Destined to Last (22 page)

She could no longer classify what she felt for him as a strong attachment. Much to her dismay, she’d realized that as Whistler had raced toward the cliffs. Finally, she had truly fallen in love. Finally, she had found her prince. And she was going to die before she had a chance to do anything at all about it.

She had an urge to do something about it now—perhaps tell Hunter how she felt. But that sort of thing took a considerable amount of courage, and after a terrifying ride over the fields toward almost certain death, she was feeling a bit drained of courage.

Maybe it would be best if she let him speak of his feelings first. Surely he intended to at some point. She wasn’t quite so naïve as to believe a man would only make love to a woman he was in love
with
, but when that man had also been courting that woman it seemed at least
plausible
that he should love her. And when that man had plucked that woman from a runaway mount, it seemed…well, not inevitable, exactly, but certainly more likely than just plausible. And when that man—

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Hunter commented.

Oh, she sincerely hoped not. “I was…I was thinking that you caught up with me just in time.” She’d thought it right after he’d pulled her from Whistler, which made it at least partially true.

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “I know. It’s all right. You didn’t fall.”

“I didn’t mean you saved me just in time, although that’s true as well. I mean I saw you just in time. I thought to jump.”

“Jump?” She felt him start, and lift his head to look down at her. “Off your horse?”

“It seemed a better choice than letting myself be tossed off a cliff. I wasn’t sure Whistler would throw me, but it was becoming more likely with every passing second. And I thought I’d have a better chance at surviving a fall from a horse than I would a fall from the bluffs.”

He put his head back down, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Calculated risk,” he murmured and ran his hand down her hair. “Smart. You’re an intelligent woman, Kate. I’m sorry for giving you the impression I thought otherwise.”

Kate thought throwing herself from a racing horse fell more along the lines of desperate measure, but knew it wasn’t in her best interest to argue the point. “Perhaps I overreacted to our argument a little,” she began before recalling his comment about blithely strolling into danger. “No, I don’t think I did. But I don’t wish to argue about it any longer.”

Soft laughter rumbled in his chest. “Fair enough.”

“I’d rather hear any theories you might have as to why Whistler bolted as he did. And what happened to the rein. It’s as if the bridle simply fell apart, but why on earth—?”

“Miss Willory.”

“Beg your pardon?”

He blew out a hard breath. “We need to dress. I’ll explain on the way back.”

“Must we go back just yet?” she asked, even as she used one hand to pull up her chemise and gown. She wasn’t quite ready to abandon their romantic interlude but neither was she comfortable continuing it half naked.

“I’m afraid so.” He sat them up. “Others will be out looking for you by now.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because,” he reached around to fasten the buttons of her gown. “Lizzy knows Miss Willory was in the stable at the same time as you, and by now she will have told Mirabelle, Mrs. Summers, and your mother, who have no doubt sent other riders to look for you.”

Kate felt her mouth fall open, but it was several seconds before she could make any sort of sound emerge. “Miss Willory had something to do with this?”

He gently shifted her off his lap so he could stand and put his own clothing to rights. “I’ve no doubt she sabotaged your tack—put something under the saddle, cut the rein. She’s responsible for the piano bench as well, and for Mr. Potsbottom’s mistaken belief that you were hoping for his attentions.”

“She told Mr. Potsbottom…Good heavens,” she breathed. “Has she come unhinged?”

“Not entirely, or she would have confessed to all.” He tucked in his shirt and pulled on his coat. “As it stands, she’ll only accept responsibility for the piano bench.”

“But you’re certain she—”

“Absolutely.”

She shook her head in bewilderment. She could scarce believe it. Miss Willory had tried to hurt her. The woman had very nearly killed her. Which reminded her…

“Hunter?”

He finished buttoning his coat. “Hmm?”

“Do you think it’s necessary we tell everyone
everything
that happened?”

He paused in the act of tying his cravat in a loose knot. “Do I think it’s
necessary
?”

“Yes…Oh, I didn’t mean…not everything, not…” Feeling terribly self-conscious, she waved her hand around to indicate the general vicinity of where they’d lain on the sand. “Not us. I meant what happened with Whistler. Must we tell my family I nearly went over a cliff? I can’t see how their knowing would benefit anyone. And a longer ride
would
explain our, er, longer absence. And—”

“And you want to avoid being fussed over,” he guessed and bent down to pull her to her feet.

