In Love With a Wicked Man (8 page)

Then, to her chagrin, they both burst into laughter.

“My dear,” he said, settling back into his chair, “you have managed to entirely unman me.”

Oh, not nearly
, thought Kate.

And more was the pity. Indeed, situated as he was in the small chair, he looked entirely too large and too dangerous now. Yes, too
virile
.

Just then, Nancy came back into the room, a piece of notepaper in hand.

“Miss Wentworth,” said Edward smoothly, bracing his hands to rise.

“Don’t you dare rise.” Nancy threw up a hand. “I just wanted to tell you that Motte returned, having learnt nothing. He’s brought his route for the last two days.” She handed it to Edward. “Here, see if anything looks familiar.”

Edward’s piercing green gaze focused upon the paper. “Taunton, fourteen miles,” he murmured, scanning it. “Bridgwater, twelve miles. On to Nether Stowey, eight miles. Up to Minehead, eighteen miles.”

“Good heavens! That’s quite a trek.” Kate rose, intent upon looking over Edward’s shoulder.

“And he has visited every inn, livery, train station, and tavern in between.” Nancy was behaving oddly, and had backed away as if uncertain of her welcome. “Motte and that black horse looked utterly fagged.”

Kate set a hand on the back of Edward’s chair. “All the way round to Minehead,” she marveled. “Poor Motte! How many miles is that, totted up?”

But Edward was still staring at the groom’s notes.

Nancy started nearer. “Edward?” she said sharply. “Do you see something?”

But Edward didn’t look at her. Instead, he looked up at Kate, his gaze almost stricken. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Take it. I cannot—”

Kate felt a cold shaft of fear. “Edward, what is it?”

He shook his head, his eyes bleak. “I can see it,” he said, “but I can’t
add
it.”

Kate snatched the paper. “It’s just Motte’s hand,” she said. “It’s near illegible.”

Edward seized her wrist in a near death grip. “
No
,” he said harshly. “I can read them, Kate. But I cannot . . . I cannot
add them up.
”

Kate could hear the alarm in his voice. She dropped to one knee by his chair, Nancy standing at the other side, and held out the paper. The words and numbers were indeed perfectly legible.

“Oh, dear heaven!” said Nancy in a panicked voice. “Kate. Oh, Kate. We weren’t supposed to let him read anything!”

“It’s all right, Nancy; it isn’t that. A little reading hasn’t ruined anything.” Kate turned to look at Edward. “When you look at the numbers, Edward, what do you see?”

He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, then swallowed hard. “Markings that . . . that aren’t letters,” he said, moving a finger down the page. “It was the same with my watch. I thought it was—I don’t know—my vision, perhaps.”

“So you can tell which ones
are
numbers?”

He shook his head, his harsh brows drawing together. “Yes, I see them,” he rasped, pointing. “Things that I know, logically, are numbers. But . . . they don’t mean anything. And they must do, mustn’t they? They
have
to. I
have to
understand numbers, Kate. I
must
. Everything depends upon it.”

“Everything?” His vehemence shocked her, but she took on a soothing tone. “Yes, yes, of course. It does to all of us. It is part of our everyday lives. But it will come back, Edward. It will.”

“Will it?” Edward unclenched his hand from her wrist. “Yes, yes, of course it will. It must, mustn’t it?”

“Look, as Nancy says, we have gone and done the very thing Dr. Fitch told us not to do,” said Kate, rising. “We have let you strain your mind.” She reached down with her hand. “Nancy, kindly tell Peppie I want Fitch back in the morning. Now, come, Edward. Let me escort you back to your room so that you can rest.”

“Damn it, Kate, I’m not a child,” he said irritably.

“Oh, I’m quite certain of that,” she murmured, refusing to drop her hand. “But you have tired yourself out. Your brain will not recover without rest. That is what Fitch said, and we see now how right he was. We must be thankful, I daresay, that you don’t imagine yourself Prince Albert.”

“What?” He looked at her incredulously.

Kate gave her hand an inviting wiggle. “Come, I will tell you Fitch’s funny story as we walk back to your room.”

“Oh, and Kate?” said Nancy as they started from the room. “Motte said something else, too. It might be important.”

“Yes?” Kate turned to look over her shoulder.

“He says that Edward’s horse is not young,” Nancy added, “perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. But far too fine, all the same, to have come from any livery. And the tack is that of a wealthy gentleman’s; the saddle, Motte says, is by Sowter’s in the Haymarket—custom made, and one of their very finest.”

Edward cut her a sidelong glance as they made their way upstairs to his bedchamber. “Kate, what are you thinking?”

“That you have a sentimental attachment to your horse,” she replied. “George Motte is an expert groom, trained in Uncle Upshaw’s household in London. If he says your mount is old and your tack exquisite, then it is.”

“Hmm,” he said.

But Kate got the strangest feeling that she had not replied to the question he really wanted answered.

It was no easy feat to return Edward to the care of Jasper, and to convince him that an hour’s nap before dinner would be the very thing. It was not, in his opinion, any sort of thing at all. It was a nuisance. A trespass upon his manhood. And in the end, only the promise that she would read to him again the following day would placate him.

But they were already fast approaching the time, Kate sensed, when Edward would not be gainsaid, and no sort of symptom, however dire, would keep him within the purview of a mere female and a cowering footman.

She sighed, and stayed long enough to watch Jasper help him out of his coat. Thus reassured, if only marginally, that he meant to stay put, Kate returned to the drawing room to see that Nancy had ordered a fire built up against the evening’s chill.

She was standing by the hearth, her hands outstretched to the feeble heat. Her face was a mask of worry as she glanced toward the door as Kate’s footsteps approached.

“Will he be all right?” she said quietly.

Kate clasped her hands before her, then slowly nodded. “I believe so,” she said. “Dr. Fitch said, you will recall, that sometimes one lost the ability to read. I think this must be something similar. I think with rest, his faculties will return.”

“Good,” said Nancy, her voice gone a little cold. “Then he’ll be out of here, perhaps, before you ruin yourself irredeemably.”

Something sank into the pit of Kate’s stomach. “I beg your pardon?”

At last Nancy turned from the fire, her mouth twisted a little bitterly. “Who do you think slammed that door so loudly?” she said. “It was a warning, Kate. And you’re dashed lucky it was me and not one of the servants who walked in on you.”

“Good heavens.” Kate put a hand to her temple. “But my dear, it was . . . it was just a kiss.”

It was a pathetic defense, and Nancy bluntly said so. “And it was a good deal more than a kiss,” she harshly added. “My God, Kate, had Reggie ever kissed you in such a way, Grandpapa and Uncle Upshaw would
never
have let you beg off that betrothal.”

“If Reggie had ever kissed me in such a way,” said Kate coldly, “perhaps I would not have wished to beg off.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Oh, Kate! Are you mad?”

“Certainly not,” Kate countered, “and furthermore,
you
are hardly in a position to level any criticism over a kiss.”

“Well, Edward has taken a stultifying blow to the head,” Nancy retorted. “He cannot be counted upon to show any sense.”

“And you suggest I cannot?” But Kate feared her sister might be right.

Nancy flounced toward the door in a huff. “Well, at least I know I’m committed to Richard,” she said snidely, “and that he has the most honorable of intentions. I know his name. I know he’s not married. Or a scoundrel. Or a gambler. Or an outright felon.”

“Edward is a good man,” Kate countered feebly. “He meant no harm.”

“Well, Richard is a rector, and he wishes to
marry
me
!” Nancy shouted back. “But
you
won’t let him! We know him nearly as well as we know ourselves. Consider, Kate, the hypocrisy in that!”

For good measure, Nancy slammed the door on the way out, causing half the candles to gutter in the draft.

Kate stood for a good half hour in the gloom, considering what a fool she was.

She knew that the criticism Nancy had leveled at her was hardly unfair. But she was not Nancy. Her situation was very different, more different than Nancy could ever know. And Edward desired her; Kate was not such a fool as to be unable to recognize that simmering emotion in a man’s eyes.

No, she should not have let him kiss her. And if he tried to do it again . . . well, she was going to let him. The realization caused a little frisson of sensual awareness to shudder through her.

Yes, she was going to let him.

It seemed madness.

It seemed the most logical thing on earth.

He was a strikingly handsome and virile man who looked at her with such heat it took her breath. Such things didn’t happen to Kate in her ordinary—
tediously
ordinary—life. And if he wanted her in that way, why should she not have him?

There were risks, yes. Risks to her heart—and other risks, too. But would it not be better to live with a heart that was broken than a heart that was frozen and empty? As to the other, there were ways to mitigate that, too.

