Lady Rogue (36 page)

“Thank you, Lady Crasten,” Kit managed, torn between annoyance and amusement, and retrieved her hand. Thankfully the countess beat a swift retreat, and Kit turned to greet Reg with a smile. “And thank you, Reg,” she said, relieved to see a friendly face. “I’ve not seen you for a few days. I thought you might be angry.”

He sketched a bow. “My pleasure. I admit to being a bit startled in Calais, but I’ve had time to recover my wits. I did think a few things about you didn’t quite add up, especially that night at Vauxhall, but…” Reg trailed off and gestured at her, grinning. “I am humbled.”

“Well, I am baffled,” Francis Henning added from behind Reg. “Just when did you become a female, Kit?”

Christine stifled a smile. “I’ve always been one, Francis.”

“But you drank me under the table and took me for twenty quid at hazard,” he complained. Then he blanched. “And I asked you to marry me, didn’t I?” He turned to Everton. “Didn’t mean it, Alex. I thought she was a boy—I mean, not then, of course, but I didn’t know—”

Alex raised a hand and chuckled. “No worries, Francis. I find it all rather confusing myself at times.”

“Well, thank God,” Francis sighed. “I thought it was just me.”

The Duke of Furth appeared, the crowd parting before him, and with a wink Reg dragged Francis into the background. With a warm smile, hesitation only in his eyes, the duke kissed Kit on the cheek and shook Alex’s hand.

Taking two glasses of champagne from a footman’s tray, he gave them to Kit and Alex, then took another for himself. “My lords and ladies,” he said, turning to the assembly, “I should like to take this opportunity in front of you, my friends, to make two announcements. The first is that my daughter Christine”—he took her hand—“has been returned to me after years of separation.” Their audience applauded, and he nodded graciously. “The second is that yesterday Alexander Cale, the Earl of Everton, asked my permission to wed Christine. I have given my consent.”

That was a lie, for Alex had never actually asked anyone’s permission but her own. A second round of applause began, interrupted by a flurry of movement to Kit’s left as her cousin—no, her half sister—Caroline hurried up exactly on cue and hugged her, making a great show of being surprised. She, of course, had learned the news several days ago, and had been more than willing to participate in the charade. “You should have told me who you were,” she had said with a delighted smile when Furth had first dragged Kit, nervous
and unwilling and firmly in the company of Everton and the Downings, to Brantley House. “I would never have given you away, you know.”

The next minutes were a blur of congratulations and toasts and
sotto voce
speculations as to the exact nature and circumstance of her parentage. Alex fielded most of the more direct inquiries, cool and amusing, yet aloof enough that no one asked too many sticky questions.

As another familiar face approached, the muscles of Alex’s arm tightened, but he gave no other sign that he was the least bit ruffled. “Barbara,” he intoned, inclining his head.

“Allow me to tender my congratulations to the happy couple.” Lady Sinclair smiled, showing her teeth.

“Thank you,” he answered, with a return smile that left his eyes cool. “And I do appreciate the care you took in keeping Lady Christine’s secret safe.”

“Of course,” Barbara answered, spearing a glance at Kit.

Christine found herself feeling more sturdy than she had a moment ago. Direct hostility was easier to deal with than the toad-eating and bootlicking she and Everton had been subjected to since they entered the room. “And I am sorry,” she offered with some relish, “for any misunderstanding that might have arisen regarding Alex’s…intentions toward you.”

“Oh, not to worry,” Barbara returned warmly. “My relationship with Everton has nothing to do with his intentions toward
you
, I’m certain.”

So she thought to continue as Alex’s mistress after their marriage! Kit coiled her fist and longingly imagined pulling out a handful or two of Barbara’s lovely black hair. “I suggest,” she bit out, “that you go ply your wares elsewhere, Lady Sinclair.”

“So naive, my dear,” Barbara chided. “You may know how to be a boy, but I would imagine that as a woman, you are lacking—”

“Barbara,” Alex interrupted, all humor gone from his voice. “Be reminded that Lady Christine is to be my wife, and that to insult her is to insult me.” He narrowed
his eyes and lowered his voice. “And I don’t think you wish to insult me.”

Lady Sinclair took a quick breath and rethought whatever it was she had been about to say. “Very well,” she conceded disdainfully. “Enjoy your little boy-thing. When you tire of her, I will be here, waiting.”

Alex shook his head and, surprisingly, chuckled. “You’ll still be waiting in your grave.”

With that he tugged on Kit’s hand and led her toward the dance floor, where the orchestra had just struck up a waltz.

“You should have let me punch her,” Christine grumbled.

“Much as I would have enjoyed seeing it,” he said, “I’d prefer to dance with you.” He stopped and turned her to face him. “And I apologize for not taking care of her earlier. You had enough to go through this evening without facing unpleasantries from my past as well.”

“I’d rather face your unpleasant past than mine, any time,” she said feelingly.

Alex smiled, and her heart thudded at just the sight of him. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And—’”

She blushed. “Alex, Byron? Here?”

“‘And all that’s best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes,’” he finished slowly, his azure gaze filled with a hundred secrets and passions, just for her.

For a long moment she just looked at him. “I love you, Alex,” she whispered. “And I want to marry you. I don’t want anyone to be able to take you away from me.”

He smiled, then leaned down and very gently kissed her, ignoring the startled exclamations of the nearest onlookers. “And I love you, Christine. Forever.”

