Wed at Leisure (5 page)

“You did call a truce, did you not? Why be so shocked?”

“I believe I like flirty Kate. Brighton and London might have been more enjoyable.”

“I thought you enjoyed all of our exchanges,” she contended.

“Yes. Flirtation of a different sort.”

“Flirta—” She looked at him incredulously. “A strange man you are.”

“Not regal?”

“Hah. Not the first word that comes to mind. Though I suppose by definition you are ducal. Not that that flatters dukes in general much.”

“Ouch, Kate. If this is your truce, I am afraid of your war.”

She flushed. “Old habits, I suppose. But it is rather fun to poke you. I hadn’t realized till just now that I enjoyed it.”

“The way you continually abused my poor valet.”

“He deserves the abuse. That man is a criminal for what he does to you. How a man could be regal, let alone ducal, while wearing the most clashing colors and patterns, I do not know.”

“He suffers from Daltonism . . . he cannot see certain colors.”

That stopped her. She’d maligned the man for something out of his control. “And yet you keep him as valet. I knew he had been of service to you during the war but I hadn’t imagined. Oh, Peter. That is rather good of you. But perhaps a different position, more fitted to his talents?”

“Talents. He had a talent for war. Shall we ride to the grove?”

From flirtation to seriousness, the conversation had shifted again, and as they thundered over the earth, eating away at the verdant rolling ground, she had the very odd idea that here in Watersham she had fought many a battle and perhaps she had a talent for war, as well.

“H
e certainly seems to be paying you an inordinate amount of attention.”

Kate flushed. She wanted to deny her stepmother’s words but the facts were the facts. Peter Colburn seemed determined to monopolize her time.

“Perhaps he’s decided to settle down, start a family.”

Kate’s cheeks burned hotter. “I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s very interesting. Do you like him at least a little? Affection can grow, my dear.”

“He’s doing his best to be likeable,” Kate muttered, because, after all, until the day they’d called a truce, she’d actively disliked him. Or thought she had.

The sound of a carriage thundered up the drive, and Kate stood, and then realized, with wool all about her, that she still held the fragment of scarf she’d been knitting. Her stepmother smiled and put her own work down sedately, then stood, as well.

“I imagine that must be Mr. Mansfield and Bianca.”

It was all very proper that Henrietta called Kate’s father by so formal an address, yet at the same time it was one custom Kate found odd. As if the man with whom one shared a bed were a stranger. Certainly, there were many marriages that were between virtual strangers, but Kate was determined to marry for at the very least affection.

She followed Henrietta into the hall just as the front door opened.

And Bianca stepped in.

Haloed by the sunlight, a beautiful smile on her face. That disappeared as her gaze met Kate’s.

Of course this would not be easy. No matter what idyllic visions Kate had concocted in her head while away, she was now confronting the reality.

Emotions warring within her, she kept her own smile light.

“Bea!” Kate glanced briefly at her brother, who seemed to be always running, which terrified her but surely was an indicator of good health. Behind Thomas was Mr. Dore, looking startlingly radiant.

The lesson must have been going well.

She looked back to Bianca, who was bending down to hug Thomas. And patently ignoring Kate.

“How was Featherly?” Kate asked, a shade too loud. She winced at the sound of her own voice. Hardly the dulcet tones she’d been complimented on in London.

Bianca turned to her, but she didn’t look particularly happy. Was not making even the slightest pretense at sisterly love.

And it hurt. Cut like a dagger through Kate’s heart. Because Bianca was to Kate as Thomas was to Bianca. Her pet, her little sister. The one she’d loved since the day Bianca had emerged from their mother’s chamber and been put into the care of the nurse.

“It was fine.”

A slow burn started inside Kate. Bianca was being spiteful.

“We should ta—”

“I’m very tired, though,” Bianca interrupted. “From the journey.” And then she left the hall.

This was not how Kate had planned their reunion to go. She had wanted everything to be perfect. To start perfect. Because invariably things went wrong somewhere, but if they started perfect, she could keep them perfect. But this . . . this was far from that.

