A Companion in Joy

by Dorothy Mack

  She acknowledged a pleasant drowsiness as they ascended the staircase together and was deciding that whatever had caused Nicholas’s silence would probably loom less important after a good night’s sleep, when he broke his silence at the door to Kate’s sitting room.

  “I wish to talk with you. Get rid of your maid in good order; I’m coming in.”

  “You wish to talk with me?” echoed Kate in some bewilderment. “But you had nothing to say all the way home. Can it not wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, it cannot,” he answered curtly. “If you don’t get rid of her, I shall.” With that, he pushed open her door for her and walked on down the hall to his own room without troubling to see her inside.

  On the instant, Kate’s mind was a seething mass of conjecture. Something dreadful must have happened to cause Nicholas to deviate from the impeccable courtesy that characterized his manners. Unconsciously, she gnawed on her lip as she walked slowly toward her bedchamber. Could he have lost a great deal of money in the card room? She could not know for certain, of course, but she had rather gained the impression that Nicholas no longer cared to play for high stakes. It had always been a case of enjoying the thrill of pitting his skill against another’s more than the acquiring of money that had attracted him to gaming. In any event, he had spent less than two hours in the card room. He could not have done anything too terrible in that length of time. Sudden, unreasoning fear slashed through her mind. Unless he had challenged someone to a duel or been challenged himself! But that was nonsense, her saner self argued. Nicholas was noted for his even temper amongst his friends; besides, though her knowledge of the rules governing duelling was scant, she was positive gentlemen never made any reference to an affair of honour to a female, so that could not be what he wished to discuss.

  She reached this comforting conclusion and her bedchamber at the same time, and her thoughts jerked back to the immediate problem, that of getting rid of Hawthorne, by the sight of that individual preparing to carry out a long bedtime routine. Hawthorne rather prided herself upon being more scrupulous than the ordinary run of dressers when it came to maintaining a strict regimen concerning the health and beauty of her ladies. Feigning the sleepiness that had deserted her with Torvil’s announcement, she yawned delicately behind her hand and addressed the abigail who was starting to examine her mistress’s discarded garments for stains or rips.

  “Never mind about the hair brushing tonight, Hawthorne, or all those clothes. They can wait till morning. Just help me with my stay laces and you may retire.” She aimed for a casual, offhand manner, but had to remind herself to breathe in a normal rhythm.

  Judging from the absence of all expression on the maid’s gaunt features as she obeyed these commands, Hawthorne considered the elimination of a nightly session of hair brushing as much a social solecism as tying one’s garter in public. Kate sighed inwardly; she feared she would never be able to live up to Hawthorne’s standards for a lady of fashion. She barely restrained her impatience while her stays were dealt with methodically and an absurd but delightful concoction of ruffles of misty green silk was tenderly slipped over her unbrushed head. While tying the ribbons of a matching dressing gown, she regarded out of the corner of her eye Hawthorne’s deliberate motions in removing the discarded clothing and accepted that they were in the nature of a silent protest. Just as silently, she awarded the palm to the abigail in this contest of wills. She didn’t have much time to wonder if she would ever prove a match for Hawthorne, however, for the moment the maid closed the door behind her there was a sound from the adjoining room, and Torvil stood in the doorway attired in an extremely elegant dressing gown of deep green brocade.

  Kate wasted no time admiring his sartorial perfection, however; she was on tenterhooks to discover the reason for this interview. She flew across the carpet on bare feet and clutched one green-clad arm in both hands, unthinkingly giving it a little shake as she demanded, “Well, what is it, what happened tonight? Are you in trouble?”

  She sustained a searching look before her husband laughed softly, without mirth. “Thank you for your concern, my dear. No, I am not in any trouble, except perhaps for the fact that you appear not to have guessed the reason for this meeting.” As Kate merely looked more bewildered than before, he went on evenly, “I thought it only fair to warn you that I am ending that ridiculous bargain between us here and now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Bargain? What bargain?” Kate echoed blankly, but even as she searched her husband’s curiously watchful countenance, horrified enlightenment swept across her own. She turned fiery red and dropped his arm abruptly while retreating a step or two back into her room.

