by Dorothy Mack
When Lady Langston ventured to ask her daughter how she and the viscount were dealing together, Kate was able to reply that they were rubbing along tolerably well, which remark caused Lady Langston to direct a penetrating stare at her daughter’s unrevealing countenance. She opened her lips, paused briefly, then made some commonplace observation, evidently having decided against pursuing the subject, for which forbearance Kate could only be grateful. In her view, nothing was to be gained by a discussion of the relationship between Torvil and herself with her mother, and somehow the very idea of such a discussion smacked of disloyalty to her husband, though why this should be so she would be hard pressed to explain.
What Kate in her understandable preoccupation with the daily events of her new life did not realize was that the present situation and her complaisant acceptance of it had been neatly manoeuvered by her husband, following a plan of action no less determined than her own had been, though its inception was of a later date. Nicholas, too, had had much with which to occupy his mind during the sleepless night following the tensions and quarrels of their wedding day. He had tried initially and unavailingly to get upon comfortable terms with Kate during their engagement, until his annoyance at her intransigence and his wounded masculine vanity had brought his good intentions to a crashing halt. Then had followed a period in which he vacillated between striving for retaliation and conciliation with no appreciable reaction from Kate to any change of tactic.
Not until his wedding day, however, had he admitted to himself that he wished above all things to turn his sham marriage into a true union. He had stupidly tried to compel Kate’s agreement by issuing an ultimatum about that cursed bridal dinner, and like the spirited girl he had known she was, she had defied him, even going to the lengths of hitting back by appearing at the Cyprians’ Ball. Prevented by his word as a gentleman from claiming his husbandly rights, he had determined during that long night of frustration to gain his ends by winning her acceptance. He did not deceive himself that it would be an easy task; he would have to overcome Kate’s instinctive, and to him, unreasoning dislike, and this would take time — how much time, he dared not predict. Up to the present, he had never been compelled to exercise patience or restraint in his pursuit of a woman. Without conceit he could say that the women he had made the objects of his gallantry had displayed a flattering willingness to submit to his advances. Patience had never been numbered amongst his few virtues; he was by nature impulsive and impatient. More importantly, though, he had inherited some of his father’s cast iron determination, so if patience was what was needed to achieve his objective then he was prepared to go slowly and carefully about the task of winning Kate.
He acted with the deliberation of a general initiating a military campaign. Of the first importance was the breaking down of the wall of distrust and dislike his bride had erected. He proceeded slowly, missing no opportunity to breach the wall. If she wished to discuss rugs and curtains, then rugs and curtains were his main interest. If she desired his opinion on furnishings, then he was willing to give this matter his fullest consideration. He advanced by inches and restrained himself from making any moves to touch her. When she smiled that adorable, mischievous smile, he jammed the fingers that itched to trace the lovely curves of her mouth into his pockets and smiled back lazily. Wary of him at first, she gradually learned to relax in his company and, he hoped, to enjoy being with him. Sometimes when they were discussing some topic unrelated to their personal situation, he felt they had been friends for years, so receptive to each other’s opinions were their minds. Not until this point when Kate could forget herself enough to laugh helplessly at some nonsense of his did he dare to proceed to the next step.
He would have had to be insensitive indeed to fail to recognize Kate’s reluctance to have the slightest physical contact between them. On the three occasions when he had kissed her, she had gone absolutely rigid. He had seethed at her reluctance to take his hand or lean on his arm. It was essential that he accustom her to his casual touch before trying to make love to her. The first time he seized her hand and pressed it lightly in a complimentary fashion she stiffened slightly, but he had already released the hand and was off on another topic before she could react further. The first time he strolled casually into her bedchamber on some pretext, her startled expression had almost caused him to lose countenance, but he had controlled his twitching lips and blandly exhibited a small tear in the sleeve of his shirt. Kate’s woman had been experimenting with a new hairstyle for her mistress at the time and had looked extremely put out at the interruption, but Kate had immediately volunteered to mend the tear. He had been confident of just such a response from one of her generous nature and had calmly proceeded to strip off the shirt under the scandalized nose of Miss Elsie Hawthorne, his wife’s lofty abigail. His laughing eyes had invited Kate to share the joke and, although her colour was slightly heightened, her lips had curved irrepressibly as she accepted the shirt from his hands, carefully looking away from Hawthorne’s outraged face. Whistling a gay tune, Nicholas had sauntered back to his own bed chamber very pleased with himself, but hopeful that the incident would never come to the ears of his valet. Perkins would expire of chagrin at the suggestion that any garment in his care would ever be permitted to appear in less than perfect condition. He might even leap to the correct conclusion that his lordship had caused the damage to one of his fine cambric shirts for reasons of his own.
His lordship lost no time in consolidating his gains. The next day, he had the good fortune to meet his wife almost on the doorstep as he returned home from a most satisfactory session at Manton’s Gallery. She was accompanied by a footman whose arms were piled high with parcels. Never one to lose an opportunity, Nicholas began to unload the packages.
“I’ll carry these up for her ladyship, James. You may go.”
Kate blinked at this manoeuvre and quickly seized two of the packages from the pile now balanced precariously in her husband’s arms and held them out.
“Wait, James. Please take these to Mrs. Clarke. They are items she ordered.” She bestowed a warm smile on the young footman and headed up the stairs, followed by her husband. “You are very gallant, Torvil,” she observed lightly, a mildly quizzical gleam in the amber depths.
“Nonsense, my dear,” came the bland response. “It’s all part of my new job.”
Kate laughed gaily. “I may remind you of those words one day.” She turned at the door to her sitting room and thanked her husband prettily, holding out her arms for the packages, but he ignored the gesture and followed her into the room. He walked over to the door to her bedchamber.
“In here?” he inquired, and paused expectantly as Kate hesitated for an instant before opening the door for him.
“What have you been buying?” Nicholas asked, cheerfully oblivious to any atmosphere as he deposited the parcels on the bed. He had good reason to congratulate himself as Kate completely forgot her embarrassment in her eagerness to display a sample of the fabric she had selected for the seats of the dining room chairs. After gratifying his wife by agreeing that the colour was perfect, he was called upon to admire a new shawl of a silver gauze that she had been unable to resist. Kate was draping it over her elbows to display it to advantage when a dreadful cacophony claimed their attention.
“Good God, what is that infernal yowling?” demanded the viscount, striding to the window that faced onto the alleyway leading to the stable mews. Kate joined him, peering anxiously out of the window Nicholas had thrown open.
“Oh dear, it is that poor little cat again. Look, Torvil, the grey and white cat! See, those big cats have cornered him. I have noticed them before. He doesn’t stand a chance against those bullies.” She gripped his sleeve imploringly. “Please, Torvil, do you think you might rescue the poor little thing? They will surely hurt him. Bring him to me.”
Nicholas spun about in astonishment to confront two wide, anxious amber eyes edged by a thick fringe of straight brown lashes. He swallowed the jeeri
ng words trembling on his tongue and, obeying an insane impulse, kissed the tip of her shapely nose before loping out of the room. Five minutes later, he returned carrying a cringing, spitting excuse for a cat. When Kate exclaimed happily and tried to take the animal from him he warded her off.
“Take care! He isn’t in the least grateful for my intervention; in fact, he has already clawed me. If you’d like a kitten, I’ll find you something better than this mangy specimen.”
“Nonsense!” Kate had petted and crooned over the shivering creature and now took him in her arms where he lay passive, totally spent but with huge eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the viscount. “Naturally he isn’t very handsome at the moment —”
“The understatement of the year!” Nicholas gave vent to an exasperated laugh as he assessed the scrawny feline with extreme disfavour. “He is undoubtedly loaded with fleas. You cannot —”
“I think he’s finally stopped trembling,” interrupted his wife, paying no heed to his dire prediction. “Look, he’s starting to groom himself in my arms. He must trust me already,” she added with satisfaction.
“He’s at least half grown and has always been homeless by the look of him. You’ll never tame him,” warned the viscount.
“Let me try, please, Torvil. See, he’s licking my hand; he likes me.”
Nicholas was not proof against the earnest face with pleading eyes raised to his. He sighed gustily. “Very well, sweetheart, but not until we get him cleaned up.” He reached for the cat again. “James will see to it for you, unless he offers his resignation rather than so demean himself.” This last was added with gentle irony, for he was well aware that the footman cherished an almost worshipful regard for the young mistress who always had a kind word for him and never failed to inquire after his ailing mother. On more than one occasion, she had exhorted James to bring his parent some delicacy from the kitchen in the hope of tempting her failing appetite, with the result that James was Kate’s devoted slave.
Now she twinkled saucily at the picture of her elegant husband holding a dirty, cowering example of a breed he regarded with little liking under the best of circumstances. A faint dimple unexpectedly dented one smooth cheek. Nicholas stared in fascination, allowing his bold gaze to roam along the enchanting curve of throat and neck, where it lingered for an instant on the shadowed little hollow at the base of her neck where a tiny pulse beat enticingly. Bemused, he took an unthinking step forward to close the distance between them when a startled flash of alarm darkened Kate’s eyes and brought him to a belated realization of his actions. At the same instant the forgotten feline in his hands, resentful of the sudden tightening of those hands, reached out a paw and clawed one of them.
“Damned little ingrate!”
The mild tone in which this pejoration was uttered scarcely accorded with the sentiment thus expressed but was more allied to the relief and gratitude Nicholas was experiencing at the timely intervention of the wretched cat. His wife’s instinctive recoil was completely eclipsed by her concern for his wound as she alternately scolded the cat and expressed anxiety over his scratched hand.
“It’s nothing,” he assured her, “but take care with this little brute until he gets used to being handled. What are you going to call him?” This was added with the intention of giving Kate’s thoughts another direction, lest she feel impelled to comment on what had transpired.
She smiled ruefully. “After that clawing he should probably be called Attila the Hun, but I think, because he’s been such a wanderer, that Ulysses would suit him.”