She stopped in her room to retrieve the brown paper–wrapped package resting inside her wardrobe. She’d had it specially commissioned for her sister from her favorite dressmaker in Brighton once the house party had been decided upon. After all, the village seamstress was hardly better than Kate or Bianca with a spool of thread.

However, judging from the number of packages piled in the entryway, Bianca had done some shopping of her own on her recent trip.

For some reason it made Kate feel as if she were too late.

Bearing the gift, she crossed the hall and knocked on her sister’s door.

It opened and Bianca’s happy, expectant expression fell swiftly. Kate’s chest constricted.

“This is for you,” she said brusquely.

Bianca eyed the bundle suspiciously and after a long moment, accepted the package and, carrying it, stepped back into her room.

Kate followed her. She hadn’t been in this room in a very long time.

Bianca deposited the package on the bed and then tore into it. Beneath the carefully folded paper was a carefully folded cloth—a shimmery blue silk edged with lace. As she shook it out, the dress revealed itself, beautiful and delicate.

“It reminded me of you,” Kate said tentatively, hoping to bridge the chasm that seemed to exist between them. “Of your eyes.”

“Thank you,” Bianca said.

Kate continued, compelled to explain, as if the extra words would somehow work magic. “I thought it would also be nice for the party. I didn’t realize you’d be going shopping in Eastbourne.”

“It’s a lovely dress, Kate. So kind of you to think of me.” But the tone was flat, unemotional. And the gown exquisite.

Frustrated, Kate hid her fisted hands in the folds of her skirt.

“Yes, well. I do hope it fits. You look much the same as when I last saw you. Perhaps a bit bigger around the bust. Try it on, will you?”

“Perhaps after dinner. Or tomorrow in the morning light. But it is such a pretty fabric!”

Kate smiled as if pleased by the compliment Bianca had forced past her lips. But she knew a dismissal when she heard one. The Kate of old would not have allowed it. Would have thrown a fit if need be. But this was the new Kate, the one who controlled herself and not the world.

“Rest well, dearest,” she said simply. “I shall see you at dinner.”

T
he evening and the next morning passed much the same until Kate was on edge and frayed from trying desperately to act as if she didn’t care, as if she weren’t hurt by Bianca’s indifference and distance. Not that this was particularly unusual for the brief times Kate returned home, except . . . Bianca was a bit more sharp, a bit more vocal. And the things she had to say were not at all pleasant.

It was hard to think within Hopford Manor, hard to get past the dark, swirling emotion, and as a result Peter’s invitation to come to Fairview and avail themselves of his hothouse for their flower arrangements was more than welcome.

Kate could walk to Fairview in less than twenty minutes, but the carriage couldn’t cross fields and stiles. Instead, they rattled down the lane and around the pond, then around the Lovell estate, which nestled as the third, very narrow, slice of the pie that was Hopford Manor, Fairview, and Lovell Hall. In truth, Hopford Manor was also a narrow slice of the pie. Fairview’s grounds and lands were as extensive as one would expect the country seat of a duchy to be.

“It’s so kind of him,” Henrietta said once again as the house (if one could call such a palace a house) came into view. “Do be polite, Kate. He is finally taking an
interest
in you.”

An interest. Yes, Peter—
Orland
—
Peter
, was taking some sort of interest, but for what purpose Kate did not know. Perhaps he was bored.

Although, despite her fears of a malicious case of ennui, Kate had never thought him a man susceptible to boredom. When in town, he attended parliament and the social whirl. He was neither too stodgy nor too flighty. It was why he was so in demand, so admired by the matchmaking mamas. Even by Henrietta.

But not by Kate. Because none of those women had grown up across a stream from him.

She touched her lips and then realizing what she did, lowered her hand and clasped it tightly with the other.

The carriage rumbled to a stop and Kate’s breath hitched. For some reason she was nervous.

On the surface, this outing was due to a very neighborly generosity, and the kind condescension of a duke with unlimited resources and a beautiful greenhouse at his disposal. But there was the truce.

And then there had been dinner, and the morning ride, and now
this
. She didn’t know what to think. There was this strange dichotomy between the Peter she had wished to avoid on principle these last few years and the one who was so attentive and so generous.

