The Rebel Bride (17 page)

As for Kate, she didn’t sleep at all. She was far too busy packing her portmanteau and making her plans. Had the dashing young officer in his colorful regimentals, whose name she couldn’t remember, known of the daring idea he was giving the beautiful young lady, he wouldn’t have been so forthcoming in his praise of Paris. Kate was but half listening as they danced, too aware of Julien’s eyes following her around the dance floor. But she smiled prettily up at the young man, and he felt emboldened to speak of his adventures in a Paris now freed from Napoleon’s influence. He’d been astounded at the gaiety of the French people, the prosperity that was restored under Louis, and above all, the enthusiastic attitude of the Parisians toward the English, whom they now regarded as their liberators.

It was a short time later, as she stood drinking a glass of orgeat, that the promise of the young officer’s words struck her forcibly. She’d done naught but fail. The earl had outdanced her at every turn, not just on the dance floor. She, in turn, had danced to his tune quite long enough. It was time she took matters into her own hands.

Why shouldn’t she go to Paris? She’d always told herself that she wished to be her own mistress. Surely she would be the most despicable of hypocrites if she didn’t jump at the chance to be free forever not only of her father but also of the earl. It didn’t take long for her to convince herself that only a coward would let such an opportunity slip by.

As she sat now in her darkened room, she recalled the earl’s last words to her about her trousseau. Let him speak smoothly and make his damned plans. Let him do whatever he wanted. He could obtain a dozen special licenses for all she cared. It didn’t concern her. He could, in short, go directly to the devil. She would be far away, free of him.

But to do what, to be what? A vision of herself in a foreign land, alone, rose in her mind. She felt a wave of apprehension and a taste of fear. “No,” she said aloud to her shadowed bedchamber. “I’ll find employment and be quite comfortable. I’m not stupid. I can work and work hard. I’ll survive, and I’ll be free.” She spoke French passably well and had sufficient accomplishments to make a position of governess not out of the question.

She folded a pair of stockings and stuffed them into the portmanteau. She remembered the thousand pounds, obviously given to her father by Julien to pass on to her for a new wardrobe. If only she’d had the knowledge then that she did now. His damned money and she’d spent nearly all of it. She lit a candle and searched methodically through her dresser and reticule. After some moments she scooped up what money she’d found and sat cross-legged on her bed. Uncertain what it cost to reach Paris, she decided it best to be overgenerous in her estimates. This deduction made, she was left staring with some dismay at four guineas. She frowned, but held hope nonetheless. She would simply have to find employment very quickly. And was she not an Englishwoman, one of the liberators of the French, who now loved the English and welcomed them with enthusiasm?

She drummed her fingers and thought of how she would travel to Paris. Though she knew nothing of coach schedules from London to the coast, she reasoned that surely there were such vehicles leaving early in the morning. Once at the coast, she should have no problem finding a packet to take her to France. And how long would that take? She hadn’t the foggiest notion. And once in Calais, or wherever she ended up, how would she get to
Paris? Another question to which she had no answer. She refused to worry about it.

She thought of the scandal that would descend from her disappearance. And Julien. He would finally receive his just deserts. He would no doubt despise her and curse her soundly for making him look the fool. But a fool he was for thinking he could snap his fingers and she would docilely submit to him.

Ah, but her dear Harry was quite a different matter. For him, her marriage to the earl meant his colors, a career in a crack regiment. It would be a severe blow. Perhaps he would never wish to see her again. Tears stung her eyes. She was letting him down, and for a moment she faltered. But then she thought about her own life, how all choice had been wrested from her. Sir Oliver would manage somehow to buy Harry his colors, for Harry was, after all, his favored son.

Just before dawn she slipped quietly out of her room and sped lightly down the stairs. The front door groaned in protest, and the sound was so loud to her own ears that she stood frozen, waiting for the servants to descend upon her.