Nicholas laughed. “It’s to be hoped he lives up to his noble name. Come, Ulysses, you are totally unfit as yet for a lady’s boudoir.” He nodded a friendly goodbye and got himself safely out of Kate’s bedchamber, thankful to avoid any repercussions from his ill-judged action. His face wore a thoughtful frown as he descended the staircase and went in search of James, unmindful of the protesting cries being uttered by one tightly held small cat. That had been a close run thing! He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep to his chosen role of platonic friendliness when Kate exhibited any additional degree of warmth in his company. The longing to take her in his arms and kiss her until she responded to his ardour was taking on all the aspects of a physical ache, sometimes rising to a crescendo of agony, at other, busy moments scarcely noticed, but always present on some level of his consciousness.
“Go slowly, you fool.”
The muttered words reached the ears of the young footman standing in the hall.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“It was nothing,” disclaimed the viscount hastily as he thrust the protesting animal into James’s surprised arms with the most unusual orders that young man had yet received during his brief sojourn in the household.
The following day, when Nicholas knocked on Kate’s door for the purpose of restoring to her a cat much improved in appearance but still vociferously protesting his lot in life, he did so with a dogged determination to maintain an air of casual friendliness. He need not have bothered to put a conscious check on his ardour, however, because upon entering at her command, he found Hawthorne bustling about getting her mistress ready for an evening party. It soon become apparent from that lady’s offended air that the wanton introduction of wild animals into a boudoir was an experience she had never been called upon to endure in all her years of waiting upon ladies of the highest social rank. Kate’s airy portrayal of someone completely oblivious to any atmosphere of ill feeling was much less convincing. She made a wry face at her husband behind Hawthorne’s rigid back when she caught his expression of wicked appreciation of the situation, then bent all her attention on Ulysses, who was conducting a thorough investigation of every corner of his new domain. After satisfying himself that no hidden peril lurked in the shadows, he submitted politely to Kate’s caresses, accepted her compliments on his improved appearance with exemplary sang froid, and selected the best chair in the room as his due. When the viscount removed him with insulting promptitude, he directed a long unblinking stare at him, wreathed himself around Kate’s legs once or twice to show he did not hold her responsible for the unfortunate prejudice of her husband, and settled himself on a warm spot on the rug at a safe distance from the small fire. A few moments’ scrutiny served to convince him it was not actively hostile, and he closed his eyes with a little purr of contentment. All action in the room had remained suspended during this short interval. A disgusted sniff from Hawthorne caused Kate to grip her lower lip firmly between her teeth, but one glance at her husband’s face proved too much for her composure and she dissolved in helpless giggles.
Nicholas had to laugh himself but confessed, “I would not wish my life or my fortune to be hanging on the chance that that fur-covered rogue won’t immediately climb back onto that chair the instant I close the door behind me.”
Kate wiped her streaming eyes and promised shakily, “Indeed, I won’t permit him to presume, Torvil, though after this performance, I’m inclined to suspect his pedigree is at least equal to yours.”
“Wretch!” Her husband chuckled and left the room to resume his own toilette.
Nicholas and she had been in perfect charity with each other lately, and they always seemed to have a lot to say to one another, Kate was thinking several hours later as their luxurious carriage rolled smoothly toward Albemarle Street. She cast a covert glance at her husband sitting quietly in his corner and wondered uneasily what might have occurred to cause this uncharacteristic silence on his part. It had been a very ordinary party with dancing and cards, and Nicholas had displayed no reluctance to attend. The light-hearted conversation had never been allowed to lapse on the short drive to Lord Selwyn’s town residence, but since he had collected Kate and they had bidden their hosts goodbye, not one unnecessary word had been exchanged. He had assisted her into the carriage, inquired mechanically for her comfort and made brief polite replies to her opening remarks. Since then he had volunteered nothing in the way of conversation, and gr
adually Kate’s flow of chatter had dried up as she searched her memory for some incident that might have upset or annoyed him. She was impeded in this task by the fact that except for one dance early in the evening and a word or two exchanged later, when Nicholas sought to assure himself that she was partnered for supper, she had spent almost no time in his company. It had been a mildly enjoyable affair; though her mother and sister were not present, she had no lack of friends to converse with and several of her favourite partners had sought her hand for a dance. As had happened frequently of late, the young lieutenant whom she had met at her wedding had singled her out for attention. Although she could not deny she found Lieutenant Mason’s open adoration quite flattering, she was most careful not to go beyond the line of ordinary civility with him because she had gathered the impression that for some reason Torvil did not like him above half. After noticing her husband’s brooding eye on them during a waltz, she had rather avoided Lieutenant Mason for the remainder of the evening, choosing instead to stay within Robin’s orbit in the belief that Torvil would prefer to know she was safely attached to his brother, so he might feel free to join the whist players in the card room.
She frowned in perplexity. Something must have occurred during the card game to have produced this unnatural silence. Kate was about to inquire more closely into his reactions to the evening when they drew up to the house. Nicholas leaped out of the carriage before the coachman had completely stopped the horses. He let down the steps and gave Kate his hand, still without speaking. A welcoming glow of light flooded out of the door that Mudgrave had opened. One of the viscount’s peculiarities, Kate had discovered, was an ingrained dislike of returning to a dark house.