Kate looked down at the flickering shadows cast up by the fire and realized she was twisting Grandpapa’s signet ring around and around on her finger again.

Oh, this
was
madness! It would not do. Edward was a charming flirt, no more. And she—well, she was just what she’d always been. Ordinary, tart-tongued, and plain, with little to recommend her.

On that thought, Kate blew out the rest of the candles. She had enough real problems without dreaming up more. Letters to write. Accounts to balance. And a few cases of expensive wine to somehow wedge into her household budget, for Aurélie’s most recent letter had arrived. The horde was indeed descending—and bringing, her mother threatened—a
shocking
surprise
.

Aurélie was often both shocking and surprising. And those two things together in one sentence—however redundant—could not possibly bode well.

CHAPTER 6

A Fragile Friendship

D
etermined to cast off his role as invalid, Edward went searching for Kate the following afternoon in Bellecombe’s estate office where, he was reliably informed by the good-natured Jasper, the lady spent most afternoons.

Having bathed, shaved, and dressed himself, he set off on his quest feeling a little more sure of the world. And very sure he owed his hostess an apology.

He could not for the life of him think why he had kissed her, and so lasciviously. Or why he had dreamt such torrid, sensual dreams of her last night. In his fantasies, Kate had trembled beneath him, her fingers tangled in his hair, her small, perfect breasts his for the tasting. He had woken in a tangle of bedsheets, burning to kiss her again, sweat beading his forehead.

It was . . . disconcerting.

Perhaps it really was the blow to his head? The good doctor had ordered him not to think, and apparently, he had succeeded.

Oh, he didn’t fancy himself an upright paragon of virtue—quite the opposite, he feared. But nor did he have the sense that he was the sort of fellow who went around seducing virginal young ladies—and if he was, then he was in need of a good horsewhipping.

Except that Lady d’Allenay was not exactly young. And she didn’t kiss like a virgin. Nor quite like a lady of experience, either.

She was something in between, perhaps?

She had once been betrothed, she had said. To a man who had not loved her. How could such a thing be? The lady was not a beauty, but she had a purity of character one could not mistake, and a wicked, scathing wit. A man could not for one instant find himself bored, he imagined, in her company.

There seemed to be no huge fortune involved—the usual thing that drew suitors. An entailed estate like Bellecombe could not be sold, but only carried forth into the next generation. Until it was flourishing, there would be no money to fritter.

So it seemed that, where Kate was concerned, at least one gentleman had been wise enough to see the jewel shining within—and then let it slip from his grasp. It intrigued him, Edward told himself, and that was all. He was just a man who liked a puzzle.

And perhaps a challenge.

Certainly his goddess was more interesting to muse upon than was the great, black void that constituted his past, and his brain’s pathetic inability to add two plus two. For if he dwelled upon that, he soon began to sink into the sands of despair.

And so he went in search of her. To apologize. And yes, perhaps to pick up their light flirtation where he’d left it. But more than that? It was a line he would not cross. No, he would not be living out his sensual fantasies with the enticing Lady d’Allenay.

Bellecombe’s estate offices encompassed the whole ground floor of the south tower, Jasper explained, and were most easily accessed via the inner bailey. But despite his room being situated in the main house, Edward decided to first hobble up six flights of stairs and onto the open parapet that connected the east and north towers.

From this soaring vantage point, one could see that the original medieval construction consisted of four towers linked by wide, crenellated walls like the one on which he stood. However, a pair of more modern wings extended beyond the walls, making Bellecombe Castle what must surely be one of England’s most splendid homes.

Far below him lay the cobbled inner bailey, and beyond that, the outer bailey, surrounded by the secondary walls that appeared to house the stables and other utilitarian functions. There was an outer gate and an inner gate, both likely portcullised, with a long, high bridge between; a solid defense for times of turbulence. And while the castle had no moat, the undulations of earth when seen from above indicated there once had been one.

Rising up around all this rugged beauty were green and rolling Somerset hills, the castle nestled like a diamond amongst it all.

Bellecombe.
Beautiful valley.

He looked down at the south tower, and saw that the thick, wooden doors were opened wide onto the cobbled courtyard, to catch the morning’s warmth, he supposed. He could see Kate sitting just inside, bent industriously over a massive desk, her glossy hair shining in the sun. Suddenly raw lust twisted through him again, seizing his breath.

