His Obsession (8 page)

Dorothea, however, made quite a spectacle of
herself on the front steps, waving at the earl’s coach with her
handkerchief and then throwing him moist kisses, as well. The earl
politely nodded while Lionel smirked in amusement. Eventually,
Penelope succeeded in getting the group back inside the house.

“Well, this has been a most rewarding day!”
Penelope cried. “My dear Helen is betrothed to Lord Winslow. Oh,
you will make such a lovely bride, my dear!”

“Indeed,” Edgar calmly agreed. “Still, there
is more news.”

“Oh?” Penelope asked.

“There may yet be another marriage in the
offing,” Edgar announced.

Penelope turned expectantly toward Dorothea,
her face beaming with joy.

“Dorothea? You and the Earl of Devonshire?
Oh, I’m so proud of you. What a splendid match!” Penelope
exclaimed.

“He hasn’t asked me yet, Mama, but I’m
certain he will soon,” Dorothea confirmed.

“There, there, dear,” Penelope consoled,
patting her daughter’s hand. “Patience is a virtue. After all, one
cannot rush these things, you know? Still, my daughter a countess!
Just imagine!”

Kate rolled her eyes in exasperation. She
couldn’t understand why the Earl of Devonshire would offer for
Dorothea. They were so different. Dorothea was incredibly shallow
and the earl had so many facets to him that a woman could spend a
lifetime getting to know him better. The earl had a brilliant mind,
while Dorothea’s only thoughts seemed to surround her next trip to
the dressmaker’s shop.

“Actually,” Edgar interposed, a smile
quirking up one side of his mouth. “Viscount Marbury came to speak
with me before he left.”

“He – he did?” Penelope prodded. “What could
he possibly - ? You don’t mean?”

Edgar raised his eyebrows.

“He wants to marry Dorothea?” Penelope
gasped.

Dorothea squealed in delight and hugged her
sister, Helen.

“We could have a double wedding, Mama!” Helen
cried. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

Penelope didn’t seem impressed.

“Well, I - I’d certainly hoped for better,
child,” Penelope mused in disappointment. “Still, being the wife of
a viscount might not be all bad.”

“The gentleman tells me he clears over thirty
thousand pounds a year,” Edgar softly interjected.

Penelope’s eyes widened.

“Oh, I can’t wait until he asks me!” Dorothea
gushed.

Apparently, the Earl of Devonshire was now
forgotten. Obviously, Lionel’s thirty thousand pounds a year spoke
volumes.

“You will accept, of course,” Penelope
chided.

“Yes, Mama,” Dorothea readily agreed.

“Oh, I don’t believe it!” Penelope happily
cried, holding her daughters close. “My two girls married at
last!”

Edgar cleared his throat and gestured toward
Kate, who stood by the fireplace silently observing the revelry.
Before he could utter a word, however, Penelope, Helen and Dorothea
put their heads together, already busily making plans for the
upcoming nuptials.

“We must go shopping for your trousseaus at
once. How much time do we have, Edgar? Has a date been set yet?”
Penelope demanded.

“Not yet,” Edgar replied. “Penelope, aren’t
you forgetting that -”

“Oh, I hope it’s soon, Mama!” Dorothea
cried.

“Not too soon, dear. Remember, people do talk
when there’s a hasty marriage,” Penelope reminded her.

“Penelope,” Edgar tried again, his face
getting redder by the moment.

“We can put both of your names on the
invitations. That should save a little bit of money, won’t it,
Edgar?” Penelope asked.

“I daresay, but --”

“However, we simply
must
have two
cakes,” Penelope gushed with enthusiasm. “It just wouldn’t be
proper if we combined the two.”

“Thunderation, woman!” Edgar shouted,
erupting to his feet. “Will you be silent for a moment?”

Immediately, the women stopped talking. Her
sisters’ mouths dropped open in shock. Always more reserved, their
father had apparently chosen that moment to make a stand.

Penelope sighed in irritation. “What is it,
Edgar? What could possibly be more important at a time like this
than your daughters’ weddings?”

“The choice of brides, for one,” Edgar firmly
explained.

Penelope frowned in confusion.

“I never said that Viscount Marbury wanted to
marry Dorothea,” Edgar supplied.

“What? Well, he can’t very well marry Helen.
She’s already promised,” Penelope reasoned.

“A fact of which he’s well aware,” Edgar
noted. “That’s why he wants to marry – Kate.”

“Kate?”

Kate clutched the side of the mantel, her
senses reeling from the news. Dorothea’s and Helen’s mouths hung
open in shock. Only Penelope was able to find her voice.

“Who would want to marry Kate?”

After that startling announcement, the rest
of the day held little promise. Night eventually fell with welcome
relief and the household settled itself for the evening.

Even as she sought her bed, Penelope’s words
continued to ring in Kate’s mind like a death knell. Who would want
to marry her? Kate was neither exceedingly pretty nor especially
talented. She dressed modestly, never quite able to stomach the
frilly concoctions that apparently suited her sisters and the rest
of the ladies of the ton. She painted passably well, but she played
the piano abominably.

Kate was last born in her household, too.
What little money her father possessed would no doubt go to dower
her sisters. There would probably be nothing left for her.

