Always a Temptress (22 page)

Harry knew he should get in there, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her. Something about her carefree smile caught him square in the chest. He would have bet his commission that no one in society had a clue as to what lay beneath Kate’s glib, flamboyant personality. God knew
he
hadn’t. For the first time in years, Harry was able to appreciate the skill involved in her performance. He was able to admit that he wasn’t only amazed at her, he was proud of her.

Well, she shouldn’t have to face this alone. Giving his jacket a final tug, he headed into battle. “My dear, I’m sorry for being late,” he said with a smile as he strode into the room. “Marcus Drake challenged Beau and me to a race against his Charger, and we took longer than we’d expected.”

Kate actually looked briefly startled at his entrance. Had she not expected him to show up? Not yet bothering to acknowledge the three dames occupying the Chinese Chippendale chairs around the tea table, he bent over her hand with a lingering kiss.

“Why, thank you, Harry,” she said, recovering quickly with a droll smile. “It always soothes a woman’s
amour propre
to know she’s been stood up for a horse.”

He met her knowing gaze with a grin. “No, no. I did it for you. You’ve sacrificed enough for me. I couldn’t let anyone think you’d married not only a commoner, but a coward as well. So I beat him to flinders for you.”

He surprised her into laughter. “Oh, well done, Harry. You’ve put me firmly in my place.”

“Where are Grace and Lady Bea?”

“Visiting Grace’s patients at the Army Hospital. I believe Bea made them handkerchiefs and Grace bought rum.”

Harry heard a sniff from one of the ladies and winked at his wife. “Gifts for the body and the soul,” he approved. “Now, will you introduce me to your friends?”

“Why I’d be delighted.” She smiled. “Harry, have you had the pleasure of meeting Lady Jersey, Lady Sefton, and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell?”

Oh, Lord, he thought, turning to where the three women sat. The all-powerful patronesses of Almack’s. The big cats had evidently come to the watering hole to feed.

It was time to pull out his rusty charm. “Of course I know you by sight and reputation,” he said, bowing over one hand after another. “I’m afraid I’ve spent more time in wardrooms than ballrooms, though. I could never have hoped to be introduced.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell sniffed.

Harry glanced at Kate, afraid she’d be hurt. He was astonished when she let loose with a laugh. “Oh, Clementina, please. He’s faced down a full French cavalry attack. He’s not going to be afraid of you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry retorted, and won smiles from the other two ladies.

“We were just discussing how romantic your wedding was,” Lady Jersey said, her expression avid. “It being so sudden.”

Well, it seemed they were going to wade right into it. Good thing Kate knew what to say. “Only ten years in the making,” she said. “Harry and I grew up together.”

“Childhood sweethearts?” Lady Sefton asked. “I wonder your father allowed it.”

Harry ground his teeth. Kate smiled with delight. “Not nearly so romantic. We squabbled like siblings. It was only recently that we began to understand our feelings.”

“Well, you’ve certainly surprised your sister-in-law,” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell said, her face wreathed in disapproval.

Kate quirked an eyebrow. “Glynis? What does she have to say to the matter?”

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell wouldn’t be gainsaid. “Your brother the duke certainly must have something to say.”

Leaning forward, Lady Jersey cut her off. “Glynis says that he’s been worried to exhaustion about your behavior, but that marriage to a common soldier was beyond their comprehension.” Harry couldn’t help but notice her frankly assessing look. “Although how she can call him common is beyond me.”

“Poor Glynis,” Kate drawled, much to her guests’ delight. “She simply doesn’t have the constitution for surprises.”

“If she doesn’t like your behavior, she can stay home,” Harry said, and went to pour himself a drink to fortify himself. He knew less lethal snipers. “I find it delightful.”

Kate flashed him a look that doubted his word. Harry made it a point to smile and was surprised at the shaft of pleasure he felt when she grinned back.

“Perhaps you should confront her,” Lady Jersey suggested, her attempt at subtlety falling miserably short. “In a neutral place. Almack’s, for instance.”

Kate laughed out loud. “Not worthy of you, Sally. I sincerely doubt Harry is interested in providing your entertainment for the season. He’s a bit busy.”

It was a testament to Kate’s skill that the patroness grinned right back.

The other two women turned to Harry. “Of course. You now have new estates to see to, don’t you?” Lady Sefton softly asked. “Does that mean you’ll be selling out?”

Harry tossed back his drink. “Don’t know,” he said, because he couldn’t say,
You three are making me reconsider.
“We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“We’ve been a bit…preoccupied,” Kate said.

Harry looked over to see her smile growing brittle and hoped she understood his look of support. No one was going to know that they’d snuck in under Kate’s guard. He leveled a smile of pure lust on her, as if he was even now enjoying memories he couldn’t share in public. He was surprised to see her blush.

He obviously wasn’t the only one to notice. “That settles it,” Lady Jersey crowed. “Any person who can make the Duchess of Murther blush simply must entertain us on Wednesdays. You’ll come with her, of course.”

Harry was surprised to see Kate’s expression soften and shift, giving her a surprising look of pride. “I’m sorry to correct you, Sally,” she said, never looking away from him. “But the Duchess of Murther won’t be going anywhere. Lady Lidge will.”

It was such a small moment, one easily overlooked. For some reason, though, Harry had the feeling that something fundamental had changed. A commitment had been made. So profound did he feel the shift that he was only half aware he and Kate had scored their first major victory against her brother.

Lady Sefton was chuckling. “Poor Glynis,” she said. “Here she’s been going around insisting that the marriage is a sham. I’m afraid she will be most displeased.”

“Displeased?” Lady Jersey countered with a grating laugh. “She’ll fall into strong fits. I say we go there next.”

Setting down her teacup, she stood, pecked Kate on the cheek, and led her cohorts to the door.

Left behind, Harry looked over at Kate just as she looked at him. They both burst out laughing.

“Does that mean we won round one?” he asked.

She wiped at streaming eyes. “I’d call it more of a draw.” With a wave of her hand, she gingerly got to her feet. “I release you from further duty for today, Major.”

He immediately frowned. “How are your injuries?”

She smiled. “Progressing from red and purple to green and yellow. I am a veritable artist’s palette. And yours?”

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Which means they hurt all the time, so why comment on it?”

He liked to see that impish sparkle in her eyes. “Precisely. Now you know exactly how to deal with an old soldier’s war wounds. Ignore them.”

They had just turned toward the door when Finney appeared, looking a bit flustered. “Visitors with boxes, Your Grace.”

He’d barely stepped aside when a veritable procession of Rakes marched in with Drake at their lead, each one carrying a large, covered box.

“Were we expecting you?” Kate asked, eyebrow quirked.

“Not bearing gifts,” Drake assured her, dropping his before one of the front windows.

“Kate,” Harry said, watching the rest of them follow suit. “You know Chuffy and Drake. I assume you also know Kit Braxton, Alex Knight, and Beau Drummond. I have no idea what treats they’ve brought with them. I assume they do realize that they missed the Almack’s patronesses by mere minutes.”

Kate looked a bit bemused. “Moving the club headquarters, gentlemen? You could have at least let me know. I would have re-covered the chairs.”

Chuffy grinned like a child. “Sorry to barge in,” he panted, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “Drake’s idea. Said you’d want to help.”

“Tell me what you need help with,” Harry said, showing Kate to the sofa. “And we’ll let you know.”

“Don’t be daft, Harry,” she said, settling her skirts. “I’m dying to help. Finney!” she called, although the doorway was empty. “The good whisky!”

There was no answer, but by the time the men were settled in their seats Finney was passing around filled glasses, the last going to Kate.

“It’s Diccan,” Drake said, leaning forward. “He’s caught down in the country.”

“He’s not moving in here,” Harry protested. “We already have his wife.”

Kate swatted his leg. “Hush, Harry.”

Drake indicated the boxes cluttering up the room. “These are his father’s things from Slough. Since Diccan can’t get here yet to search them, we were hoping you might, Kate. We’ve made one pass at them, but we found nothing remarkable.” He shrugged. “But we don’t know what the ordinary was for Lord Evelyn.”

Harry almost groaned. “Why didn’t you just take these to your hunting box for when we arrived?”

He’d never get Kate to a safe location now.

Drake was already shaking his head. “Diccan is already in the hinterlands. We need you to stay until you’ve gone through these. We’ll bring extra help.”

Kate immediately forgot her whisky and was on her feet. “Oh, excellent. This will be easy. Especially since I have nothing else to do.”

“Not even go home to Eastcourt in two days?” Harry asked.

“Not fair,” she protested, her eyes on all those boxes, her heart obviously yearning for home. “I’ll be finished by then. My uncle was a most methodical man. This will be fun!”

She was wrong, of course. It was a nightmare.

M
ost of what Kate learned didn’t surprise her in the least. Uncle Hilliard was methodical, pedantic, and a crashing bore. Even his sermons; especially his sermons, which he had cataloged by reading, holiday, and specific moral lapse. Her favorite was The Wages of Christmas Lust.

Harry was a great help, along with Grace and Bea, who unpacked boxes and organized the material into piles according to type: sermons, bills, correspondence liturgical, and correspondence laic. And most of it was as boring as his sermons. But then, as she was running her finger down a list of office supplies Uncle Hilliard had ordered, she heard Grace gasp.

“You’ve found the verse?” Kate asked hopefully, her already abused body even stiffer from leaning over the dining room table, where they’d spread everything out.

Grace’s head shot up. “Uh. No. It’s…uh, some personal correspondence.”

At the look of distress in Grace’s soft gray eyes, Kate’s heart began to stutter.

“Why don’t you let me take that?” Harry asked, moving to intercept.

Kate never acknowledged him. She just held out her hand to have Grace reluctantly set a bound packet of letters in it.

One was already open. It was from Uncle Hilliard to Kate’s father. Just the sight of the salutation squeezed her chest with longing.

“…it is the only way to control an abomination like her. Give her into the hands of a righteous man who will recognize her for what she is.”

Her uncle Hilliard had been the one to find Murther. To recommend him to her father and so consign her fate.

“Spiteful old hypocrite,” Kate heard and looked sharply up, for the scornful words had come from her placid Grace, who was looking more fierce than Kate had ever seen. But then, Kate knew what that spiteful old miser had tried to do to Diccan, what he had done to destroy the marriage between Diccan and Grace.

Kate got up to hug Grace, but Grace was ahead of her, bending down to wrap her arms around Kate. No more than days ago, Kate would have bolted like a feral cat. But then, she realized, holding her friend, Harry had held her and she hadn’t died. In fact, she’d liked it so much that she wished she could find a way to do it again.

“Good thing he’s dead,” Harry said behind her. “Or I’d spit him like a pig.”

Kate smiled for him, and for Bea, who was twisting one of her handkerchiefs with distress. “He is no matter to me. How can I take the feelings of one sour old man to heart? Everyone else loves me.” She flashed a hard-won grin. “I know, because I asked.”

She firmly believed that until she found her father’s answering letter, agreeing with his brother.

She refused to let the letters between her father and his brother bother her during the day. Between social obligations and the search of the bishop’s things, she didn’t have the time. But every word her uncle put to paper resonated in her, a coating of cold snow over the fragile state of her heart. The rest of her father’s letters, polite inquiries and updates on family matters, left her feeling more isolated from them than ever. He never wrote her name. Not once. And he’d only mentioned her in that flurry of letters that arranged her engagement. Even then he’d only called her by pronoun.
She
.
Her
. As if she weren’t quite real enough to him to warrant a name.

Maybe, she thought that evening as she lay in bed, she hadn’t been. Maybe the staff had been more honest than she’d thought when they’d called her the castle ghost.

With that sharp reminder of what she could expect from any man, she decided to keep her distance from Harry. Just sitting next to him roused confusing emotions she didn’t think she was ready to face. The memory of his kisses interrupted the most banal thoughts, and when she was quiet she wondered at the alien sense of safety she’d felt in his arms. She’d never experienced anything like it in her life, like a haven from the storm, only the storm had been in her. She’d always had to keep herself so tightly restrained, until she could have almost believed that she no longer felt strong emotions.

Obviously she did, and it should have terrified her. But Harry had been there to protect her from them. But could he protect her from his own defection? She was too afraid to find out. She was angry and sad and upended, and she didn’t know how to unravel it all without admitting that Harry had a place in her life. Because if she admitted that, she had to begin wondering when he would go.