  “But … but you can’t be serious! You promised not to try to make this a real marriage for a year or two!”

  “No, my dear,” replied the viscount calmly, smiling tenderly at her truly ferocious scowl, “you said for a year or two; I agreed, most reluctantly, to leave you untouched for a while, and so I have, difficult though it’s been.”

  “But that’s dishonourable!” Kate fairly shrieked in her fury and disbelief.

  “Where is the dishonour in wishing to see what I’ve bought?” His tone was still equable, but Kate’s angry accusation caused a tightening of lips and he took a step toward her that added the first measure of fear to her anger.

  Kate’s chin took on a classically belligerent tilt and her voice lashed with contempt. “You mean what your father has bought, do you not?” Her backward progress had halted, and she flung any thought of caution or conciliation to the winds in favour of a toe to toe battle.

  Strangely enough, this last jibe had the effect of relaxing the stern lines of his mouth. He laughed with genuine amusement.

  “You little hellcat! Think you a little din will daunt mine ears, sweetheart?” The soft caressing tones brought a look of perplexity to her outraged face.

  “You … you are quoting Shakespeare at a time like this?” Her brows drew together again and her chin went back up. “And I think you are calling me a shrew.”

  “No, no, I am calling you a darling, my darling.” His slow forward motion had forced her back another step, until the proximity of the bed perforce halted her retreat. “You are my darling, you know.” The seductive quality of the soft murmur had a hypnotic effect on Kate for a moment as she stared into compelling, night-dark eyes.

  Not until his hands had gone to the ribbons at the throat of her gown could she summon a voice to deny breathlessly, “No, I am not; I am not anyone’s darling, I’m just plain Kate.”

  He smiled at her with immeasurable tenderness. “Plain Kate? You mean bonny Kate and never Kate the curst, but always Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of my consolation.”

  “You … you are mangling Shakespeare,” she protested illogically.

  He had succeeded in removing the dressing gown now and was holding her loosely by the shoulders while his devouring gaze roved over creamy flesh barely concealed by the almost transparent night rail.

  “I always knew you were beautiful,” he declared in tones made husky by rising passion. His mouth descended to the pulse in the hollow of her throat, and the burning touch brought her completely out of her semi-hypnotic state. Frantically, her hands beat against his chest and she struggled distractedly in his tightening grip.

  “No, no, you must stop. I won’t let you… I’ll fight you!”

  He held her firmly, allowing her to wear herself out with her uncoordinated struggles. His voice was now soothing, persuasive.

  “Don’t fight me, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to enjoy this.” He continued to press little kisses all over her throat and neck while she twisted her head continuously in a vain attempt to evade his mouth.

  “Never! Perhaps I cannot stop you, but if you do this I promise I’ll hate you till the day I die!”

  “Will you, Kate? Will you hate me?” Nicholas didn’t wait for an answer to this but proceeded to wrap his arms more securely abou
t her, drawing her struggling form suffocatingly close to the hard length of his muscled body. He abandoned her throat to set his lips on her protesting mouth in an extended kiss that progressed from rigid denial on her part to reluctant softening, to outright cooperation as the magic penetrated her entire being. When he finally raised his lips from hers an inch to draw in a very necessary breath of air, she gave a little moan of protest, but since this was accompanied by an unconscious lifting of her quivering mouth toward his face, Nicholas was encouraged to repeat his actions, which he promptly did, to the mutual satisfaction of both participants.