Kate supposed that she should be grateful
that Viscount Marbury had even asked for her hand at all. Once wed,
she would go live with Marbury at his family’s estate, no doubt
playing hostess at the innumerable parties of which he was so fond.
Still, the very thought of the press of so many people made Kate
ill.

Still, Kate would at last be like all of the
other young ladies her age. She would have a mate, a confidant.
Perhaps, with time, Marbury might even become a friend with whom
she could share all of her innermost thoughts and dreams. That was,
of course, if the viscount ever stopped speaking about himself long
enough to listen to her. It was ironic that the one time the man
had paused long enough for Kate to answer a question, it was to
give her the opportunity to place herself in servitude to him for
all time.

Kate shuddered and flopped over on her
pillow. Through the wall, she could still hear Dorothea sobbing and
her mother’s gentle voice as she attempted to soothe her daughter.
Dorothea hated to be out of the limelight and to have a younger
sister become engaged before she did was an incredible insult.

How thrilled Dorothea had been with the
attentions of the Earl of Devonshire, too. Now that Kate thought
about it, however, had Warwick ever sought her sister’s company on
his own? No. It had been Dorothea who easily slid her arm through
his to escort her in to dinner. Dorothea had commandeered the earl
at the Faversham’s ball and had also placed herself directly in
Richard’s path in their gardens, too. If the man hadn’t politely
stopped to assist Dorothea, he might have trampled her. The earl
was chivalrous and gallant. Never would he deliberately slight a
lady.

Kate had to admit, she genuinely liked
Richard Warwick. Although the man made her a little nervous and
self-conscious, once she became used to his presence, she realized
she was happy. He tested Kate’s intelligence, urging her to reach
higher and higher, then beamed with approval at her successes.

At luncheon earlier, Richard had encouraged
Kate to voice her opinion about the differences between the classes
and what should be done to correct the present social problems.
Kate had suggested that most of the nobility might be kinder to
their underlings if they traded places with them for even a week.
Those seated at the table had erupted into laughter, but not
Richard Warwick. The tall man had actually agreed with Kate, making
her feel positively wonderful – until Dorothea had purposely
dropped her napkin in an attempt to distract him.

If Kate compared the earl with Viscount
Marbury, her desires became so clear. Richard Warwick possessed a
better title, of course, and rumor had it that he was as rich as
Croesus. That was mainly why Dorothea wanted him, of course. The
earl could grant her anything she desired.

The viscount was pleasant enough to look
upon, too, Kate supposed. His blond curls were always perfectly
coifed. He had an almost effeminate face and small lips that made
him look as though he were constantly annoyed with something. Like
most men of the ton, he was unbearably self-centered. Never did the
viscount seem to tire of speaking about himself with anyone.

Kate supposed she could do worse than to
marry Viscount Marbury. Hopefully, the wedding ceremony would be
mercifully brief, with the reception to follow. With luck, the
viscount would drink his way right underneath the table and she’d
be spared the wedding night completely.

Eventually, however, Kate had to acknowledge,
even Viscount Marbury would demand an heir. Sooner or later, he
would come to her chambers to consummate their union and, as his
wife, Kate could hardly refuse him.

Kate shuddered. The thought of allowing
Marbury to kiss and touch her all over made her shiver with
revulsion. Kate would rather bed a pickpocket on Hamlin Row!

No. Kate could never marry the viscount.
Tomorrow, she would have to tell her father and then give the sad
tidings to the viscount himself. Her mind made up at last, Kate
finally fell into a troubled sleep.

Kate’s dreams were filled with images of
another man, however, a tall, dark stranger who barely had to look
at her to set her senses aflame. His every touch made her burn with
unquenchable desire. All thoughts of resistance fled as the tall
stranger enfolded her in his arms, coaxing her, entreating her to
join him in his head long rush to the ultimate ecstasy.

When he touched her, his warm hands were
strong, yet surprisingly gentle. With infinite care, the stranger
caressed the slender column of her throat, tilting her head up for
his kiss. He was close, so close. Kate could feel the heat of him
and she heard the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. He
urged her ever onward and Kate followed him, climbing higher and
higher as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her young
body … and then, like the morning mist, he was gone.

Suddenly, Kate woke up. It was still very
dark. How long Kate had been asleep, she didn’t know and she
glanced around the room in confusion. It had all been a dream, Kate
realized, an incredible dream.

Her dream lover had seemed so real, too.
Could he have some basis in fact? No amount of convincing could
name Viscount Marbury as the man in her dreams. Only one man seemed
capable of filling his shadowy form - the handsome Earl of
Devonshire. With a weary sigh, Kate pushed back the covers and
crossed the room to sit in a chair by the window.

Even in the silence, her mind would not be
stilled. What if it had instead been the earl asking her father for
her hand? Would Kate be filled with disgust and trepidation or
would she be breathless with excitement?

If Warwick asked Dorothea to be his wife,
Kate would be devastated. Miserably, Kate would retire to a small
cottage in the country where she need never see the earl nor any
other man ever again. No man seemed capable of measuring up to the
Earl of Devonshire.

Kate remained in her chair for the rest of
the night, lingering somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. By
the time the sun mercifully rose into the sky, she was
exhausted.

Kate kept to her room the following day, too,
not even descending to the dining room for her meals. