The Rebel Bride (6 page)

Julien would have said more, but he suddenly became aware that Percy was merely staring at him with disbelief. As for Hugh, he became preoccupied with the dissection of a leg of broiled chicken.

“Must be a woman,” Percy announced. “Yes, no other reason for all this wretched excess of excuses on both your parts.”

Julien felt a dull-red flush creep over his face. He had to smile, for Percy was exceedingly acute.

Percy took another bite of the creamed artichokes and pondered the problem. Upon swallowing, he said, cordial as a mother who’d just received a wonderful offer for her homely daughter, “Can’t imagine where you met a woman in such an outlandish place, but no doubt you did. You were always a dog with women, St. Clair. Not one of them, if she’s toothsome enough, can escape your eye for very long. Just fancy, a woman here who has quite besotted you.”

Oblivious of Julien’s heightened color and a puzzled look from Hugh, he concluded imperturbably, “Do hope that Riverton has taken the fair Yvette off your hands, old boy. Ah, and poor Lady Sarah, all low in the brow because you’ve not shown her enough affection. What is the chit’s name, Julien?”

“Really, Percy,” Hugh said, seeing Julien’s appalled discomfort. “You go too far. How Julien wishes to conduct himself on his own lands is certainly none of your concern, or mine. We’re off to London tomorrow. And keep your mouth closed and chewing on those bloody artichokes.”

Percy once more bent his gaze on Julien’s face and said a trifle glumly, “Must be serious, Hugh. Never have I seen him make such a cake of himself over his mistresses. Good Lord, he’s been miles away from us for the past three days. He didn’t even blink an eyelash when he lost twenty pounds to you in cards last night. Yes, it’s a damned woman, and he’s ready to have her in his bed.”

Julien found himself at a loss for words, a condition he was becoming rapidly used to. Lord, had he been so obvious? He quickly picked up his glass of claret and downed it in one gulp. He met Hugh’s eyes over the rim of the glass and saw the light of comprehension spread over his serious face. Only Hugh had met Katharine.

At that moment, Hugh seriously questioned the powers of his own intellect, which he had always considered more than tolerable. He felt somehow that his ability to comprehend his fellow humans had grossly betrayed him. Good God, Percy was right and he hadn’t even known, blast his heathen’s eyes. A woman—Katharine Brandon to be exact, that winsome, smiling, utterly outrageous girl—had somehow turned Julien’s head? He could not believe he had been so blind. He consoled himself with the fact that in his long acquaintance with Julien he had never seen him treat any of the endless bevy of charming girls making their come-outs with anything but polite indifference. Why, it was not long ago that he had confided to Hugh that he found the chatter of young females quite beyond his limits of endurance. He had always taken his pleasure with older women, who were experienced in the games of flirtation and love, and were, above all, married. Or with his mistresses.

Hugh blinked. How could such a change be wrought by a mere girl in the country? All he could actually remember of her person was that she was quite pretty and had remarkable large green eyes. She also had a dash of summer freckles across the bridge of her nose.

But she wore breeches and that wretched old hat pulled down over her ears. He gazed up at Julien, a frown furrowing his brow. His friend had always been fastidious in all things, and in particular, in his choice of women. All knew it.

What the devil was going on here?

P
ercy was quite satisfied with himself, as his devastating pronouncement had reduced his friends to silence. Having had the last word, he returned his attention to his dinner. What Julien chose to do with his women was no concern of his. He merely hoped that his friend had not been ensnared by some ill-bred, conniving wench. But then, Julien was such a proud, arrogant man. He would never besmirch his noble lineage.

Julien pushed his plate aside and eyed his friends with wry good humor. He wondered if they thought him mad. He found to his own surprise, however, that it had never occurred to him to deny Percy’s comments. If he tried to do so now, he would only appear the more ridiculous. He would also be a liar. He broke the short silence and remarked in a creditably calm voice, “Have I been such poor company, Hugh? Come, Percy, you cannot say that you wish to leave François’s cooking. Haven’t you enjoyed testing his culinary abilities?”

Percy lost all patience and waved an empty fork at Julien, “Dammit, man, I, like Hugh, have no desire to remain and watch you mooning after some girl. It’s unnerving, it’s unworthy of a man of your reputation. Maybe it’s something in the country air. What do you think, Hugh? Is it the damned lazy warm air here? You’re silent as a grave, Hugh. Well, if that’s it, I, for one, certainly do not wish to catch it.”

“Percy,” Hugh began.

“Now don’t you try to insult what little intelligence I have, Hugh. Wasn’t it you who suggested leaving in the
first place?” He sat back in his chair and regarded Julien and Hugh with an owlish stare.

Hugh reddened, and a sharp set-down was on his tongue when Julien threw up his hands, his sense of humor overcoming the absurdity of this situation. “Leave him be, Hugh. It’s quite the first time he is able to crow, albeit he resembles more a stuffed peacock than a lean scavenger.”

The tension was broken, and both Hugh and Percy grinned at him good-naturedly.

“I wondered when you’d get your wits back, Julien. Damned glad that you haven’t quite lost all your senses,” Percy said and loaded his fork once more.

“I strive, Percy, I strive.” Julien looked down at his glass and swished the claret from side to side. The deep red reminded him of her luxurious auburn hair. She has bewitched me, he thought, his pulse quickening. He thought of her green eyes and the dimples that danced outrageously. Lord, he was completely besotted. Strangely enough, he found that he was not at all distressed by his condition. It struck him forcibly that he wanted Katharine Brandon not simply as a summer idyll, to end with the coming of fall. No, he wanted her, all of her. He wanted those dimples of hers, and he wanted to take her and hold her and keep her. He wanted her by his side until he cocked up his toes.

He raised his face to his friends and said matter-of-factly, “Perhaps it is better if you return to London. I would find it unnerving to go a-wooing with the two of you smirking behind my back.” Ignoring the startled looks, he concluded with quiet determination, “I intend to return to London with my bride. Oh yes, Percy, her name is Katharine Brandon, and she brandishes pistols and foils and fishes and doubtless will lead me a merry chase. Hugh has met her. You, Percy, will meet her in London.”

Percy’s eyes grew round with wonder and disbelief. Hugh chewed meditatively on his lower lip.

Percy said suddenly, “Now, Julien, you haven’t lost your wits over a simple country maid, have you? No, I
can see from the blood in your eyes that you haven’t. Katharine Brandon. A reasonable name, quite charming, really. What does she look like? Shall I like her?”

“I believe so, Percy. She’s really quite—” He paused, frowning into the deep red of his claret. “She’s refreshing and different and utterly charming. Do you not agree, Hugh?”

“Of a certainty she is all those things and much more. You will find her immensely likable, Percy. She is quite lovely.”

“It’s a dashed shame that I had to spend so much time directing François. If Julien hadn’t needed my culinary advice, I could have judged her as well. Well, nothing for it. I suppose I’ll have to trust your taste in this matter, Hugh.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said, his voice as dry as his dinner sherry. “Yes, I have yet to see her equal. An altogether unforgettable young lady.”

He was aware that Julien was regarding him with an amused grin.

“Hmmm,” was all that Percy said to this glowing, albeit ambiguous description. He stroked his chin and sighed deeply. Julien being leg-shackled was in itself an appalling thought, for it meant that their gay bachelor evenings would come to an end. But perhaps, he thought, the new countess will be fond of entertaining, and that will mean many delicious dinners prepared by François. Percy’s blue eyes brightened at this prospect, and in sudden good humor he rose and thrust his glass forward.

“Come, Hugh,” Percy said, “let us congratulate Julien here. A toast to the new countess of March. May she meet all of our expectations, as well as Julien’s.”

Hugh was quick to follow Percy’s lead, and the two men turned to Julien, clicked their glasses together, and drank deeply.

Julien rose slowly. The last week and a half compressed itself into but a moment. A toast to the countess of March. He silently bid farewell to a life that now seemed inordinately boring, downed his own glass, and in a burst of excitement demanded another toast.

Two vintage bottles of St. Clair claret were consumed before the three men finally separated and shakily departed, each to his own room.

It was quite late the following morning when the three friends finally emerged, their eyes blurry and their heads heavy.

Under the efficient command of Mannering, mountains of luggage were assembled in the hall and strapped onto Percy’s great carriage.

“An altogether unforgettable stay, Julien,” Hugh remarked lightly, as he shook his friend’s hand.

“Lord, Hugh, you are never to the point.” Percy brushed a speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve. “I’d say it was a deuced unsettling experience. Women can find you anywhere, even in the damnable bowels of the country.”

“Rest assured, Percy, that the next week will be far more unsettling for me,” Julien said, a confident grin belying his words.

Percy leaned out of the carriage window and shouted to their receding host, “Wish you luck, old boy. If you need help, Hugh and I will be more than willing to serve as your faithful emissaries.”

A ghost of a smile flitted over Julien’s face as he stood watching the carriage rumble down the graveled drive and disappear into the park. He had no doubt that the most difficult part of entering into the married state would be surviving the jokes of his friends.

He retraced his steps and made his way to the library. As he passed by several portraits of past earls of March, he chanced to look up. Their painted eyes seemed to regard him with approval, their faces no longer accusatory. If he had been wearing a hat, he would most certainly have proffered them an elegant bow. As it was, he merely grinned and let his thoughts turn most willingly to Katharine. Katharine St. Clair, countess of March.

His footstep was light as he entered the library and eased himself comfortably into the large chair beside the fireplace. He pursed his lips and formed a sloped roof
with his long, slender fingers, tapping them thoughtfully together as he contemplated his strategy.

It was but a short time later that he uncoiled gracefully from his chair, tugged the bell cord, and ordered that Astarte be saddled.

“I do wish you didn’t have to leave so soon, Harry. You know how wretched it is here without you.” She was plainly unhappy and her shoulders drooped pitiably.

“Now, Kate, it will not be long, only until Christmas. I’ll come and we’ll enjoy ourselves, you’ll see.” Harry clumsily patted his sister on her shoulder.