Christine was glad that they had decided to wed at Everton. Martin Brantley had naturally pressed for Furth, and the duchess for stuffy Westminster Abbey,
but surprisingly, Alex had been the one to disagree, in terms that delighted Kit—they would wed at Everton, or they would elope to Scotland. She wasn’t certain if he was serious, but the duke had evidently believed the threat, and had acquiesced with great speed.

She glanced over at Martin Brantley, standing between the duchess and Caroline in Everton’s vast rose and wildflower gardens. He had been patient and gracious with her skittishness, and that, more than anything else, induced her to begin to trust him a little. Even so, it would be some time before she would be able to bring herself to call him “father.” The duke, though, seemed to understand.

She stood in the garden, as well, Alex close beside her, as they accepted an endless stream of congratulations from the jovial, well-dressed assemblage who had witnessed the morning’s event. The substantial orchestra, set out on the lawn between twin fountains, seemed to be playing a scandalous number of waltzes, but Alex had already informed her that since it was their own deuced wedding, they could dance together as many times as they liked.

Kit looked over at him, to find his twinkling eyes on her. They had said their vows an hour ago, and despite her worries that he would come to his senses and make a run for it, he had pledged his heart to her without hesitation, as she had done for him. She touched the gold band around her finger, still marveling that they had been allowed to wed without any more disasters or entanglements. Napoleon was a prisoner once more, and thanks to the Duke of Furth’s influence, Prince George had agreed that certain other matters need not be delved into any more deeply. As for Stewart Brantley, she hadn’t heard any word of him at all since they had parted company in France. Undoubtedly he had escaped Calais, and with the blunt he had lifted from her, he could be anywhere in the world by now.

Kit was happy to be just where she was. Huge Everton manor rose white and gray just to the south of the gardens, a lake beyond it. The town of Cheltenham lay to
the east, and the farmlands belonging to Everton spread for miles in every direction. She hadn’t seen such a vast estate, or such an impressive display of wealth and power, since she had last been to Furth. Even so, Everton felt like home, as no other place ever had. She loved Everton, both the place and the man—loved the wildness and the spirit and strength underlying both of them.

The orchestra began yet another waltz, and with a put-upon smile, Alex excused himself from Lady Cralling and reached for Kit’s hand. “I believe this is my dance, my lady.” He grinned.

“Has Mercia forgiven me yet?” Kit asked, glancing at the departing Lady Cralling as she trundled across the grass to the overflowing refreshment tables.

“I believe so,” he said, leading her in the direction of the other dancers. “Eunice made it clear that your unconventional behavior was quite shocking, and she informed me that after her upset at Brantley House, Mercia was bedridden for three days.”

Kit pursed her lips. “Considering that she was allowing Grambush to court her at the same time she was encouraging me, I can’t think she was that devastated.”

Alex laughed. “So hard-hearted, chit.”

“How long before we can escape?” she asked with a sly smile for her husband, so handsome in his black and gray formal attire.

“As this entire event is for our benefit, I believe we should remain in attendance for another few hours,” Alex answered patiently. He squeezed her hand and smiled. “So you’ll just have to suffer.”

“I’m not suffering,” she returned quickly, trying to make it clear by her own smile that today was by far the happiest day of her life. “It’s only that I want you to myself.”

“We’ll have that for the rest of our lives, love. And thank you for not handing the archbishop a flusher.”

Kit made a face. “I didn’t like all of that ‘obey this and that’ nonsense.”

“I told him to leave it out.”

“You did?” Kit’s brief annoyance faded as she looked into his dancing eyes, and she grinned back at him. “That was sterling of you, Alex.”

He inclined his head, his expression briefly growing more serious. “Anything to keep you, Kit.” With his fingers he caressed her cheek, and she leaned into his embrace.

Christine sighed happily and glanced about the garden. It would be weeks before the hordes of guests departed, but Everton was vast enough that she and Alex would have a fair share of privacy. Before they reached the area set aside for dancing, Lord Sumpton waylaid Alex to offer his Spanish villa for their honeymoon, although they’d already decided to stay at Everton. Since Lord Sumpton was rather stuffy and long-winded, Kit turned to head for Gerald and Ivy.

At the far edge of the rose beds a flash of reflected light caught her eye, and she paused to look. A very familiar man stood there, a horse waiting a short distance behind him. As she watched, he lowered a mirror, then bent and set a small package down at his feet. He hesitated, then blew her a kiss before turning to swing up into the saddle. A moment later he headed out through the bordering hedges, and down the rise.

Her heart beating rapidly, Christine glanced back at Alex, but he was still occupied with Sumpton. With a quick look around, she gathered her skirts in one hand and swiftly made her way over to where the package waited in the short grass. Kit slowly picked it up. It was small and brown and rectangular, held closed with twine. Her fingers shaking a little, she untied it and lifted the lid. Gleaming white pearls, strung in four interwined strands clasped by gold, lay nestled inside.

“Another gift?” Alex walked slowly up between the rows of roses toward her.

“Alex,” she whispered, lifting the necklace in her fingers. “I remember these. They were my mother’s.”

He nodded, stopping before her. “They’re exquisite.” Alex glanced in the direction the rider had vanished, and she realized that he had seen everything. “It seems
Stewart Brantley wishes you well, my love.”

“What are you going to do?” Despite what had happened between them, she bore her “father” no ill will. And he had come all the way to Cotswold Hills in Gloucestershire just to tell her good-bye, and to bring her the one thing he had kept of her mother.

“Me?” Alex responded with a tender, loving smile, his eyes holding hers as he reached out and took her hand. “I’m going to dance with my wife.”