  By the time that second marathon kiss ended, it was obvious that Kate had been betrayed by the weakness and delights of the flesh. Even a month ago, Nicholas might have experienced a thrill of triumph at overcoming her resistance so completely, but all he was aware of as he gathered her pliant body into his arms and deposited her gently on the bed was an immense swell of gratitude for her generous nature. When Kate gave, she gave with both hands. Inexperienced she might be, and still shy with him perhaps, but she was no prim, overbred female submitting to her husband’s caresses from a sense of duty. He gloried in the intuitive knowledge that he had the power to arouse and thrill her, and, heaven knew, she was his chosen companion in joy. That vaguely familiar phrase came to him later as he gazed down at the soft lines of his wife’s face as she slept sweetly beside him, her head nestled confidingly against his shoulder as though she had always possessed the knowledge that she belonged to him. He smiled at his own fanciful imaginings as he eased her into a more comfortable position in his arms and presently drifted quietly into sleep himself.

  Kate’s eyelashes fluttered slowly and her heavy lids opened just far enough to see that sunlight was flooding the room. She smiled dreamily and closed her eyes again, snuggling deeper into the bedclothes in perfect contentment.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

  The soft words came from close by and succeeded to perfection in alerting her sleep-drugged senses. Her eyes flew open and her gaze focused instinctively on the empty pillow beside her before turning to meet her husband’s smiling eyes just inches above hers. He was already dressed, she noted in the instant before his face blotted out everything else as he placed a hand on each side of her on the pillow and bent to kiss her gently.

  “Good morning, Nicholas.” She smiled at him drowsily but with a hint of shy confusion in her look and more than a hint of rose in her cheeks. Her arms went of their own volition to entwine themselves around his neck as he lightly traced the line of her jaw with a caressing knuckle. “I didn’t hear you get up,” she volunteered breathlessly to dispel the sense of languor that was stealing over her at his touch and the look in his grey eyes. His little chuckle told her he knew the reason for the ruse, but all he did was kiss her again lingeringly before answering her unspoken question.

  “I tried not to rouse you, and I told Hawthorne to let you sleep this morning. If I hadn’t promised to go with Ollie to Tatt’s to check out a three-year-old bay gelding he’s interested in, nothing would induce me to leave this room today.” He watched with delight the hasty lowering of those incredibly thick straight lashes that reminded him of an artist’s paint brush, and bent again to kiss both shadowed lids before straightening up with a mock groan. “At this rate I’ll end with a broken back. You should not look so enticing so early in the morning, sweetheart. It’s bad for my resolution, not to mention my back. I’ll see you here for luncheon, shall I?”

  “Oh, yes … at least … I think Mama planned to have a luncheon with Aunt Agatha today, but she will understand if I cry off.”

  “I trust not.”

  Her cheeks, in which the rose had faded somewhat, took on a deeper hue again at this dry comment, and he laughed teasingly.

  “You blush so delightfully, my bonny Kate, that it is a constant temptation to my baser nature.” He strolled over to the door connecting their bedchambers and paused with his hand on the knob to add with an air of discovery, “Do you know, that is the first time you have ever called me Nicholas.” His smile kindled an answering warmth in Kate’s. “I like the way you say it. Au revoir until lunch.”

  The room seemed less sunny somehow with Nicholas gone. Kate stretched lazily and sat up, hugging her knees with her arms while she relived the startling events of the past night. It still seemed nearly incredible that she could have been unaware that Nicholas had been determined to make their marriage real right from the beginning. She had been going along happily from day to day, pleased with the success of her plan to achieve a friendly relationship with her husband, and then in the span of one evening Nicholas had turned her fool’s paradise into a real one. His determined pursuit of her and ultimate conquest had been single-minded enough to strike terror into her heart if the results had not been so marvellous instead. Having discovered even before their marriage that an average-sized female was totally at the mercy of a strong young man, the wonder was that she had not at any time experienced the nerve-chilling fear that would have assailed her if, for example, Lord Ralston had ever been in a position to compel her submission. Nicholas might have been inexorable in his determination but his arms had been gentle, his smile tender, and the look in his eyes had proved irresistible. Kate had been unable to sustain her resistance against the magnetism of that compelling regard which dissolved her bones, and she had been rewarded by a glorious defeat.

