sit, please.”
“Sit? Then you didn’t drag me in here for a kiss?” Lowering himself, he linked his fingers and rested his elbows on the chair’s arms, looking nauseatingly good in his simple dark blue suit. “It isn’t like you not to be looking for a kiss.”
She gazed at him, wondering how to break this to him gently while half wishing he were an ugly harebrained hayseed with no talent at all for kissing.
Of course she wanted a kiss.
“No, I’m not looking for a kiss.” His sister was more important than kissing. “This is serious, Kit. You must let Ellen wed Thomas. She loves him, and—”
“I’ve told Ellen time and again that I won’t see her wed to a pawnbroker.” The good humor leaving his face, he unlinked his fingers and crossed his arms instead. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Something else had changed instead. And she hadn’t realized how significant that change was until it had almost cost Ellen her life.
“Thomas isn’t only a pawnbroker,” she said carefully. “He’s also a man—the man your sister loves. You’re judging him the way you complain people judge you.”
He raised a brow. “The way you judge me?”
“We’re talking about Ellen.” She wouldn’t let him turn this around. “Ellen really and truly loves Thomas. Why should it matter what the fellow does for a living? He’s decent, he’s respectable. Don’t you want your sister to be happy?”
He remained quiet for a moment, just gazing at her. As the silence stretched, she thought maybe she’d struck a chord.
Until he finally spoke. “What happened,” he asked slowly, “to your conviction that it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without?” He rose and slid off his surcoat, tossing it over the arm of the chair. “If those words no longer apply to Ellen, can I assume they no longer apply to you, too?”
She backed up. “No. Of course they still apply. But in Ellen’s case—”
“Why should Ellen be different?” Kit advanced, taking perverse pleasure in watching Rose retreat. He’d caught her—twice—insisting Ellen should marry for love, and this time he wasn’t going to let her get away with claiming it shouldn’t work the same way for her.
“Ellen isn’t different.” She backed into a marquetry desk and braced her hands on the surface. “But Ellen has already fallen in love.” She lifted her chin. “She never had a chance to fall in love with a titled man first.”
He brought his face to within an inch of hers. “Who will you fall in love with first, Rose?”
Though he was too close to see it, he heard her nervous swallow. “We’re talking about Ellen.”
“Not anymore,” he said, and bent his head to meet her lips.
Her eyes closed, and a tiny sound rose up from her throat. Her hands came to rest on his chest, seeming to burn through the thin cambric of his shirt.
Then she pushed him away, her eyes popping open. “Kit! Listen to me. You must let Ellen wed Thomas—she almost killed herself.”
He stumbled back, not from the force of her shove, but from the impact of her words.
He couldn’t have heard right. His baby sister had tried to…?
He fell back onto the chair.
“Gemini,” Rose said, putting her hands to her cheeks and looking entirely unRoselike. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. She didn’t do it on purpose. But she did nearly die.”
He rubbed his face. “You’re making me more confused. Just…please, tell me what happened.”
Rose took a deep breath and started from the beginning. By the time she finished, he was less confused. But even more shocked.
“You say she’s all right, though?”
“The doctor thinks so. Though I feel she’s quite melancholy.”
“Show me the book.”
Rose produced a tome from somewhere in her skirts, and he reflected, not for the first time, that ladies’ clothing was an utter mystery. But once he’d opened the book’s cover, he could no longer think about clothing.
Because nobody in the engravings wore any. Clothing, that was.
He flipped back to the title page. “I Sonetti? Weren’t virtually all the copies burned by the Vatican? Where on earth did she find one?”
This was obviously the book Ellen had brought that evening to Windsor, the one she’d asked Rose to translate. He should have known it was something licentious. Ellen had never been bookish, and yet she’d been engrossed.
He flipped through a few more pages before slamming the book shut. “This is what my baby sister’s been reading?”
“Technically, she hasn’t read any of it,” Rose soothed. “Only looked at the pictures.”
“Well, isn’t that a relief!” he said sarcastically.
She sat in the chair next to his and angled to face him. “Kit, what’s in the book isn’t as important as what’s in Ellen’s heart. She will do anything—anything—to wed Thomas. She’s willing to push moral boundaries, risk her reputation, risk her own life…”
His heart hammering, Kit came halfway off the chair. “I thought she didn’t know the tansy was dangerous.”
“She didn’t.” Rose darted forward to push him back down again. “A midwife told her that tansy tea aids in conception, so she took one of my mother’s essential oils. They’re stronger than the herbs by a hundred times or more. It would likely have taken her life had it not been purged at once.”
“Thanks to you.”
Rose waved that away. “My point is this: Your sister will marry the man she loves, or she will die trying.”
