The Rebel Bride (23 page)

A sleek brow shot up in seeming surprise. “What bounds? Me, arrogant? Gallows? I don’t begin to understand you, wife. Surely you would wish to have all in readiness for you when we arrived here.”

“That isn’t at all the point, as you very well know. You told them in London, damn you.”

“Had I not told them, how else could they have been here in good time?” Julien drained the remainder of his sherry and looked down at her with mild surprise.

She fidgeted with her glass a moment, realizing that to continue in her argument would only provide him with more amusement at her expense. “Very well, you refuse to acknowledge the justice of my point. I don’t wish to haggle further with you. Oh, how nice, here is our dinner.”

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, but you said dinner was to be served when her ladyship arrived.”

“Your entrance was exquisitely timed, Maria. Kate, my dear, would you care to be seated?”

“How very gracious of you, my lord March. Ah, do try the lamb, it looks quite delicious.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Julien said, grinning at her, and promptly fell to his dinner.

Some minutes later, he said casually, “Oh, I quite forgot to tell you. Harry wrote you a letter and asked that I give it to you.”

“A letter from Harry? But how ever did you get a letter from Harry? No, no, please don’t deign to give me a tedious explanation. How could I imagine that you would overlook my brother in all your machinations?”

“You begin to understand me, Kate. I do apologize for not giving it to you sooner, but there were so many other pressing matters that I forgot about it. Crayton found it when he was unpacking.”

It didn’t take her long to decipher the few lines of Harry’s familiar sloping scrawl, and she raised a face pale
with anger to Julien. She wadded up the sheet, really quite viciously, and clutched it in a tight fist.

“Good Lord, you look ready to hurl your lamb chops at the sofa. Whatever did he write?”

“You miserable sod, you put him up to this.” She flung the ball of paper at him. He caught the paper handily and smoothed it out in front of him. He’d expected Harry to simply congratulate his sister, which of course he did, but in such a way that Julien could readily understand why it had raised her hackles, indeed, sent her temper to the boiling point. Harry had advised her in no uncertain terms not to play the shrew and argue and give orders as was her wont, because she was, after all, a very lucky girl to be offered marriage by such a distinguished, amiable, and accomplished gentleman. Even this could have been forgiven if, in his zeal to commend himself to his brother-in-law, Harry had not gone so far as to advise her to forget all her nonsensical notions of playing at men’s sports, to toss away her men’s breeches as well as her pistols, to become an obedient wife and conduct herself as a countess should. Undoubtedly Harry had meant to do him a favor. Lord, he hadn’t meant to impress the boy so. The last few lines were difficult to read, and Julien, after making them out, decided that Kate hadn’t read to the end of her letter. Perhaps it would reduce her anger. Probably not, but perhaps.

“Control your ire, my dear. Your brother was a trifle overexuberant in his, er, counsel, but you should forgive him, for he was very excited about joining his regiment.”

“Counsel! Is that what you call it? Oh, what do you mean—joining what regiment?”

“The last lines of his letter. He tells you that by the time you read his letter, he will be on his way to Spain.”

“Spain,” she repeated blankly.

“Of course. You must have known this was his wish above all things—to be a soldier, all dashed out in a white-and-red uniform, a saber at his side, astride a stallion of doubtless noble descent. I made the arrangements before I left London. Don’t worry about him, for there are only minor squabbles with the guerrillas since Napoleon’s
downfall. Trust me, Kate. I even spoke to Lord Hawksbury, telling him that under no circumstances did I want Harry in the midst of any fighting. He’s still too green. But he will learn and mature, and I suspect that he will make an excellent soldier in the not-too-distant future.”

She said nothing to that, just sat there, her lamb untouched on her plate, her head averted, stiff as a pike. He said, more harshly than he intended, “Good God, Kate, I don’t understand you. Harry is a grown man, or very nearly grown. You’re behaving as though he is still in short coats and you’re his doting mother or great aunt. Let him have his freedom, let him get away from Sir Oliver, who wants to make a scholar of a boy with no more taste for Ovid than Sophocles, who hated his guts, had.”

“It’s not that,” she said, and she was actually wringing her hands. “It’s just happened so quickly. Everything’s happened so quickly. Everything is different. The changes . . . there have been so many changes.”