  She tossed back her tousled hair, recalling with pleasure her husband’s comments and behaviour when she had wakened this morning. It might have been acutely embarrassing had not Nicholas been so sweetly solicitous. And he wanted to return to the house for luncheon, when surely it would have been understandable if he had gone on somewhere with Oliver and his friends. Kate hugged her knees tighter and produced a triumphant little smile, making no effort to rise out of the lovely lassitude that had overcome her at the look in her husband’s eyes when he had bid her au revoir.

  A knock on the sitting room door interrupted her pleasant reverie. Two figures entered her bedchamber at the same time, but no one could have judged their proximity to be voluntary. The tall, gaunt, eternally disapproving dresser was looking less amiable than ever, and it was not hard to discover the reason. Pattering at her side with innate dignity and conveying a rather inflated attitude of self-importance was Ulysses, looking sleek and well-groomed. He mewed an ingratiating greeting and promptly jumped up on the bed to receive Kate’s caresses as his due before curling up at her side, where he began to wash a paw he had evidently overlooked earlier.

  After the shortest of greetings, Hawthorne disappeared into what had once been a powder cabinet and now served as a dressing room and wardrobe holder. Kate was dreamily watching Ulysses’ ablutions from the exact same spot on the bed when the maid returned a few minutes later to lay out a charming walking dress of rose-coloured French muslin worked with hundreds of tiny tucks. She glanced at the enamelled clock on the bedside table and reminded her unmoving mistress that she had made plans to go out with Lady Langston that morning. This remark galvanized Kate into action.

  “Oh dear, Hawthorne, I must send a note around to Mama to tell her I won’t be coming today.” She swung her legs off the bed, slightly disturbing Ulysses who glanced reproachfully after her departing form before resuming his grooming. Kate grabbed the dressing gown Nicholas had thoughtfully laid at the foot of the bed and disappeared through the door without further explanation. Hawthorne, appearing at the doorway to the sitting room a moment later, discovered her engaged in this task, seated at a beautiful little rosewood writing table. She took in every detail of Kate’s appearance but remained ungratified by the charming picture her mistress presented in extravagant green ruffles with an abundant cloud of ruffled brown hair framing her intent face. The abigail’s dispassionate scrutiny succeeded in piercing Kate’s concentration, for she glanced up after a few seconds.

  “Yes, Hawthorne?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, but what garments would you be wishing m
e to get ready?”

  “Oh, it does not signify; I shall be staying home for lunch today. You decide, Hawthorne.” Kate sent a propitiating smile in the maid’s direction, guiltily aware that once again she had manifested a regrettable lack of interest in her appearance.

  Hawthorne’s pinched mouth thinned even more as she moved away from the door without replying.

  Kate stared after her for a thoughtful moment. She was fast coming to the conclusion that Hawthorne would elect to serve a bad-tempered mistress who would make unreasonable demands on her time and talents and never utter a word of appreciation, so long as her appearance reflected constant credit on her dresser. Kate’s tentative advances toward a less formal relationship had been not so much repulsed as ignored by Hawthorne. She shrugged her shoulders slightly and returned her attention to the pink paper in front of her for a moment, then folded the sheet carefully and affixed a pink wafer to it. She walked over to the bell pull to summon a footman to deliver the note and floated back into her bedchamber to inform Hawthorne of this. If her feet actually touched the floor, she was unaware of the fact. Today she was too happy to allow Hawthorne’s moods to affect her. She hummed a catchy tune, danced a few dizzy steps, and stopped to tickle Ulysses under his complacent chin before divesting herself of her ruffles with one fluid motion and approaching the wash basin.

  When Nicholas joined her for lunch he had no complaint to make about her appearance, which was not surprising since she never left her bedchamber without enduring the most minute examination by Hawthorne. Kate often had to restrain a naughty impulse to hold out her hands so that her dresser might pass on the cleanliness of her nails as their old nurse had been wont to do in the past, but that was the unfortunate effect that the abigail had on her. Later, back in her boudoir with her husband, she was reduced to a fit of giggles when Nicholas deliberately ruffled her smooth coiffure and, not content with that, removed the pins and observed the tumbled effect with supreme satisfaction.