“Oh, I’m going to be fussed over. But the magnitude of that fussing depends on how willing you are to be circumspect in your retelling of events.” She pushed a few stray pins in her hair back into place, then gave up the effort. No one was going to comment on the appearance of a woman who’d been on the back of a runaway horse.

“You want me to lie,” he translated.

“Yes, please.”

He smiled at her hopeful tone. “As I intend to see Miss Willory pay either way, I don’t see why not.” He pulled her close to place a soft kiss on her brow. “Let’s get you back to the house. I’ll tell you what I know of Miss Willory’s treachery on the way.”

K
ate sat up in the bed she’d been not so much ushered, as bullied into upon her return to Pallton House, and glared at her brother.

“This is absurd. I was plucked from a horse, not thrown from one. I’m not injured, or ill, or even tired. There is absolutely no reason for me to be in bed.”

“And yet you will remain in it until dinner,” Whit ordered, and jabbed a finger at her. “And return to it one hour after dinner, or I’ll have you packed and on your way to Haldon by morning.”

Rather than argue, she fell back against the pillows, and upon the tried-and-true younger sister insult of sticking out her tongue.

Whit fairly growled at her. “I’m in earnest, Kate. You’ll stay. And you’ll drink the tea Lizzy’s gone to fetch, and the broth, and—”

Mirabelle stood from where she’d been seated near the window and cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Quit badgering her, Whit. Go help your mother and Mrs. Summers see to Miss Willory.”

Whit’s lips pressed into a line. He looked to the door, back to Kate, then the door again. Caught, Kate thought, between protecting his sister and aiding his mother. She might have felt sorry for him, if she wasn’t already annoyed with him. And feeling sorry for herself.

All evening in bed when she hadn’t acquired so much as a single bruise from her misadventure. A bit of fussing she understood
and expected, but Whit’s reaction, in her opinion, was excessive.

Whit jabbed his finger at her one more time. “You’ll stay,” he snapped, and marched out the door.

“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled after he left.

“But you will stay,” Mirabelle guessed and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Because he was scared half to death by what happened today, and having you safely tucked away for a few hours makes him feel better.”

That was, indeed, the reason she’d stuck out her tongue rather than argue with him. “It’s still ridiculous.”

“It is, rather,” Mirabelle laughed. “You’re a good sister to indulge him, Kate.”

“You’ll remind him of that the next time I spill something in his study, won’t you?” she jested. In truth, she’d not have given up the argument
quite
so quickly had she not felt guilty for having stayed with Hunter on the beach rather than returning to the house to let her family know she was unharmed. “I hadn’t realized there was such a fuss at the house. Was it absolute panic and mayhem when Miss Willory’s treachery was discovered?”

“Contained panic and limited mayhem,” Mirabelle assured her. “I came across Lizzy in the hall not long after Hunter left. She informed me of what had happened. I instructed her to send word for Whit, and find Mrs. Summers. Then I sent every footman, maid, groom, and able-bodied person I could find to search for you. Then I went to look for your mother, who I found taking a stroll with Lord Brentworth in the garden. The three of us confronted Miss Willory in her room.” Mirabelle snorted in disgust. “She has denied everything, for all the good it will do her. Lord Brentworth has instructed her to take herself off first thing tomorrow morning.”

Kate blew out a long breath. “Do you think she’s gone quite mad?”

“I think she’s gone quite evil,” Mirabelle replied. “Lizzy told me that Miss Willory is responsible for more than sabotaging your tack.”

Kate nodded. “The piano bench.”

“Yes, but that concerned me less than the mention of Mr. Potsbottom.” Mirabelle gave her a hard look. “Something about him accosting you in the hall?”

“It was nothing.” Kate strove to keep an indifferent tone, as if the incident with Mr. Potsbottom was a trivial matter. “He wanted a kiss, that was all. Such an unfortunate name, don’t you think? Potsbottom. Mother says bottom is common in Yorkshire, but—”

“Kate.”

Kate pulled a face. She should have known Mirabelle wouldn’t be put off so easily. “You’ll not lecture me for this, Mirabelle. You’ve kept secrets of your own.”

Mirabelle opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it again to press her lips into a line. “I don’t care for the fact that you have a point.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Kate replied with a small smile—a very short-lived smile. “Oh, dear. Does Whit know what Mr. Potsbottom’s did?”

“Not as of yet, but…” Mirabelle rolled her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ve no intention of telling him. I only meant you should brace yourself for the possibility that he’ll hear of it. Lizzy might tell him, or Mr. Hunter.” Kate was surprised to see her friend begin to worry at the counterpane with her fingers. “Do you suppose it’s because I banned her from Haldon—?”

“No.” Kate shook her head adamantly. “No, I’m certain it’s not. The, er, event with Mr. Potsbottom occurred well before that. You’re not responsible for this, Mirabelle.”

“Why would she go to such lengths to hurt you, then?”

“Hunter had a theory. He thought she might wish to see me removed as—How did he put it?—the most, um, ‘the most
eligible young lady in the house,’ or something to that effect.” She remembered perfectly that he’d called her “the most desirable young lady,” but that was hardly complimentary to Mirabelle. “Miss Willory is in desperate need of a husband. A rich one.”

“Lord Martin?” Mirabelle guessed.

“Initially, I assumed it was Lord Comrie, or possibly Mr. Potsbottom. Then I assumed it was Lord Martin. But
then
I realized it was Hunter.”

“There are few, if any, who are richer.” Mirabelle gave her a speculative look. “You’ve spent a great deal of time with him as of late.”

“Well, you’ve spent all your time with mother and Lizzy and Mrs. Summers. I had to find someone willing to spare a few moments for me—”

“You don’t truly expect me to believe that argument, do you?” Mirabelle cut in with a small laugh.

“No, but I’ve had it prepared for several days. Seemed an awful waste not to use it.”

Mirabelle made a prompting motion with her hand. “Well, now that you have…”

Kate shrugged, but the casual gesture belied a sudden case of nerves. It wasn’t every day a woman realized she was in love. Nor was it every day that a woman lost control of her horse, was rescued by the man she loved, gave her virginity to that man—while they were out-of-doors, no less—and then found herself sitting in bed considering the possibility of explaining her very eventful day—less the giving of her virginity, of course—to her sister-in-law.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I have spent time with him, and…and I have enjoyed that time very much. I’ve come to know him well, I think.” She laughed a little. “Do you know, before I came to know him, I thought him much too charming, and polished, and entirely too prone to looming.”

“Looming?”

Kate nodded. “But now I think he’s just the right sort of charming, and polished, and…and I’ve no idea how to make looming into an adjective. Loomy? Loomisome?” She waved the matter away. “He looms splendidly, at any rate, and I’ve…grown rather attached to him. Perhaps strongly attached to him. Perhaps more.”

“Are you in love with him?”

She bit her lip, hesitated a moment, then gathered her courage and nodded. “I am.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.” What sort of question was that? “He’s everything I had hoped to find. And nothing at all I had expected.”

“I don’t think any woman expects to find a loomisome man,” Mirabelle commented with a smile.

Kate knew that smile. It meant she was being humored a little. “You believe I’m being fanciful.”

“Oh, I
know
you’re being fanciful,” Mirabelle laughed. “That’s not what worries me.”

“Why should you be worried at all?”

“Because…” Mirabelle frowned thoughtfully, as if searching for the right words. “Because I don’t want you to be disappointed. I don’t want you to wish for more than you might receive.”

“Wishing only for what one expects to receive isn’t wishing at all,” Kate countered. “It’s…it’s…”

“Expecting?” Mirabelle offered.

“Yes, exactly. And where’s the fun to be had in that?”

Mirabelle sighed. “I could make a very long list of all the ways one can enjoy expectation, but I suspect it would only fall on deaf ears.”

“Under other circumstances they might very well,” Kate admitted. “But if you know something about Hunter that I do not, I’ll listen with both ears.”

“I hardly know the man at all, really,” Mirabelle replied
with a shake of her head. “He just seems to me to be…guarded.”

“He is, rather.”

Mirabelle hesitated, then reached forward to take Kate’s hand. “I love you, Kate, dearly.”

Kate winced a little. “I’m not going to like what you say next, am I?”

“It’s not so very terrible.” Mirabelle squeezed her hand gently. “You’re
not
guarded, Kate. You…you’re…” She squeezed her hand again.

“Spit it out, Mira.”

“You’re vulnerable.”

Kate snatched her hand away. “That’s a perfectly awful thing to say.”

“Please don’t misunderstand,” Mirabelle pled. “You’re not weak, or helpless, not in the least. You’re simply romantic. Sweet and fanciful and…open. It’s part of what I love about you. Your eagerness to love. But that eagerness, I fear, leaves you exposed. Leaves your heart exposed…to men like Lord Martin.”