Kit blinked at her. “But it was an accident. She wasn’t thinking.“
“Because she’s too desperate to think. She’s gone this far, Kit. She won’t stop now. Her latest plan failed, so she’ll move on to the next harebrained scheme.” Resettling herself in her seat, Rose put a hand on Kit’s. “I know she’s young, and I know it seems like she’s throwing her future away, but I fear the sort of future you envisioned is no longer possible. If you could give her happiness or a title—but not both—which would you choose?”
“What a ridiculous question,” he snapped. “Of course I’d choose happiness.” Gripping the chair’s arms, he willed himself to calm. It wasn’t Rose he wanted to shout at, after all. “But I shouldn’t have to choose. I could give her both.”
“No, Kit. You can’t.” After a gentle pause, she leaned back in her chair and continued in a lighter tone. “And don’t you go blaming yourself for this fix. I vow and swear, if your sister had fallen for a viscount, you’d condemn yourself for not snagging her an earl.”
When Rose paused again, he managed a weak chuckle.
Evidently she could tell it was forced. Her expression sobered. “At least you can be certain she’ll have love in her life.”
“She already does. I love her.”
Her dark eyes held his captive. “So does Thomas.”
Kit wasn’t so sure. But Rose’s judgement of Ellen rang true. Kit should have seen that she’d never let this go. But he hadn’t wanted to see, and his stubbornness had nearly cost him his sister. His only family. The one person he was supposed to protect at all costs.
Guilt was a vise squeezing the air from his lungs.
If it hadn’t been for Rose…
She’d saved his sister’s life. Because she was goo
d, because she was caring, because there was a heroic person hiding inside this exasperating young woman who insisted she wanted a duke.
His throat tightened, and something else settled in his chest—an odd rush of tenderness laced with a flicker of panic. He reached for Rose, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his nose in her flowery hair.
“Thank you,” he whispered, afraid he’d just fallen in love.
Wanting was one thing, love quite another. It scared him to death. He’d wanted her before, yes. Wanted her for her beauty, her intelligence, her refreshingly bold nature, her family’s position in society. And, of course, because she’d made him burn like the sun in August from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
But suddenly he wanted her in an entirely different way. The want had turned into need.
He’d been tasked with making her fall in love with him, but he hadn’t expected to fall himself. What would he do now if she couldn’t be convinced?
Feeling his throat tighten more, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.
“You must let them marry,” she said quietly. “If you have even a glimmer of an idea what they feel for each other, you cannot deny them.”
He had a glimmer, all right. A sudden new glimmer that was singularly terrifying. If Rose was right—if Ellen really did experience the emotions Kit was feeling at this very moment—he wouldn’t dare stand between his sister and her love.
That was, as long as Thomas Whittingham loved her back.
He motioned to the marquetry desk. “Is there paper and quill in there?”
“Yes.” Rose slanted him a look. “Why?”
“I wish to write a letter.”
Her expression made clear she wasn’t satisfied with that answer.
“Trust me,” he added. “And fetch Ellen, please?”
Sighing, Rose stood. “Try not to be too hard on her.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN ROSE brought Ellen in, Kit’s sister looked pale, wan, and subdued. And small, wrapped in a velvet dressing gown that must have belonged to Rose, for it pooled at Ellen’s feet.
He’d meant to be stern, but all resolve fled the moment he saw her looking so fragile. He leapt from his seat and wrapped her in his arms, then all but carried her to one of the blue brocade chairs. “You shouldn’t be up and about. I wasn’t thinking. I ought to have—”
“I’m perfectly recovered.” Avoiding eye contact, her listless gaze scanned the room and lit on I Sonetti. Her only reaction was a sullen glance at Rose.
“You don’t look it. You’re not dressed…”
“I just didn’t feel like getting dressed today, that’s all.” But she was lying. Something about her was different. Flat and dull, as if she couldn’t summon enough energy even to feel irritated with him. As if she couldn’t be bothered.
Had he done this to her?
Feeling worse than ever, he shuffled back to the writing desk to retrieve the hastily scribbled missive. When he handed it to Ellen, she scanned the single page with disinterest.
Then a soft gasp escaped her lips.
“What is it?” Rose asked.
“A letter to Thomas.” Ellen looked up at Kit, her uncomprehending eyes a murky brown. “You’re…you’re allowing the marriage?”
“Insisting on it,” Kit corrected. “On one condition.”
She swallowed hard, clutching the paper to her chest. “What?”
Kit gazed down at her, his heart pounding a mile a minute. He’d thought reading the note would make her happy. Shouldn’t she be acting happy? Instead she still seemed different and wrong. Was she through being his sister? Or…heaven forbid, could it be the poison? Could it have hurt her mind somehow? Changed her permanently?
“How?” he asked abruptly. “How could you have been so stupid?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes filled. “I thought I had no other choice.”
The tears wrenched at him, but at least they were a sign of emotion. Any emotion was an improvement over that awful nothingness. He decided to go on yelling. “No other choice but to abandon your honor and risk your life? And all for a blasted pawnbroker?”