The world she’d known had crumbled about her. Harry had been everything to her after her mother died. Of course she’d known that someday he would leave her, that he would even marry and another girl would take her place in his heart, but it had always been in a misty, vague future. A very distant future. Dear God, he was only twenty-two, and he’d left her without telling her, without a single damned word, without giving her time to reconcile herself to it.

Quite suddenly, her look of unhappiness was replaced again by thin-lipped anger. She was now dwelling on Harry’s other words. Julien waited patiently for her outburst, but it didn’t come. Perplexed, he saw the angry look vanish, and to his consternation, she gazed at him steadily and said in a voice that was surely desperate, “So, my lord, I am to be your obedient wife and conduct myself as a countess should. Just how does a countess behave? Does she stick her nose in the air when addressed by those who are beneath her? And who are beneath her? Pray tell me, for these are uncharted seas for me.”

H
e stretched out his hand and let his long fingers close over hers. “You are no longer Sir Oliver’s daughter. He has no more say about anything regarding you. You’re now mine. You’re also now a countess, and that means that however you choose to behave is quite the correct way.” He spoke easily, smiling, hoping to make light of Harry’s ill-chosen words.

To his surprise and dismay, a large tear gathered and rolled unheeded down her cheek. She didn’t sniff or blink, merely let the tear and those following it gather and fall, leaving a light streak to mark their path.

“My dear—”

She calmly picked up her napkin, daubed the corners of her eyes, and wiped her cheeks. She said dully, “It seems that I didn’t know my brother. He is exactly like the rest of you men. He cares for naught but his own pleasures, his own pursuits, no matter that they may kill him, and expects women to keep to their place, safe and quiet and subservient. An obedient and, yes, undoubtedly, inferior creature, that’s what he expects. Of course, it is what you wish also. The rest is all nonsense. Pray don’t insult my intelligence or patronize me.”

She slipped out of her chair and without another word walked stiffly to the door. She didn’t turn when he called out to her, just let herself quietly out of the room, picked up her skirts, and fled up the stairs to her bedchamber. Ah yes, such a lovely room, a room fit for a countess, which she now was, but what was that, indeed? Surely not she, for she was miserable and unfit and quite stupid.

She looked blindly about her for a moment and then
flung herself face down on the bed. She was lost in her own private misery and was roused only when the fire in the grate burned low and she began to shiver. She stood up, automatically smoothing the folds of her beautiful new gown. It was hopelessly crumpled, but she didn’t care, for after all, it was Julien’s. If he didn’t like the wrinkles, let him smooth them.

She walked to the windows, found the cord, and pulled back the heavy curtains. The night was black save for a few errant stars appearing through the heavy veil of darkness. She pulled the latch and leaned out, the cold night air pressing against her face. A picture of Harry in his yellow-striped waistcoat, proudly pluming himself in front of her, came into her mind. Harry, flinging his arms heavenward, groaning loudly, falling flat on his back when it had last been his turn to be killed in a duel. Harry, now gone from her, now gone to Spain. Harry, no longer a part of her life. Harry, a man like all the rest of them, now gone from her irrevocably. Deep inside she knew that nothing could ever again be the same. For so long as Harry had remained near to her, a semblance of their years together, the happy moments of her childhood, was preserved. But now they had both crossed unalterably into a different life, their past forever lost to them.

She suddenly felt very tired. She drew back into the room and slowly closed the window, but not the draperies. Not without some difficulty, she managed to unfasten the small buttons at the back of her gown. She let the gown slide to the floor and simply stepped out of it, leaving it where it lay. She slipped out of the silk chemise and then walked slowly to the exquisite bed with its canopy of a soft beige-and-pink silk, pulled back the satin counterpane, and slid between the warm covers.

Long after the covers had been removed by the unobtrusive Mrs. Crayton, Julien sat alone in brooding silence. He held a glass of claret in his hand and stared vaguely into its depths. It was smooth, deeply red, and it warmed his stomach. Unfortunately, it hadn’t yet spread its
mellowing warmth to his mind or his groin. He wanted a woman. He hurt with need. It wasn’t something he was used to, this enforced celibacy, this absurd denial. He was a man, dammit, and a man released his passion in a woman regularly and it was the way it was meant to be. And now he was even married—a wife belonged to her husband, and surely a husband could have his wife whenever and however it pleased him to have her, and yet, here she was, still a damned virgin after day upon day of marriage, and he’d allowed it to go on and on and on, because he liked her. He admired her spirit and her independence, her differentness, which had drawn him to her in the first place, like a moth to a flame. He’d seen Sir Oliver and spoken to the wretched, perverted creature; he knew that he’d beaten her regularly, for whatever reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, had guessed at what her life had been like under that despicable tyrant’s hand, and was trying desperately to understand her, because, dammit, he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy.