That evening they attended a ball, and Harry held her hand. She wasn’t sure she carried off her side of the bargain, though. She knew she looked stretched and tense. She fared no better in sleep, waking a dozen times with her heart pounding and the sound of Murther’s rage echoing in her head. Worse, she woke to the same aches, which provoked more memories and stole her sleep.

She thought of Harry’s offer to have her sleep with him. Just sleep, with his arms around her to protect her against phantom fists. As much as she wanted to, she didn’t know how to trust him. So, dry-eyed and wary, she lay with her back to the wall, her gaze on the connecting door, half expecting Harry to storm in and demand his rights. She knew better, but the shadows ruled. And somewhere at the back of her cowardly heart, she almost wished he would. It would relieve her of the decision, and put him in her bed where he might hold her against the night.

He was a gentleman, though. He didn’t come.

He didn’t come the second night, either. Nor did she sleep. She tried. She closed her eyes only to have them open again and again throughout the night, as she ricocheted from the asylum to the duke’s bedroom to one very bad nightmare, where she was crouched beneath her father’s desk as he told his brother what an abomination she was.

She made no noise; she’d long since taught herself silence at a high cost. But she found herself wishing Harry would hear the screams in her head and come calm her. She wished, perversely, that he would do something to provoke her. But Harry kept his word, even though she once again heard the heartrending moans coming from his room.

By the third night, she couldn’t stop wondering whether it would be easier for both of them to join forces, just at night. Just so Harry would be able to get some sleep. He’d rested when she’d been with him. Maybe she could help him again.

When she woke panicked and breathless the third time, she decided that it was time for her to help Harry. Her heart galloping in her chest and the shadows reaching out to grab at her legs, she opened the door into the connecting rooms and walked through. When she opened the door to the dressing room, she almost fainted in shock. Harry had dragged a chair into the little room and was sitting there in slacks and shirt, his hair disheveled and whiskers roughening his jaw, a flickering candle at his elbow.

He was looking down at his lap, where a sketch pad lay open. For a second Kate wondered what he’d drawn. Then she saw the look in his eyes. Naked longing. Anguish. And she knew that he was looking down at a sketch of the future he’d planned for himself as far back as childhood. The future she might have already destroyed.

She was about to retreat when he lifted his head, and she felt worse. For only an instant, a flash, his eyes held such grief that she felt it, sharp as a razor, scoring her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to turn.

Jumping up, he let the book fall to the floor. “No. Don’t go.”

Warmth swept up from his hand; their curious spark still leapt from finger and palm. But she had seen too much. Harry Lidge would never be happy growing flowers in Gloucestershire. His heart would always wander those foreign lands.

“Are you all right, Kate?” he asked.

She almost shook her head. “Surprised,” she admitted. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to see the grief safely tucked away. “What are you doing here?”

His smile was thin. “Trying to work up the courage to knock on your door.”

She went still. “Why?”

He waved a hand in the direction of her room. “I’ve been in here listening to you having nightmares, and I can’t tolerate it.”

For a long moment, she couldn’t manage an answer past the odd knot in her throat. He truly looked concerned.

“I’ve been listening to you, too,” she said, mortified that her voice shook. Ashamed that she wasn’t going to leave him in peace, even after what she’d seen in his eyes. “It seems silly to suffer alone.”

When he looked up, she saw that the ghosts that occupied his sleep were at least as frightening as hers. “How about I get some more lights?”

They settled in side by side, like before, not touching. Evidently it wasn’t enough for Harry, because after only a few minutes he reached over, pulled her against his chest, and wrapped his arms around her. Her first instinct was to fight. He was smothering her. Surely she couldn’t breathe being held so closely.

“Sssssh,” he crooned in her ear as he gently stroked her arm. “It’s your turn to be taken care of.”

She tried to push against him, certain she hated this. “Oh, no you don’t. I don’t like you.”

“Of course you do. But even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I’d be here.”

She knew she was probably hurting his feelings, but she couldn’t relax. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t get used to this kind of thing. Not even if it was warm, and cozy and comforting to have her cheek tucked up against his chest so she could hear the steady murmur of his heart throughout the night. Surely she would hate it.