The house was silent. She pulled her cloak closely about her shoulders and the hood over her head and stepped out into the night. She gazed a moment up and down the empty square, clutched her portmanteau tightly, and walked quickly away from the Bellingham mansion.

K
ate Brandon made her way with forced enthusiasm to the Luxembourg Gardens after quitting her rather dismal room at 47, rue Saint Germain. She sat down on a wooden bench and drew the
journal
from her pocket. Her attention was drawn to the sound of a child’s voice. She looked up to see a small boy skip past her, with his nanny in pursuit. A gentleman and lady strolled by, their heads close in intimate conversation. There was a small gleam in the gentleman’s eye and a shy look of confidence on the lady’s face. She silently cursed the romantic gardens, heaved a deep sigh, and forced herself to turn back to her unopened
journal.
She thumbed her way through the pages until she found the advertisements for positions. It seemed to her that no one ever filled the various posts, for the same ones appeared day after day. A butcher’s assistant, a linkboy—ah, a blasted governess. A dark look came over her face on seeing the listing.

She’d applied for it with alacrity a few days before, feeling hope surge through her. Outfitted in her most subdued gray high-necked gown, her hair drawn into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, she sounded the brass knocker at the solid brick residence in the heart of a very respectable bourgeois area of Paris. The front door swung open, and she confidently faced a rather pinch-faced butler who demanded without preamble what the Young Person wanted. The Young Person wanted a job, she wanted to shout at the man, but she didn’t. Upon being informed in rather halting French, punctuated with gestures to the governess post in the
journal,
the butler allowed a flicker of surprise to pass over his cadaverous
face and cast Kate a look that made her feel as if she were some sort of oddity. He said quite unnecessarily, “Mademoiselle is English. It is of an oddness, that. I will see if Madame wishes to see you.”

She bore this with fortitude and was admitted not many minutes later into a large
salle
that struck her as being furnished in less than the first stare of elegance. Like the salle, the large, somberly dressed Madame Treboucher looked to be a bastion of respectability.

“You are an English Young Person,” Madame announced, her eyes on Kate’s hair. “Your hair has much too much redness.”

Finding both these statements to be unarguable, Kate replied simply and proceeded to inform Madame of her aspirations. Madame was silent for a moment, her thick lips pursed. She looked Kate up and down and finally announced with the utmost disdain that Mademoiselle was far too young for such a responsible position, and furthermore, she wanted no red-haired Englishwoman running free in her house to seduce her son and her husband. Kate stared at her openmouthed, and finding herself unable to vent her outrage in the French tongue, rose stiffly and stalked out without a word. Once outside, she raised her fist to the heavens and demanded that God strike down the wretched woman, and the young gentleman she’d danced with at Almack’s who’d assured her that the French considered the English their liberators.

She sat back on the bench, the
journal
lying open on her lap, and stared for a moment ahead of her. Her flight to Paris had been so utterly undramatic that she had quite decided that her luck had changed, that perhaps she’d not been born under the wrong stars after all. But now, after more than a week in Paris, her small hoard of coins practically gone, she felt near to panic. A growl of hunger in her stomach reminded her sharply that panic over her situation wouldn’t buy food, nor would it pay the rent for her room for another week. She scanned the remainder of the positions on the page with fierce intensity. A milliner’s assistant on the rue de la Bourgoine.
What a paltry wage, barely enough to maintain the small room. But her alternatives were rapidly dwindling. She set her mouth, and with a determined effort repeated aloud the street number.

When she looked up, the street address on her lips, she saw a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman walking purposefully down the hedged walk toward her. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Julien! All her careful planning, for naught. No, surely it couldn’t be he, no, certainly. She was just tired and hungry; the sun was in her eyes.

Of course it was the earl. “Damn you,” she yelled toward him. She jumped to her feet, the
journal
gliding unnoticed to the ground, and took to her heels in the opposite direction. Her breath came in quick gasps and her violent exertion on a very hungry stomach made her dizzy. She pulled up short, weaving back and forth. The gardens blurred before her eyes. She took another uncertain step forward, only to find that two strong arms were around her and her head was against his shoulder.

Julien held her against him none too gently and said in a hard, uncompromising voice, “How very coincidental to see you here, Miss Brandon. Don’t you find it strange? First I meet you lying dead at my feet and now in Paris. Well, no matter what you think, truth be told, for your little game is quite over.”

She looked up unwillingly into his set face and, to her own chagrin, felt tears of frustration spill onto her cheeks.

She got hold of herself, but it was hard. She even managed to say calmly enough, “There is no coincidence. You’ve never been involved in a single coincidence in your bloody life. Why are you here? How did you find me? Damn you, let me go.”

“No, I like you here, against me, my arms around you. Just hold still. I don’t wish to fight with you more just yet.” His features softened, and a look of great warmth came into his eyes. He tightened his arms about her and gently touched his cheek to her hair.

Finally, completely wearied and exhausted by her
hunger and by her unwelcome relief at being here with him, she flattened her fists and stood willingly against him.

After a few moments she drew her head back from the circle of his arms and gave a watery sniff. She said in a matter-of-fact voice, “I’m a ninny. This isn’t me, this watering pot. It’s just that I’m hungry.”

A smile lit his eyes, and he raised a gloved hand to brush away the tears from her face.

“That, at least, is something I can remedy to your satisfaction.”

“If you will simply disappear, that will be more to my satisfaction than food.”

Julien arched his eyebrows and regarded her with mild surprise. “I won’t leave you. Come now, I’m merely offering you breakfast. Cry peace, Kate, cry peace, at least until after you’ve stuffed yourself. You’re hardly a worthy opponent on an empty stomach.”

She would have liked very much to yell at him, to curse him in Harry’s most colorful epitaphs, but she couldn’t think of any that she hadn’t already called him too many times. It dawned on her with a good deal of force that she had finally lost.

“I should have gone to India.”

Julien bit back sudden laughter, relieved and charmed, as he always was by her. “No, not India, I think, my dear. There you would serve many men, being a beautiful woman without protection. Indeed you’re fortunate, my love. You need to serve but one man, namely me. Come, I’m not such a bad fellow. I have all my teeth, I’ll never gain flesh, and I’ve been told I’m rather an excellent lover. Also, I plan to be faithful as a hound by the hearth.”

She looked ready to quite literally spit on him, and he quickly released her, took her arms, and said, “Come, let’s find a café and feed you properly.”

She fell into a stiff step beside him. As they emerged from the gardens, they passed once again the lady and gentleman and Kate saw the lady gaze at Julien coyly from beneath her lashes.

“Why, that disloyal ninny, she quite deserves to be
whipped. Eyeing you and all the while simpering up at that other fellow.”

“On that point, ma’am, we find ourselves in complete agreement.”

“Not that I care, you understand. It’s my hunger that’s making me say stupid things. The lady could have thrown herself on you for all I care.”

“I quite understand. What more could a man ask for? I presume you will be a fiercely loyal and faithful wife, that you will guard my virtue with uncompromising vigilance.” He squeezed her arm.

“You’re a damned toad. You know very well what I meant. You can’t force me to wed you, Julien. These aren’t medieval times, when outlaw barons captured their brides in raids. No, this is a quite civilized time, and it’s absurd.”

“Ah, so very sure, are you? Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”

She shut her mouth, though he guessed it required strong resolution on her part. He looked down at the beautiful face beside him. She was so very proud. He admired her greatly, truth be told. Even when he’d wanted to shake her for being so damned obstinate and blind to her own needs, he could not help respecting her.

When Eliza had come panting into his breakfast room the morning of her flight, he at first wanted to beat her soundly the moment he got his hands on her. But then he grinned, for he’d suspected—nay, he’d known deep down—that her docile behavior was anything but an indication that he’d finally brought her to heel. She had certainly succeeded in making him feel the fool. He told Eliza not to say a word to Lady Bellingham, then immediately dispatched several of his retainers to the posting houses in London. He was informed within two hours that a young lady answering Kate’s description had taken the mail coach to Dover. So she was off to France, was she? Were he not certain in his own mind that she cared for him, he would have readily drawn the conclusion that such an outrageous and even dangerous act by a young lady of breeding was an evident sign of loathing. But he was certain that she did want him. After her miserable
existence with her father, it was no wonder that she looked askance at a man who wanted to be her husband. He looked impatiently toward getting this damned marriage over with. Then he would show her once and for all that she could trust him, that he would never hurt her, that she could
believe
him.

He’d met briefly with Percy, Hugh, and Lady Bellingham. By that evening, the announcement that he and Miss Katharine Brandon were to meet in Paris and there to be wed was being circulated to all the appropriate quarters. He himself dispatched an elegantly worded announcement to the
Gazette.

As he now guided Kate down the boulevard, his steps shortened to match hers, he wondered when she would figure out how much she’d simplified his plans.

When he first arrived in Paris, he had thought to bring her to heel immediately. Upon reflection, however, he decided to give her free rein, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that when he came to her she would joyfully welcome him. Actually, he thought, she had, in her own way, welcomed him. Her eyes always betrayed her, and for a fleeting instant her pleasure and relief at seeing him were obvious. Had he truly wished to break her spirit, he would have held away from her longer. But he knew too well of her straitened circumstances, and he couldn’t allow her to be alone any longer. He smiled as he thought of her honest admission to being hungry. Lord, she was stubborn, but he didn’t want her to change. No, not that.

He guided her into a small café off the boulevard. He quickly dismissed the idea of taking her to his lodgings. She had to eat, else she would never have the strength to go through the activities he’d planned for the day and evening. He didn’t wish to chance her throwing the food at his head, and thought it less likely that she would refuse to eat in a café than in his rooms.

The owner, observing that Quality had entered his modest establishment, bustled forward to provide his best service. He assisted the lady into her chair at the
choicest table and hovered as the gentleman disposed himself gracefully across from her.

Julien ordered her a very liberal breakfast and a cup of coffee for himself. Kate seemed to find the checkered tablecloth of great interest. She removed her gloves and began with the greatest concentration to trace the red checks.

“The design is most fascinating,” he said after she’d been engrossed in this activity for some time.

“Is it not? Why, I’ve always loved checks. My mother was a Scot, you know, and there were red and white and green checks in her clan’s tartan.”

The owner returned shortly, laden with covered dishes. Julien applauded his decision to bring her here, for her eyes rested longingly on the plates of eggs, toast, kidneys, and the rasher of bacon. She ate quickly at first and then more slowly as the gnawing in her stomach eased. Abruptly, she laid her fork down, sighed in obvious satisfaction, and leaned back in her chair.

“You would have an instant friend in Sir Percy Blairstock, a friend of mine who very much enjoys his food.”

“If he’s one of your friends, it’s likely he eats quite regularly, probably stuffs himself until the buttons on his waistcoat pop.”

“Actually, you’re quite right. I was merely indulging in light conversation. You’ll meet Sir Percy when we return eventually to London. I trust you will like him, for he is a good friend, with no malice.”

Her confidence had returned with each bite of food, and now she felt strong and self-assured. How could she have been such a weak fool as to cry? How could she have let herself actually lean against him? She was an idiot, three times a nitwit.

She daintily passed her napkin over her lips, took a final sip of coffee, and made to rise. “I thank you, my lord, for the excellent repast. Perhaps when you’re in Paris again, we can breakfast together.”

His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. “Do be seated, my dear.” He tightened the pressure on her arm until, finally, she had no choice but to seat herself again.

“It appears I must starve you if I wish a docile wife.”