by J. Kenner
"A pity," he said, certainly unaware of her warring emotions. "For I shall be your neighbor through the summer. I only signed the papers to lease Bellevue this afternoon, but I am sure the news has already made its way to France. Or Eastbourne, at the very least."
And then, as light and lovely as the sun rising over a still sea, Katharine's sudden laughter filled his heart with hope.
IT WAS A START. Edward walked around the crumbling folly at Bellevue, pausing to admire the view of the vast sea. He might be a fool to return to Cloverhill and thus subject his daughter to speculation and disparaging comments. But he had a great desire to move on with his life, and hers, and dared to imagine their future entwined with Katharine's.
She had changed, and he admired her even more as a woman of twenty-four than as a girl of sixteen. Her promise of beauty had blossomed, and her inquisitiveness developed into a quick wit and intelligence. He guessed the society at the Octagon House did much to further her education, and he might learn a few things there.
But he ran ahead of himself, for she offered him nothing. And yet she danced with him and allowed him to hold her. She wore the little shell she once promised to carry in her bridal bouquet. He made her laugh.
And she had not married in all these years, though she might have had a long line of suitors circling the Octagon House. If she had, or even if the line had been short, she had accepted no one else.
"Lord Penfield is here," Mrs. Moon said, raising an eyebrow. "Again."
Katharine put aside her pen and scowled. "Please tell him I am not receiving this day."
But as she watched Mrs. Moon disappear down the spiral of the staircase, she realized Edward would not leave unless she pushed him out the door herself. So she ran after her housekeeper.
"I am busy today," Katharine said, as soon as she saw him at the bottom of the stairs.
"But I am most impatient to deliver this," he said. He set a package on a large table and pulled off string and paper to reveal an atlas of natural history. Without a word, he reverently opened the book. Mrs. Moon gave an exasperated sigh and left the room, but Katharine moved closer, her curiosity aroused.
"I will not be seduced, Edward," she said softly. "Though I am sorely tempted."
He looked up, smiling, and she was lost. "Then yield to temptation, my dear, and accept it. It is only a book."
It was not only a book.
And so, when his lips sought hers, she yielded completely, abandoning all thoughts of propriety or resentment. She only thought of him, achingly aware of everything about him. Her fingers roamed the landscape of his face, guided by sweet memory. But he was no longer her youthful lover, for he was more demanding and insistent. And she was now a woman and had learned a great deal in conversation at the Octagon Salon. She knew precisely what she wanted.
"I apologize, Katharine," he said, finally pulling away.
"It is only a kiss, Edward," she said hoarsely.
"I do not apologize for a kiss. I apologize for everything, for the great wrong I have done you, for being too cowardly to explain my actions. But I needed to protect someone else, and acted in haste." He paused. "My wife died seven months into our marriage."
"Delphina forced your hand." It was an explanation, if nothing more. Edward would not have had to marry unless he had relations with her while betrothed to another.
Edward pulled himself up, but the strength of the gesture was belied by the shadow that fell across his face.
"I married her willingly, Katharine, even as I left you most unwillingly. I can say no more."
"You have said enough. You loved her in a way you did not love me, for she was worldly, wise. I hope you had much joy with her."
"She was worldly," Edward agreed, as that truly explained it all. In any case, he offered nothing more.
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, THE ladies of the Octagon Salon received invitations to a May Day ball at Bellevue, to be hosted by Edward's mother. As her friends chattered about what they would wear and who would attend, Katharine reflected that she scarcely remembered Mrs. Danforth. Though she had been present all those years ago in Cloverhill, she rarely socialized with anyone but a small circle of friends. That she would now host such an event marked either a change in her own sensibilities or an acceptance of the change in her son's position in society. She, who was not the widow of an earl, was now the mother of one.
"I have not been to Bellevue in many years," Estella mused. "It is an elegant house, if not a very grand one."
"Do you think many friends will arrive from town?" Deirdre asked, and they all looked at Katharine.
"I have no idea what Lord Penfield intends. You seem to know more than I about his business," said Katharine.
"I know his daughter arrived yesterday with his mother. Isabel Anders was walking along the road when their carriage slowed for her. Isabel said the little girl was quite unexpected," said Portia.
"Unexpected?" Katharine asked. "Lord Penfield told everyone he would bring her to Cloverhill. I believe he leased Bellevue for her pleasure."
"I suspect Isabel meant there was something unusual about the child herself," murmured Portia. "She did not offer anything beyond that."
"And, in any case, I rather think Lord Penfield leased Bellevue for his own pleasure," said Estella, while the others giggled.
Katharine sighed, unwilling to admit that possibility. Since Edward's return, she had not been herself. Utterly distracted from the business of her life, of salon discussions and reading and writing, she could think of little else but him. When she walked on the strand, she wondered if she would meet him there. When she heard the sound of hooves along the drive, she looked to her window, hoping to see him arrive. He was in every dream and waking thought.
"I cannot say. Certainly, I scarcely think about him at all."