It wasn’t a panacea. She had at least two nightmares. But instead of waking in panic to darkness and cold, she was soothed by a gentle hand and a gentler voice. “Ssssssh,” she heard just above her, “you’re safe now. Sleep.”

And, amazingly, she did. She even fell back asleep after Harry had a nightmare of his own and almost knocked her out of bed trying to get to his men.

“You got them,” she crooned, stroking his chest with the flat of her hand. “They’re safe. You got them.”

Neither mentioned those incidents when they woke the next morning and separated to their own rooms to change. But Kate knew that by unspoken agreement, she would return that night.

She did return, still feeling stupid and childish for needing a strong arm, only to find Harry’s bed empty. She wasn’t sure what to do. It seemed pointless to be here without him. But even after only one night, she didn’t want to face her nightmares alone. Not that she needed Harry’s help. She just found it easier to have somebody else there.

She was standing undecided in the doorway when she saw the sketchbook lying on the nightstand. She had no right. Even when they were young, Harry had protected his privacy like a jealous duenna. But it was becoming vital to see what her competition was. With one last furtive look to the hall door, she sat on the bed and opened the pad.

She smiled. Here was the Harry she remembered. Rude churches and cathedrals, fortified castles and a blasted farmhouse with the thatch roof caving in. A street in Brussels with its odd stepped roofs, all meticulously recorded with notes about style and function and tradition. Château Hougoumont, still intact before the battle, a jumble of red brick and roof tile surrounded by high white walls.

And then, more exotic locales. Ornate temples and austere homes tucked like bouquets amid a riot of foliage. Mud huts and rough-cut canoes. Dusty streets teeming with dark-skinned men in white arguing with their hands, and the elegant decay of a Venice canal, each conveyed with precision and power, the simple lines enough to convey permanence, magnificence, wonder.

She turned one page too many. Instead of the pristine lines of a church, the sketch was hurried, harsh, visceral. Kate had seen a battlefield, but only after the killing had been done. Harry had recorded the battle in progress: horses rearing, smoke blinding, men twisting, mouths agape in agony, eyes wide, caught at the moment of death. Just from these quick sketches she could hear the chaos; the deafening thunder of cannon, the shouts, cries, screams. The clanging dissonance of metal striking metal. She could smell the smoke, the crushed grass, the peculiar musk of a destroyed body.

She turned the next page, and the next and next, and the scenes continued. Carnage, pain, devastation, one after the other, as if Harry had been purging his memory of the horrors he’d witnessed as quickly as he could.

With the blinding force of lightning, Kate saw again the streets of Brussels in those days after Waterloo: thousands of injured and dead littering the squares, medical tents where sawed-off limbs were tossed like so much firewood onto macabre piles. She shuddered with the memory of it, with the ghosts of those boys who had pleaded for help, for succor, for relief she couldn’t give.

As if it would shield her from the sight, she squeezed her eyes shut. Harry had been through ten years of this. How could he have survived?

She knew, of course. His secret lay in those other sketches, the ones of order and beauty and silence. The dreams she threatened to take away.

“‘God fashioned hell for the inquisitive,’” she heard and snapped her head up.

Harry was standing in the doorway, clad in trousers and shirt, no more. He looked like a lost angel with his tousled hair and sky-blue eyes.

She shook her head. “St. Augustine was right. I’m sorry.” Still, she couldn’t seem to close that record of war. “I had no right.”

He crossed his arms. “You never used to apologize for sneaking peeks at my sketchbooks.”

“You never drew anything like this before.” She looked down on an image of men firing from atop a burning building, men she knew would never make it off that roof alive. “Can I assume your nightmares look something like this?”

“Very much like.”

She flipped pages until she found order again. “And this is what your dreams are.”

She wished it were possible, but there was no mistaking his reaction. The loss in those eyes scored her heart.

“Harry…” But she didn’t know what to say, how to face this new desertion. Even though it wasn’t really a desertion. She was an interference.

“Let’s not think too far in the future,” he said, before she could apologize, or, worse, cry. “Let’s just enjoy the fact that we get along better than we could have hoped.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “After all, anyone else would run shrieking in fright at the noises you and I make at night.”