Regency Debutantes (60 page)

‘As a child, never since. My mother said it was quite the most
ugly picture she had ever seen. My talents lie elsewhere, or so I am told.’

Only then did she pause, and look up into his face. ‘I’m sure your mother was wrong.’ Her voice was quietly serious and her eyes filled with compassion. Then she smiled and the moment was gone, as quickly as it had arrived. She resumed her scrutiny of the view. ‘I can teach you if you like.’ It was uttered lightly, as if it were of no importance. The pencil scraped against the page, making a vertical line here, a horizontal line there.

A blossoming of warmth erupted in Ravensmede’s chest. He longed to lay his arm across her shoulders, to hold her to him. ‘I would like that very much, Kathryn.’ Since his dismissal of Harry Silverton he had felt extraordinarily happy. Knowing that she held the golden-haired youth in no regard and had sought his own protection gladdened his heart. It was better than winning a fortune night after night at the gaming tables. Better than an evening spent drinking with Caddie and the boys. And infinitely better than any time he had spent in any other woman’s company. He watched while she covered the entirety of the page, excepting the odd patch here and there, in pale blue paint.

As if in answer to his unasked question she offered an explanation. ‘It’s a wash to unify the background. It should also stop the glare from the sun bouncing up from the page and dazzling my eyes. Conditions today are perfect and it should dry in no time. Would you like some paper and a pencil?’

‘For now I’m content to watch you. But I’ll hold you to your promise of sketching lessons.’ The sun beat down with a relentless strength. ‘Kathryn, would you mind if I removed my coat?’

She did not look up from mixing her paints. ‘Of course not. You must be melting beneath all that wool.’

He peeled off the offending item and laid it down by his side. The cooling breeze fluttered through the fine lawn sleeves of his shirt, and he toyed with the idea of removing his waistcoat and neckcloth, but thought better of it. Daubs of paint were
stroked on to the paper by her delicate hand. Just watching fascinated Ravensmede. The slow repetitive action, sometimes tentative, sometimes bold, held his attention so that he could not look away. A sheet of calm sparkling water, clear and deep, of quite the brightest turquoise coloration he had seen. Small waves lapping against the shoreline in the distance. Cloudless blue sky stretching out far to the horizon. She captured it all. And the air of peace that surrounded them. Nothing sounded except the soft rush of the sea on the sand and the cry of the gulls circling high overhead. It was enough just to sit by her, to be in her presence. No need for words. Soft sugary sand warm to the touch, all yellow and fawn, golden and white. On and on she painted, as if driven by the magic of the place to set down a record of what had existed for this one afternoon. And all the while Ravensmede sat by her side.

One last brush stroke and she cocked her head to the side. ‘Mmm.’ It was a gentle sigh of consideration. With deliberate care she set the board aside and clambered to her feet. ‘Pins and needles in my legs.’ She wiggled and stamped her feet to ease the numbness and, unmindful of her bonnet ribbons that were flapping around her chin, pressed the weighty drawing board into the Viscount’s hands. ‘Please can you hold this, just so that I may check that I haven’t missed anything. I always find looking at it from a distance helps.’ Without waiting for an answer she moved several paces away and turned to inspect the painting.

Ravensmede looked down at the drawing board. ‘You’ve captured the view splendidly.’

‘And you, sir, are looking at it upside down!’ came the cheeky reply.

His mouth curved to a grin. ‘I beg your pardon, but I can imagine how it will appear the right way round.’

‘Here, let me hold it while you look.’ Just as the board was halfway between them, a gust of wind lifted Kathryn’s bonnet clear off her head. She loosed her grip on the board in order to catch it back, just as Ravensmede engaged in the same idea. The
drawing board dropped to the sand, bouncing on its side before fortuitously landing on its back. The ties that had secured the painting dislodged in the fall, and, before either Kathryn or Nicholas could move, the sheets of paper were sent flapping and tumbling along the sand. ‘Oh, no! That’s all the paper I have left!’ The bonnet forgotten, Kathryn scrabbled along the shore, and successfully captured the newly finished coastal painting along with four blank sheets. Another five blew ever further away.

Nicholas caught her elbow. ‘You have the painting. Let the others go. We can buy some more.’

‘No, paper is costly and all my money is accounted for. Please!’