He forced it away, swallowing hard. He willed himself to look at her objectively. How slight and fine-boned she appeared from this distance. It was a grave responsibility she bore upon those slender shoulders. What a remarkable thing that this great and ancient estate had come to her, and at a relatively young age.

After reading to him this morning from the newspapers, Miss Wentworth had reiterated the story of how her sister had been made heir after their brother Stephen’s death. The young man had apparently injured his spine in a fall, then lingered, bedridden, until pneumonia took him one winter.

Stephen Wentworth had been brought up for this; Kate had not. She had been entirely unprepared. And yet she seemed confident and capable now.

There were a few ancient English titles, Edward knew, that could convey through the female line, but only if there were no males. A string of six or eight entirely competent elder sisters could be displaced by one brother, be he only aged two. Or a spendthrift drunkard. Or an outright fool.

Edward knew many such men—or at least he knew that he knew them. Who they were and under what circumstances he knew them escaped him, perhaps mercifully. But it struck him as reprehensible that a competent female had less standing than a fool with a pair of bollocks between his legs.

Alas, such was English law.

Having taken it all in, Edward descended through the east tower, ending up in a small, vaulted chapel with soaring clerestory windows, their exquisite stained glass shimmering with reds and golds and blues in the morning sun. It made him feel that if God were in a place, it would surely be a place such as this. Beautiful, and yet, with its stiff-backed oak pews and uneven stone floor, just a little humble.

Moreover, it made it ever more plain to him that, whatever their circumstances now, there had once been a vast deal of wealth in the d’Allenay dynasty. Like the right to crenellate for defense, the right to possess one’s own chapel was a privilege bestowed only upon those deemed both wealthy and trustworthy.

Closing the thick, oaken door behind him, Edward secured it by dropping an iron door latch as wide as his wrist, then crossed the bailey. Kate’s office doors still stood open. He hobbled inside, giving a light rap upon the blackened oak slab.

“Edward!” Kate looked up from the letter she was writing, her face breaking into a wide smile as she rose, both hands outstretched in welcome. And he realized in that moment that nothing about her was remotely plain. How had he ever thought otherwise?

“Hullo, Kate.”

“I’m glad, of course, to see you,” she said, the tone both welcoming and chiding at once. “But what are you doing out of bed?”

He took his weight off the elegant, brass-knobbed stick he’d purloined, and smiled. “Getting better,” he said, letting it dangle, aloft, between two fingers. “My balance is improved and Fitch says I should exercise the ankle an hour each day. Moreover, he orders you to free poor Jasper from his nursing duties. I’ve already ordered the cot removed.”

“Have you indeed?” She shot him a chary glance, then motioned to a chair beside her desk. “Well. Sit down. Where have you been since Fitch left?”

“Exploring your castle,” he said. “It is a medieval marvel, my dear, and delightfully untouched by time.”

She shot him a rueful glance. “Yes, I fear the Wentworth line has always had a shocking propensity to fritter money that might have been better spent on modernization.”

“It looks to me as if you’re slowly setting that to rights.”

“Five hundred years of dissolution?” Her mouth twisted. “Well. One does what one can.”

“Surely not all your ancestors were wastrels?”

She laughed, that throaty, unselfconscious laugh he liked so well. “No, you’re right,” she admitted. “A great many were excellent managers, and my grandfather did what he could. But the place has been lost once or twice—Cromwell, the War of the Roses—the Barons d’Allenay always managed to get on the wrong side of every little spat. That, along with a few entrenched gamblers, a couple of womanizers—the sixth baron, we’re told, was an outright bigamist—
et voilà!
as Aurélie would say—the roofs rot and the coffers sit empty.”

He cast his eyes around. “Oh, it doesn’t look that bad,” he said. “Someone’s been working hard at trimming the wicks and polishing up the brass.”

She smiled in acknowledgment. “My grandfather trained me well,” she said, “and Anstruther, our steward, is like a member of the family. But enough of that. What did Dr. Fitch say? And the whole of it, if you please.”

“Madam, a man would cower at the thought of keeping a secret from you.”

“Ha!” she said on a laugh. “You’ve never cowered in your life, I daresay.”