"Well, my dear," said Estella. "You shall think about many things now, including what you shall wear, and how many times you will accept his invitation to dance. He intends to impress you, and you must at least give him the opportunity to right a great wrong."
Katharine was not sure she ought to give Edward any such opportunity, and yet she already forgave him. She knew the truth in that, for everything she learned in the past few weeks suggested he was a man not entirely in control of his actions eight years ago. Honor and concern for his child dictated he would not admit to making a mistake, but even now, she knew him well enough to sense his regret.
Her own honor proved something of a facade once she realized she still loved him. Though able to distract herself and find good company at the Octagon House, she had never met a man to match him--and likely never would. She loved him, and it was as painful a truth as his desertion of her at Cloverhill Church.
She walked along the edge of the cliff toward the chalk steps in the rock face, keeping her eyes averted, so she would not trip over a root or stone and find herself hurtling to the bottom. She guessed that the well-worn path she trod was not always so close to the edge but had become so through the ages, as rain and wind hammered away at the cliff. Someday, perhaps in her lifetime, there would be nothing left of it.
Something cried out from the direction of the stairs. It was a gull, perhaps, eagerly swooping on a crab. Or a small animal, fighting against the stiff wind.
Or a small girl, sitting on a step and sobbing.
Katharine rushed to the top of the stairway and called down as she started to descend. The girl looked up at her, surprised and still tearful. She was a lovely little thing, clutching a knitted shawl, her dark, curling hair blowing around her face. She had the complexion of Caribbean sailors who sometimes came to shore in Cloverhill and large eyes as dark as chocolate.
"Are you lost?" Katharine asked. "Are you a visitor in our neighborhood?"
She was much closer now and sat several steps above the girl. The child's clothes were very fine, and there was elegant embroidery on the shawl. Perhaps the child's father was not a sailor, but a pirate.
"I live here, and
I am not lost. Not really, my lady." She knew her manners, though seemed a little shy. "I climbed up to pick some of the flowers and am scared to go down."
Indeed, she sat on a bunch of wilted flowers, mostly the clover from which the town derived its name. The stairs below her were as they always had been, steep and treacherous. Katharine remembered when she first came here as a young girl, and the prospect of looking down to the strand was terrifying.
"Do you wish to go up or down? I will help you. But is there no one waiting for you or watching where you have gone?"
"I think my father may be looking for me." The girl motioned below. "He is on the beach."
Katharine nodded grimly. "Then he must be going mad calling your name and looking out to the waves. He might not think to look up here. Come, let us find him together."
She caught the child's hand, and warmed it in her own. She pulled her up gently, until she was steady on her feet, and stepped around her. "I will go first, so if you stumble, you will only land on me and not the beach. I am Miss Wharton, by the by."
"My name is Pearl, my lady."
Katharine stopped abruptly and, startled, Pearl smiled reassuringly. And that expression was not only bright, but illuminating.
Delphina Rutherford had once been a pretty girl, who sought to trade on her looks for a chance to escape from Cloverhill. And now, it appeared she had returned.
Pearl looked like her mother in her fine features and wide eyes and nothing like the man who called her his daughter.
She continued to smile, looking over Katharine's shoulder, and waved gleefully.
With her thoughts coming thick and fast, Katharine followed the girl's gaze to see Edward on the strand, gazing anxiously up at them.
"She is mine, in every way that matters," Edward said, as they continued along the sandy beach, while Pearl dodged approaching waves. Mostly unsuccessfully.
"As she is yours, you ought to warn her to have a care for her dress, as the salt water will surely ruin it."
"I would buy her all the new dresses in the world to make her happy. And now I suspect nothing is more delightful to her than to play tag with the sea," he explained. "She reminds me of another girl I knew who did very much the same."
"I do not recall Delphina having the slightest interest in the water. Her pleasures were all on land," Katharine said, and blushed. It was indelicate of her even to suggest what Delphina did during the days and nights of her youth.
"I know all too well what amused my late wife, but I was not thinking of her. I was thinking of you."
"But I am not at all connected to your little girl, my lord. We have only just met."
"That is true, but it is a situation I should like to rectify. I hope that you might learn to care for her and teach her many things. She will not be easily accepted into our society and needs someone to give her confidence to hold her own among those who would have something to say about the color of her skin or the circumstances of her birth."
Katharine knew he was right, but was still not certain what he asked of her.
"Do you wish for her to join the ladies of the Octagon Salon? She is a bit young."
Edward rubbed his forehead, in a gesture of exasperation Katharine remembered well. He then said a word he would never have used in her presence then. But she was a woman now.
He stopped in his tracks, and water lapped up against his boots.
"Damn it. I want for you to be my wife."
"Damn it," Katharine repeated. "I have never received such a romantic proposal. You wish for me to be your wife so Pearl can have a mother?"
"No. I want you, as I have wanted you for all these years, and was too proud and stupid to come home and admit I ruined everything. I was taken for a fool by a woman who played on my inexperience, but I was not forced to do anything. I do not deserve to be forgiven, and you will surely never forget the events of eight years ago. I do not deserve you but neither am I complete without you." He went down on one knee and started to sink into the wet sand.