With that look in her eyes and the long wind-blown hair tumbling in a cascade of curls reaching far past her shoulders, Ravensmede would have granted her anything. In a gallant gesture he chased the sheets until at last he had caught each and every one. His exertions had taken him quite some distance along the beach, but when he looked round the slight figure was running towards him. Her hair glinted a reddish golden brown in the sunlight and was billowing wantonly in every direction. A pair of finely shaped ankles and calves were visible each time the wind gusted around her skirts; moreover, the material was blown to cling revealingly against the shape of her thighs and hips. As he collected the papers into a tidy pile, one caught his eye. It was not blank, but contained a pencil drawing executed in great detail. The breath caught in Ravensmede’s throat. His eyes raked the picture a moment longer before he bent low to the ground as if catching the papers up to him, and slipped the folded sheet into the secret inner pocket of his waistcoat.

‘Nicholas!’

He glanced up and, with a smile upon his face, closed the empty distance between them.

She was breathless and pink-cheeked, wild and wind blown, and, judging from the look on her face, enormously glad to see him. Lord, but he could have taken her in his arms and tumbled her upon the sand there and then.

‘Did you catch them?’

‘Every last one!’ He passed the sheets into her hands, and, unable to help himself, caught her to him and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

She did not chastise him. Rather one small hand reached up and squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

‘Come on, we had best get you back to Grandmama. She won’t be pleased when she wakens.’

The silver-grey eyes were lit with pearly hues. ‘Perhaps she’s still sleeping and has not seen this débâcle.’

The Viscount laughed and gently swept his thumb across the bridge of her nose. ‘I was thinking more about your freckles. Although, personally, I find them quite delightful.’ He cast her a wicked grin, held her hand in his and walked back towards his grandmother.

It was fortunate that the Viscount spotted Kathryn’s hairpins in the sand close by her abandoned drawing board, and more fortunate still that the young lady had managed to secure her hair in some vestige of a respectable style before the dowager awakened. Alas, the mud-brown bonnet had been swept far out to sea, a mishap that caused his lordship much rejoicing. Indeed, Lord Ravensmede could not remember a more enjoyable day.

I
t was one quiet afternoon close to the end of the second week of their holiday when Lady Maybury announced her intention to host a ball at her grandson’s townhouse.

Lady Maybury continued, ‘I haven’t told him of m’idea yet, and I don’t want you letting the cat out of the bag, young lady. It wouldn’t do to pester him with all the details when we can sort those out ourselves.’

‘But shouldn’t we check that he’s happy to host such an event first, before making any arrangements?’

‘He shall not be hosting the ball. That’s my job,’ said the dowager. ‘I assure you, Kathryn, he’ll be most pleased with my efforts.’

‘But…’

Lady Maybury raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you questioning that I know what’s best for m’own grandson?’

Kathryn saw all the warning signs and sought to pacify her employer. ‘No, not at all, my lady. If you’ve made up your mind then—’

‘My mind is made up,’ came the adamant reply. ‘Fetch paper, pen and ink and let us begin the list of guests. There’s no time like the present. And remember that it’s to remain, for the minute, a secret from Nicholas.’

‘Of course.’ Kathryn did as she was bid and waited.

Soon the dowager was reeling off names. ‘Lord and Lady Radford, Lord and Lady Finlay, Lady Hadstone, Mrs Lee, Lady Farrow, oh, and Mr and Mrs Barchester and the Misses Barchester, but most certainly not Mr and Mrs Palmer—they’re too vulgar for words.’ She sighed and waited for Kathryn’s neat script to stop. And then the pause stretched a little longer. ‘Naturally, when Nicholas is married, his wife will take over such duties. This is likely to be the last time I’m able to play hostess for him.’

Something cold wrapped itself around Kathryn’s chest and squeezed. She was quite unable to move. ‘I didn’t realise that the Viscount was betrothed.’

‘Oh, he isn’t…well, not officially.’ Lady Maybury leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that is something that will be remedied before the Season is at a close.’ She gave a sage nod of the head. ‘M’son Charles—that is, Nick’s father, Earl Maybury—thinks it’s more than time that the boy settled down and all that, what with him having sown more than his fair share of wild oats.’ She sniffed.

A tinge of colour touched Kathryn’s cheeks.

‘Still, the least said about that side of things the better. Afraid us Mayburys are not a patient lot, as you may already have guessed, m’dear. But even Nick can’t hold out much longer against his father. Charles’s practically got it all arranged. Gel is from a decent family, good breeding and money too. Can’t think why Nick’s being so confoundedly stubborn. Wretched boy’s got to marry at some time or other.’

Kathryn reeled as if she had suffered a hard blow to the stomach. ‘May I…’ she steeled herself to ask the question, knowing full well that she should not, that it was none of her business ‘…enquire as to the name of the lady that the Earl has in mind?’

The old lady’s eyes washed bright with compassion. ‘Her name is Miss Francesca Paton, my dear, and m’son is very determined
that Nick weds her.’ She stretched out one small hand and touched it consolingly to Kathryn’s.

The slow terrible thud of Kathryn’s heart intensified, and deep within the pit of her stomach she tasted the sourness of nausea. It seemed that there was a ligature tightening around her throat.

‘There may very well be two weddings. Your future should be assured.’ The dowager smiled a small smile. ‘I’m very determined to catch
you
a good match.’

‘No, my lady, that really isn’t necessary,’ Kathryn gasped. ‘I’m here as your companion, not to find myself a husband.’ In her distress she gripped the pen as if she would snap it clean in two, her fingers inadvertently touching too close to the nib and bleeding a large stain of ink across her skin.

‘Tush! Don’t you want a husband and children of your own?’

‘I…’ She struggled to keep the emotion from her voice. ‘I’m happy here with you.’

‘As I’m happy to have you here. But you deserve a life of your own, gel, and I mean to see that you get it.’

The flow of black letters upon the page began to swim. A strange dizziness was rolling up towards her head. She forced herself to inhale deeply, slowly, willed herself not to yield to it. Determination clamped her teeth hard together, and made her lips stiff and immobile. Surely she wasn’t about to faint? She
never
fainted. Not Kathryn Marchant. But the dizzy sensation was expanding and black spots danced in the periphery of her vision. Sweat prickled down the length of her spine, and her chest felt so tight that she feared she could not draw the air into her lungs. She shut her eyelids tightly, struggling to regain control, doggedly telling herself that she would not faint, not here, not now, not when the dowager might guess the terrible truth.

‘Kathryn.’ The old lady’s voice was soft. ‘It is for the best.’

One breath, and then another. In. And out. She forced herself to breathe deeply, fingers clinging for dear life to the arms of the chair. Slowly the darkness receded, but the terrible weight
upon her chest lay there still. It took great strength to hide the utter bleakness that swept over her. The constriction in her chest had spread to her throat, wherein the lump was making it difficult to swallow. But for that terrible tightness all else had grown numb, a creeping lack of sensation that rendered her trapped upon the Sheraton-style mahogany armchair. She could no longer see the words that she had penned so carefully on the neatly cut sheet, could scarcely see the paper itself. ‘Please excuse me, Lady Maybury. I fear I’m feeling a little unwell,’ she managed to say through lips that could barely move.

‘Unwell?’ A concerned old hand touched to Kathryn’s arm. ‘You have gone very pale of a sudden. And you feel so hot! Mary shall take you straight to bed. You’ll feel better after a little rest.’

‘I’ll finish the guest list in the morning,’ murmured Kathryn and laid the paper and pen down carefully beside the inkstand on the desk.

‘Stop worrying over that. There’s time enough yet.’ The old lady tried to look severe and for the first time failed miserably. ‘I’ll brook no disobedience, gel, so off to bed with you.’

‘Yes, thank you, my lady.’ Kathryn kept her eyes averted, frightened of losing her last vestige of control, and quietly hurried from the room.

Not one last drop of blood lingered in Kathryn’s face as she climbed the central staircase towards her bedchamber. Slowly, methodically her fingers worked at the material of her skirt, pleating and smoothing and pleating again, in a rhythmic repetitive motion. And all the while, with each and every step that she took, she wondered why it had taken such a revelation for her to realise the truth. Not that Lord Ravensmede was to marry. As Earl Maybury’s heir that had always been a foregone conclusion. Perhaps she hadn’t expected it to happen quite so soon, but that in itself was not the issue. No, the truth was much worse than that. In her time as Lady Maybury’s companion, she,
plain, penniless Kathryn Marchant, had fallen head over heels in love with Nicholas Maybury; a man who was not only an aristocrat and enormously wealthy, but also a rake. And the reward for such a foolish action could only be a broken heart.