Dear God, he hated the situation. He hurt. He felt a cold, impotent frustration. She seemed farther out of his reach than ever before, even though she was now his wife. Certainly he understood that Harry’s admonishments galled her. But Harry’s commission was another matter entirely. Why couldn’t she accept the fact that Harry was ready for freedom? Wasn’t he entering his manhood? Wasn’t he ready and entitled for the adventures he wanted so badly?

He rose from the table and walked slowly and thoughtfully to the fireplace. He leaned his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the dying flames. In that instant he cursed the woman who had so changed his life, the red-haired witch who had woven her web so completely around him that he no longer desired any other woman. He wanted her, no other woman, curse her white hide. It wasn’t fair. If he had stayed in London, he never would have met her. But he
had
met her, dying in her duel with Harry, falling dramatically at his feet. Then she pulled off her boy’s cap and he saw her as the girl she was, as the girl
he wanted, the girl he desired more than life itself. Damn her stubborn eyes. He wanted to beat her, perhaps strangle her just a bit. No, he wanted her naked and he wanted to kiss her and caress her and—

He strode quickly from the dining room and flung out of the villa into the dark night. Without really realizing what he was doing, he found himself walking to the side of the villa, to where her bedchamber was located. Almost against his will he looked up at her windows. The curtains were open. She was standing in the middle of her room, clad only in her chemise. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her, knew his hands were fisted at his sides, knew that his member was swelling as hard as a rock, knew that his heart was pounding faster and harder and harder still. He stood rooted to the spot and watched her after a long moment pull the straps of the chemise off her white shoulders. The ache in his groin became nearly intolerable as she let the chemise slip over her breasts to her narrow waist. God, he’d pictured her breasts in his mind, filled his hands with her breasts, at least in his fantasies. She was glorious, her breasts as beautiful as he’d imagined, more beautiful than any woman’s he’d ever seen, ever caressed, ever fondled, full and high, the nipples a dark pink, oh, God, so lovely, he wanted to touch her, to take each of her nipples in his mouth and suckle her and bring her such pleasure that she wouldn’t be able to bear it and she’d moan and whisper how much she wanted him and please, please, give her more pleasure, and more and more.

He forced himself to turn away, cursing his own weakness, cursing his vivid imagination, which wasn’t really imagination, for he knew well her flesh would be soft and warm and there would be her scent, only hers, and he would breathe in that scent and it would drive him mad.

Still, he saw even as he was turning, the silken material fall below her waist and he glimpsed her white belly, white as a saint’s brow, white as the body of a virgin, which she was. Oh, Jesus. Despite the coldness of the night, he was sweating. With a growl he broke away,
forcing himself not to look back. He knew he couldn’t look back and see the rest of her, the thatch of auburn hair covering her, the long, white thighs, sleek with muscle, for she was a country girl used to walking and thus fit and strong. He remained outside, until finally, shivering violently from the cold, he was forced to go back into the villa.

“His lordship isn’t here?”

“No, my lady. ’Twas quite early his lordship left this morning to go into the village. He said he’ll be returning for dinner.”

Mrs. Crayton thought it strange that his lordship hadn’t informed his countess of his plans. Indeed, she wondered at her ladyship’s puffy eyes and remembered the crumpled gown she’d picked up from the floor. She decided that they must have had a lovers’ quarrel the previous evening, surely unfortunate, but not unusual for a man and wife newly wed. She remembered the arguments during those early years when she and James had screamed at each other, yelling the most ridiculously horrid things, not meaning them of course, at least not ten minutes later.

“I see,” Kate said, slipping into a wrapper. Perversely, she felt slighted that he hadn’t told her, but then, of course, she’d not given him the opportunity. She’d left both him and that delicious lamb chop quite alone.