"Edward, please," Katharine began, and looked desperately around her. Pearl stopped her dance in the waves and stood watching them from a distance. Behind them, near the cliff wall, someone cheered.
"Marry me, Katharine. Give a fool a second chance, for you will always be his first and only love."
She said nothing, thinking of her grief and humiliation and all those lost years. But somehow, they were nothing now, if she could only spend the rest of her life with him.
He started to rise and was nearly knocked off his feet by the next wave. "You speak of romantic proposals. Have you received many of them?" he asked, sounding unsure of himself.
She could not continue to punish him. For all he deserved it, she loved him too much.
"I have only received two proposals in my life, and both from you. The first was in a spring garden, but nothing bloomed from it. Now here we are on a cool, windy day, wet with salt water and sprayed with sand. And yet I feel we have been set free on this beach, for it has brought us back to what we once were."
Edward regained his footing and stood before her. "I prefer to think of what will be," he said, and kissed her.
A member of Romance Writers of America for over twenty years, Sharon Sobel is the author of eight historical and two contemporary romance novels, as well as a series of Regency Christmas novellas. She has served as the Secretary and Chapter Liaison of RWA and has twice been president of the Beau Monde chapter. After earning a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University, she started her career as a professor of English and currently works at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth-century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.
LUCAS FORTUNE HAD BEEN in worse situations in his thirty-six years.
Heat baked the walls of the tiny cell, and he'd stripped off his shirt in hope of some relief, but there was none to be found. The sun blazed orange through the small rectangular window at the top of the west wall, and the iron bars cast interesting shadows on the foot of the rusted bed frame, amplifying the particles of dust that hung in the air. There was no mattress, so he'd used his torn cargo jacket as a buffer to keep himself from frying like bacon on top of the bed frame. It was better than sitting on the dirt floor with cockroaches the size of dinner plates.
He hadn't been there too long--maybe five or six hours. The bastards had sucker punched him into unconsciousness. There was a hazy memory of being jostled inside a crowded car trunk, and then he was in the cell, his jaw aching and his head pounding before fully regaining his senses. He'd realized soon enough that standing at the bars and yelling for someone to let him out was futile. There wasn't a sign of anyone--inside or outside--and he figured he needed to save his anger. He was a big believer in conserving his energy for the important things. And planting a fist in Damian Hunter's face had quickly moved up on his list of "important things."
Chinks of mortar were missing from the concrete blocks they'd used to build the jail. Or what he assumed had once been a jail. By the layers of dust and disrepair, it didn't look like anyone had stepped foot inside in quite some time. The only recent sign of occupancy was the shuffled footprints from the door to his cell and back again. He was surprised the iron bars still stood, but he'd shaken them, looking for weakness, and hadn't found any.
Sweat trickled down his spine and ran in rivulets from his temples into the scruff of beard he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days. Served him right for taking a vacation. All he'd wanted was a hammock, the sand and surf, a beautiful woman or two to keep him company, and if he was lucky, a little gold to line his pockets.
Lucas didn't have any tools to pick the lock of his cage or to chisel away the mortar on the outside wall. Damian's men had relieved him of the items he habitually carried--a Swiss Army knife, a small roll of dental floss, a compass, t
he emergency cash in his sock, a needle and thread, and the gold doubloon he'd gotten on his first find that he kept for good luck. The bastards had gone too far with that one.
He'd learned over the years that an opportunity for wealth and fame could come at any moment, but only to those who were prepared. Most treasure hunters lived by the same basic rules he did. Those who didn't ... well ... they didn't last long. It was a brutal and addictive lifestyle, and only the strongest survived. Damian Hunter wasn't the strongest or smartest or most talented treasure hunter, but he was the most cunning. And he was definitely the most ruthless.
Lucas perked up at the sound of muffled voices and footsteps coming in his direction, and he got up quickly, looking for something--anything--he could use as a weapon. To no avail--even the rusted iron bedframe was solid and too heavy to tear apart.
The voices quieted as they got closer and he settled himself on the bed, trying to look non-threatening and still weakened from the blow they gave him earlier. Not an easy accomplishment for a man who was six foot two in his bare feet and built like a brawler. His fists had gotten him out of more than one sticky situation. Learning to defend himself had been a priority once he'd realized hunting treasure left him with a target. The six-inch scar on his back from a knife was as much of a reminder of his first find as the gold doubloon now missing from his pocket.
He was a hell of a poker player, and that ability was the only thing that kept him seated and looking bored as two of Damian's men charged in, dragging another prisoner behind them. And dragging her was exactly what they had to do. She wasn't going to make it easy on them. He almost smiled at that. Miranda George had never made things easy. She was a hundred and twenty pounds of pure fire and prickly temper. And she'd once been all his.
"Let me go, you son of a bitch," she said between gritted teeth.
"We don't get paid enough for this bullshit," one of the men said. He had four distinct claw marks on the side of his face that oozed blood.