As much as she disliked admitting it, Kate knew there was some truth to what Mirabelle said. She had been enamored with the idea of falling in love since she’d been a small girl. She’d dreamed of her prince for longer than she’d dreamed of hearing her symphony performed in a theater. And she had, at one time, allowed herself to be blinded to reality by her dreams. But her infatuation with Lord Martin had been just that—an infatuation. She’d fancied herself in love, but in comparing what she had felt then, to what she felt for Hunter now…well, there
was
no comparison.

“I never loved Lord Martin,” she told Mirabelle. “Not really.”

“No, but you wanted to, very much. Are you certain, absolutely certain you’re not…eager to love Mr. Hunter as you were Lord Martin?”

“Hunter isn’t Lord Martin.”

“He certainly isn’t,” Mirabelle agreed readily. “And I must say I am glad to see your tastes improved.”

“As am I,” Kate admitted with a smile. “But that’s not at all what I meant.” She blew out a short breath and searched for the words to explain herself. “Lord Martin I wanted to love because I
did
love the idea of him. I was so certain he was a prince. But with Hunter I wanted to…well, not hate him, that’s too strong, but strongly dislike because he didn’t fit any of the requirements I thought a prince, or even a gentleman, should. And yet I’ve come to love him despite my unwillingness to do so. It’s not the idea of him I love. It’s just him, faults and all. I know that puts me in a vulnerable position as you said, but—”

She broke off midsentence when Mirabelle shook her head. “Exposing one’s heart under those circumstances isn’t something you can help, or should avoid. And what you describe certainly does sound like love. Particularly, the faults bit.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “You’re terribly romantic.”

Mirabelle laughed and reached for Kate’s hand once more. “I am happy for you. Although, I must admit, I had rather hoped to see you fall in love with Mr. Laury. Your mother wished for the same, though I believe the events of today may have changed her mind.”

“I suspected she wished to see me with Mr. Laury. She was not particularly subtle in her matchmaking.”

“Mr. Laury’s disposition necessitated a direct approach.”

Kate snorted. “Mr. Laury’s disposition would necessitate the use of shackles and a sturdy chair, if you wished for him to remain in my presence for more than five consecutive minutes. He’s quite terrified of me.”

“Yes,” Mirabelle sighed. “It’s most odd. He’s quite charming in the company of others, you know. And you’re not at all terrifying.”

“You’ve not seen the havoc I can wreak with a cream pastry.”

“Everyone has seen the havoc you can wreak with food. Including your very tidy Mr. Hunter.” Mirabelle grinned suddenly. “He plucked you from a runaway mount. You must have enjoyed that immensely.”

In truth, plucked was something of a misnomer. It implied a certain efficiency and effortlessness that had been notably lacking from her rescue. She’d been grabbed, yanked—which had hurt her shoulder some—hauled, yanked again when her boot had caught in the stirrup, hauled once more, and then unceremoniously dropped across the saddle.

“I did, rather,” she confessed with a happy sigh. “Once the terror had passed.”

“Naturally.”

Hunter had never laid a violent hand on a woman in his adult life. He would have liked to have said the same for his childhood, but the world he’d lived in then had been markedly different.

He recalled the fight he’d had with Miss Fannie Stansworth at the age of nine. She’d been eight at the most, a head shorter than him, and after his gloves. To his complete humiliation, she’d taken them and left him with a fat lip, a spectacular black eye, and an invaluable lesson. When it came to survival, gender was of less import than strength, cunning, and in the case of Fannie Stansworth, the willingness to do whatever it took to endure.

He’d never lost another fight to a girl after that. But he’d never picked one either. He’d used his hands only in defense.

He didn’t want to use them in defense at the moment. He wanted to walk through the bedchamber door he’d been glowering at for the last five minutes, wrap his fingers around Miss Willory’s neck and squeeze until her eyes rolled back in her head.

Which was why he was not going to walk through the door. He’d let the Coles see to Miss Willory’s punishment for now. Later, when the image of Kate racing toward death was a little less vivid in his mind, he’d make a visit to her family in London. Miss Willory would live out her life isolated in the country, or he’d buy up and call in every debt in the Willory name.

Resolved, if not anywhere near to satisfied, he stepped back from the door, just as Whit opened it and stepped into the hall. The sound of Miss Willory’s wailing assaulted his ears for a split second before Whit slammed the door closed behind him.

“I need a drink,” Whit announced and turned for his room.