“Aye,” Kate said, reverting to her Scottish mother’s tongue, “but it’s still over four months away, Harry. Four months with just Sir Oliver. It’s an eternity.”

Harry searched his mind for sage words, reassuring words, for he was, after all, her elder brother. He could think of nothing except the warning that he had given her many times before. “Don’t forget to take care that father does not find out about your escapades during the day. You know as well as I what he would do.”

It gave Harry a start to see her woebegone expression vanish and a curiously cold and hard look take its place. “Do you take me for a simpleton, Harry? Of course I know what he would do. He would beat me within an inch of my life. We both know it is quite a habit with him.”

Harry was appalled that she could speak with such hardness. The picture of Kate as a child rose in his mind; her laughter, her openness, Kate tugging on his coattails, begging to be included in his games.

“Lord, Kate, why does he hate you so?”

His voice shook with impotent fury. He had argued with his father on several occasions, in an attempt to draw Sir Oliver’s anger onto himself. He felt a miserable coward, for he seldom succeeded, and when he did succeed, it never lasted long. Just until Sir Oliver again recalled the existence of his daughter.

“When Mother was alive, he was not so cruel,” he said, to himself more than to his sister.

Kate cut him short, her voice grim. “No, Harry. He became so toward me before mother died. Of that I am certain. But why does he hate me? I don’t know. Nor do I believe I really care now, not anymore.”

Harry grasped her shoulders and in a sudden protective gesture pulled her against him. She was alarmingly stiff. He thought back to his mother’s funeral and felt a stab of pain. He had been at Eton that year and had been home rarely, savoring his freedom and his image of himself as being quite grown-up. It was after the funeral that he had sensed a change in his father.

Kate relaxed against him but didn’t speak. It had been many years since Harry had held her, and he became aware that he was holding not just his little sister, but a woman. Maybe that is the reason, he thought. Maybe Sir Oliver finds it painful to be with Kate because she so closely resembles our mother.

Kate drew back from the circle of Harry’s arms and looked out over the poorly kept lawn. She despised herself for her weakness, such damnable weakness. If she lost her pride, she would have nothing else.

“It’s that damned religion of his,” Harry said between clenched teeth. “I wish I could burn all those ridiculous musty books. They’ve rotted his brain and turned him into a monster, at least where you’re concerned.”

To his surprise, Kate turned back to him and gave a mirthless laugh. “Do not curse his religion, Harry, for I, in truth, find it many times my salvation. You know, he is scarce aware of my existence, at least during the day. Even Filber dares not disturb him in his theological studies.”

Harry’s lips tightened in disdain as the memory of the stern lecture he had received from Sir Oliver only an hour earlier came back to him.

“Damnation, the only thing he can think about is his infernal wages of sin. And adjuring me to be a son worthy of his father’s honor, whatever the devil that means. What claim does he have to any honor?”

Kate’s eyes brightened for a moment in tender
amusement. “What, dear brother, do you mean that you don’t intend to become a Methodist?”

Kate was rewarded, for Harry gave her a twisted grin, the frown fading from his forehead.

“Hold a moment, Marcham,” he called out, seeing his valet emerge from the stable with their horses.

At that moment Kate felt immeasurably older than Harry. She looked at his blond curls, brushed and pomaded into what he had stiffly informed her was the
latest style.
His breeches and waistcoat were of severe, somber color, but she knew that before he arrived at Oxford he would change into the florid yellow patterned waistcoat he had shown her one evening after Sir Oliver had retired.

“My dear, poor Marcham is sadly weighted down. Are you certain that you intend to be gone only four months?” Her voice was sweet and light as she tugged on his sleeve.

Harry replied to her jest with a perfunctory smile. Despite his best intentions, he was impatient to be gone, and in truth, he didn’t know what to say to her, nor what he could do about her future. He knew that Sir Oliver was encouraging the suit of that provincial oaf, Squire Bleddoes. It was altogether ridiculous, for Kate was far too well born for such a marriage, and besides, she had told him she would have nothing to do with that “miserable, boring windbag.” This he had understood, but when she had blithely informed him that remaining her own mistress did not seem at all a bad thing, he was frankly shaken. She knew very well that his fondest wish was to join a crack cavalry regiment; she must also realize, he thought despairingly, that it would be impossible for her to accompany him.

Lord, what a mull. What a miserable situation. Perhaps when he returned for the holiday at Christmas, he and Kate would think of something.

Harry drew on his gloves and leaned over to kiss Kate lightly on the cheek. It occurred to him that there might be danger from another quarter.

“Kate,” he said earnestly, his blue eyes narrowing,
“don’t forget the earl of March. You can’t be sure that he won’t tell Father of our escapade. Most probably he’s prouder than Wellington himself and thinks very highly of himself. Lord, we can’t tell what he might do.”

Kate looked at him and smiled, saying in a reassuring voice as if talking to a child, “I’ll be careful, Harry. Don’t worry yourself about it. I don’t think his lordship would ever stoop to such paltry and petty behavior.”