But she had relaxed into her chair, and pushed it away from the desk. She wore riding clothes, he realized; a plain brown habit that could only be described as serviceable, with an almost mannish cut. Her shirt collar was high and starched, and only her velvet lapels softened the coat. He suspected she’d already ridden out to one of the farms this morning, for there was mud caked around one boot heel.

Oddly, he liked that. Kate looked capable and brimming with vitality. She had not lingered in her bedchamber until noon, fretting over nothing more significant than which jewelry to wear to tea.

Did a great many ladies do that? Yes, he somehow thought they did.

“Well?” she demanded. “Your prognosis, sir?”

“Fitch says time heals all wounds, even those one can’t see,” said Edward. “He thinks my stitches can come out soon. He wasn’t surprised by the problem with arithmetic. And whilst I may walk a little, he still wishes me to rest and avoid eye strain.”

“So no reading?”

He shook his head, and felt another pinprick of frustration.

“Have you felt anything stir? Even a fragment?”

He smiled thinly, hesitating before he spoke. “Well, I had some strange dreams all night,” he confessed, “most of which don’t bear repeating. But in one of them, I found myself walking through a park. And in the dream, I
knew
that it was Green Park. In London, yes?” He glanced at her for confirmation.

“Yes, in London.”

He nodded. “I could tell that I’d been there before, and often. And I felt as if . . .” He paused, trying to put it into words.

“As if what?” Kate leaned across the corner of the desk, and he wanted, suddenly, to kiss her again. He let his gaze drift over her face, hoping she could not see the hunger there.

“I felt as if I were going somewhere familiar,” he said quietly. “There was an urgency about it—I
needed
to get there. And then I was striding through this narrow passageway—like an alley—with gaslight at the end. Then I woke up, feeling strangely relieved.”

Kate was tapping a finger on the desktop. “There are a couple of places where one can enter St. James directly from the park,” she said after a moment had passed. “Perhaps you live near there?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you knew London well.”

“Not especially,” she admitted. “But before Belgravia became all the rage, Uncle Upshaw and Aunt Louisa lived in St. James’s Square.”

“Ah, yes! On the fashionable side, I daresay?”

Her eyes widened. “See? You know that. You know there is an unfashionable side.”

“I did know it, didn’t I?” he mused.

“One might also go that way to reach, say, the Carlton Club, which is very near Spencer House,” Kate suggested, absently scrubbing the toe of her boot across a crack in the flagstone. “Or perhaps you might belong to White’s? Or one of the other fashionable gentlemen’s clubs? And there are one or two less savory places, I believe, in St. James—if some of my brother’s stories were true.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Those do not sound like tales suitable for a lady’s ear.”

She shrugged. “Well, in any case, if all else fails, you might go to London when you’re entirely well, and walk about the neighborhood.”

“Ah, is my goddess eager to cast me from Mount Olympus?” he murmured.

Her breath hitched a little oddly. “No, certainly not,” she said. “Please, Edward, do not tease me. Not . . . not in that way.”

“I beg your pardon.” He reached across the desk again, and took her hand. “It is an excellent idea, and I will go.”

“When you feel up to it,” she said.

Edward sighed. “I feel, Kate, such an imposition to you here.”

Her eyes flared with something like dismay. “You
must not
,” she said firmly. “Were it not for me, you wouldn’t even be in this predicament. Besides, we will eventually discover where you’ve come from, Edward. We
will
. And when we do, you can return to—to your family, or to whatever it is you’ve left behind. And that will almost certainly reawaken your memories.”

But there was an increasing tension inside his chest. The last of her words came at him as if from a distance. And then the strangest thing happened. Suddenly the tension became a rush of emotion—no,
dread
—so strong he had never known the like. As if the whole of his body had gone numb. For an instant, his breath stopped.

He did not want to go back.

He was sure of it.

He exhaled sharply. Good God, what kind of life had he led? What was it that lay there like a chunk of hard, black tar in the bottom of his heart? Had he been unhappy? Or, God forbid, unhappily married? He had been so sure he was not. He was still sure. But there was a darkness in his past he truly did not wish to revisit.

Could he be quashing those memories in some hidden recess of his soul? Allowing himself to stay here, where he felt so . . . so strangely at ease? So very much at home? Bellecombe seemed to him a place of warmth and security.

But what a mad notion that was! Good Lord, he was a man grown.

“Edward?” Kate’s voice was gentle, but probing. “What is it?”