“Kit,” Rose said in warning.
But her interference wasn’t necessary, since Ellen had already launched herself from her chair. “How dare you?” she bellowed, eyes blazing a hot, liquid green.
Kit wanted to cheer.
Except then Ellen would have killed him.
So he cheered on the inside, where he also breathed a sigh of relief. He would recognize that righteous fury anywhere. That was one hundred percent Ellen, his Ellen. He hadn’t lost her after all.
But he could have.
The sobering thought made him clench the chip of brick in his pocket until it could have turned to dust. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor. It was so quiet he could hear the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally she nodded—then looked up. “Don’t you know how much I love him?”
Kit rubbed the back of his neck until Rose prodded him with a foot. He sighed. “Are you sure, Ellen? You’re only sixteen, and you can’t change your mind later. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
“Very well…?”
“You have my blessing,” Kit said grudgingly, then nearly toppled over when his sister plowed into his chest.
She gushed gratitude and apologies, and for a while he just let her, holding her and savoring the fact that she was all right. And occasionally meeting Rose’s eyes, which looked bright with either tears or amusement. Or both.
After Ellen had calmed down, pulled away, and blown her nose, she brought out the letter to Whittingham again and perused it happily.
Kit turned to Rose. “Can you send a rider to Windsor to deliver the note? And an extra horse so Whittingham can ride back with him. I left my carriage at Whitehall, and it’s too slow in any case.”
She looked between him and his sister. “Of course.”
“Good,” he said to her, and to Ellen, “I will see you wed today.”
Both girls stared at him incredulously. Rose spoke for the two. “They cannot marry today!”
“Tonight, then. However long it takes the groom to show up, we’ll wait.”
“What’s the rush?” Ellen’s eyes turned suspicious. “Does it have to do with your condition—”
“It will take weeks,” Rose was saying, “for the banns to be called. Unless Thomas can manage to obtain a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Kit scoffed. ”Have you never heard of a privileged church? There are one or two directly outside the City walls. Places where a couple can marry without posting banns, without a license. Without waiting.”
“Kit,” Ellen began.
“That doesn’t sound legal,” Rose said, frowning at Kit.
He shrugged. ”They claim to be outside the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London and therefore free to make their own rules.”
“Kit,” Ellen repeated.
Deferring her with a hand, he continued, “The marriages stand, and that’s good enough for me. Now, the church I’m thinking of was called…Saint something, I believe. Anyway, it was in the Minories. I’ll find it.” Kit turned to his sister. “I was hoping to see you wed in a cathedral, but a privileged church will have to do.”
“Kit,” she cried.
He blinked. “What?”
“The condition,” she gritted out. “You mentioned a condition?”
“Oh.” He grimaced, unwilling to start another fight with Ellen just now. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he told her, and refused to say more.
THIRTY-EIGHT
KIT EVENTUALLY remembered that the privileged church was called St. Trinity. Following a bit of deliberation, it was decided he’d go ahead and arrange matters while Rose and his sister waited for Whittingham. They would all meet Kit at the church.
It took an hour for him to reach St. Trinity—an
hour during which he cursed himself ten times for not watching more closely over his sister. For not protecting her better. For allowing her to maneuver him to the point where he had no choice.
But there was nothing left to do except make the best of it. If Whittingham could prove he truly loved Ellen, he could have her. And Kit would make sure the two of them had a wonderful, carefree life together.
Or rather, his eleven thousand pounds would.
But he wouldn’t tell them that now. Either of them. His sister had said over and over that she wanted to marry for love—and marry for love she would.
Kit arrived to find St. Trinity in surprisingly good repair for such an old building. The walls and columns were freshly painted, costly leaded glass filled the windows, and votive candles flickered around the sanctuary.
A privileged church was quite obviously a lucrative business.
He stood in the back, watching a wedding in progress. Several more couples seemed to be waiting their turns. One bride was well gone with child, another quietly weeping. A third wedding party included a man who didn’t look much happier. If Kit didn’t miss his guess, the bride’s father was surreptitiously holding a pistol on the poor fellow.
The moment the current wedding concluded, Kit barged down the aisle.
The priest looked up and frowned. “You’re not next.”
“I’m not marrying at all. But my sister will be here later today, and I wish to make certain you’ll stay to perform the ceremony no matter how late she arrives.”
The man shook his balding head. “I’ve too many weddings this day already. She’ll have to come tomorrow. Or try St. James instead.”
Ellen and her groom weren’t going to St. James—they were coming here. “What is your customary charge?” Kit asked flatly.
The plump clergyman sized him up. “Six crowns.”
Gasps from behind told Kit the quote was high, perhaps by double or more. “I’ll pay you ten,” he told the man. “And half of that now.” He fished his pouch from his surcoat and began counting out coins. “I’ll expect her to be wed the moment she appears.”