He met them at the drive as if he had been waiting for sound or sight of the carriage. He was wearing a gray silk waistcoat that matched his eyes and altogether his clothes were simple, elegant, and easy on the eye. As if he had made an effort today in particular. Remembering her cruel words regarding his mismatched clothing over the months, she flushed.

After the footman opened the door, Peter stepped forward and offered his hand. As Henrietta stepped out, he looked over her shoulder and met Kate’s waiting gaze. A small smile curved the corner of his lips.

She felt a little breathless when he helped her out of the carriage, his gloved hand under her gloved one. She knew what that hand felt like bare, and the knowledge made this touch all the more intense.

“It is good to see you again, Mrs. Mansfield.
Catherine
.”

She laughed and let go of his arm, took a breath of air. “It has been forever, hasn’t it?”

“If one had told me it was forever, I should not be surprised.”

But she was surprised. Their contentious relationship had fallen into a playful flirtation that bordered on gallantry.

“I do so admire Fairview.”

At the sound of Henrietta’s voice, Kate’s cheeks went hot again. For a moment it had been as if no one else were there.

“Have you had a proper tour, Mrs. Mansfield?” Peter asked. “We can take the long way to see the flowers.”

“That would be lovely.” As Peter led the way, Henrietta waited for Kate and then took her arm. “That’s it, my sweet girl,” she whispered. “I might be mother to a duchess yet.”

“Hush, Henny,” Kate whispered back, abashed. “There shall be no such thing and worse yet, what if he were to hear you?”

But Peter didn’t hear them. Or if he did, he hid his reaction well. Instead he strolled them through the house, the public rooms and the gallery. Told little anecdotes about the ten previous Dukes of Orland whose images hung within.

But when it was time to leave the house and cross the bit of lawn to the garden, Henrietta demurred.

“Such a big house, Your Grace,” she said. “I admit to a bit of fatigue. Would you mind terribly if I rested? I trust Kate’s taste implicitly with regards to the flowers.”

Naturally, Peter agreed instantly, offered tea and the use of a parlor. But Kate looked at her stepmother through narrowed eyes and couldn’t help but wonder if her complaint of tired feet was a misguided attempt at allowing what she perceived to be a romance the time and space to blossom.

Regardless, they were alone when Kate, her hand on Peter’s arm, entered the greenhouse. And somehow the rich fragrance of flowers and the narrow aisles made the glass-walled edifice seem altogether too private, made this perfectly innocent task feel illicit.

Color was everywhere, greens and grays, pinks and oranges. There were flowers she could identify, such as the chrysanthemums and asteraceae, dianthus, jasmine, and sweet pea, and then there were dozens more she could not.

“Who tends to this?”

“Two gardeners.”

“And your mother?” Somehow she didn’t think the Duchess would be happy to know her flowers would grace the Mansfields’ table.

“No, the roses are her domain.”

Good
.

He looked about. “I confess, I do not know much about horticulture. Ask me about crops and fields, about the estate at large, yes. But here . . .” He plucked a flower off of its green stem in a way that likely would make his gardeners cringe. “This is yellow.”

“Yes. Yellow, and white, and brown.”

He looked closer. “Yes, brown, as well. You are welcome to whatever you need. Simply send your request and it shall be met.”

“You are too kind.”

He waved a hand. “It is nothing.”

For him it was nothing. She had to remember that. As much as these moments felt like something. Perhaps because Henrietta had suggested that they were.

“Bianca returned home yesterday,” she said idly, for something to say.

He seemed to tense momentarily, as if she had said something of more import.

“Kate, tell me. Why is Bianca not allowed her come out?”

Startled, Kate sought refuge in laughter. “What makes you think that?”

“Everyone in Watersham believes it to be so. Is it not?”

She considered not answering. It was almost impertinent of him to even ask such a thing. But conversation between them had never been polite.

“Does Bianca say as much? I suppose there is some truth to it. Think of Bianca’s beloved
Pride and Prejudice
. The Bennets were derided for having all their unmarried daughters out. Do you not think society shall—”