She managed to keep herself busy throughout the morning poking her head in and out of the elegant rooms in the villa. After a light luncheon, she donned a shawl and strolled out into the grounds. It delighted her that there were no formal gardens, for she had never enjoyed her mother’s pastime of pulling up weeds and putting in her favorite flowers, particularly the rose plants she’d brought from Scotland, carrying them on her elopement. The vast wilderness of forest and mountains here gave her a feeling of unrestrained freedom. From the edge of a cliff to the left of the villa she could make out the small village nestled in the valley below. She sat down near the edge and wrapped her skirt about her legs.
Although she had gotten used to being alone, particularly after Harry left for Eton, she found that now she didn’t enjoy her solitude. She didn’t understand herself. It was disconcerting.

She wandered back to the villa, selected a small volume of Lord Byron’s poems from the shelf in the well-stocked library, and curled up in the window seat. But her attention wasn’t long held by the poet’s bold, haunting words, for she couldn’t help remembering Julien’s telling her with laughter and a touch of regret in his voice of Lady Caroline Lamb and her flaunted affair with the quixotic Byron.

She had thought then of the excitement of belonging to such a world, of meeting people who cut such a romantic dash through London society. She sighed and leaned back on her elbows and allowed the thin vellum volume to drop to the floor. Somehow she still felt like the provincial Kate Brandon. She wondered when she would feel like a countess. Julien had said she was a countess, that whatever she did, it was all right, because she was a countess. She couldn’t begin to understand him.

Later in the afternoon, bored with her inactivity, she sallied forth, and without any particular destination in mind, began to walk down the single winding road that led to the village. Being used to country life, she found the exercise invigorating and maintained a brisk pace. She didn’t see a single soul. She allowed herself to be drawn into the quiet serenity of the ageless forest. She had bent down to stroke a soft fern that had wound itself around a tree trunk when she was startled to her feet by a shrill cry. She wheeled around and, seeing nothing, hurried around a bend in the road. She pulled up short, not believing what she saw. A peasant stood in the middle of the road, flailing a mare with a knobby stick. The horse whinnied and shied, blowing hard, trembling, her flanks rippling, but the man held her firmly, cursing as he rained blows on her head and back.

She picked up her skirts and ran toward the man. He
didn’t notice her until she grabbed his arm and shouted at him, “Stop it, you fool! How dare you strike that poor animal? By all that’s holy, you should be thrown off a cliff. You should be gutted like a trout, you miserable beast, er, fish.”

The peasant jerked around, baring blackened teeth in an astonished grimace at the sight of a well-dressed young lady, her face red with fury.

Realizing that she’d spoken in English, she paused and gathered suitable blighting words in French. “Whatever are you doing, you wretched creature? I demand that you stop beating this poor animal.”

“You
demand,
my pretty young lady?”

“Just look what you’ve done.” Flecks of foam dropped from the mare’s mouth, and ugly red blood streaks crisscrossed on her head and neck. Kate moved to the horse to quiet her, but the peasant blocked her way and shook the stick in her face. “It’s my horse, Missie, and I’ll give the beast the beating she deserves. Kicked me, she did, the mangy creature.”

“You probably deserved the kicking. You probably deserve much more. And if you fed her properly she wouldn’t be mangy. You should be shot.” From long experience with facing Sir Oliver, ranting and waving his cane at her, she now felt no fear. She, quite simply, wanted to kill him.

The peasant pulled up short at this attack from the foreign lady and narrowed his eyes at her speculatively. He licked his lips and looked meaningfully at the single strand of pearls about her neck. “How strange it is that such a fine young lady is out walking by herself. Maybe I’ll not beat the beast if you give me those fine pearls.” He reached out a dirty hand, and Kate jumped back out of his reach.

“Don’t be absurd, you cruel creature. You can’t frighten me. I shall have you whipped, which is less than you deserve, if you so much as lay a hand on me. I’ll have you made into bacon, you swine.”

“On aye? And who’ll do this whipping, Missie? Who’ll do the chopping, eh?” He was advancing on her, the
stick poised. He looked revoltingly pleased with himself, happy as he could be.

Without thought, she balled her hand into a fist, as Harry had taught her, and struck the man full in the face, right in his jaw, just left of his lower lip. He staggered back, more from surprise than pain. His rough features distorted with rage, he cursed her loudly in words she couldn’t begin to understand.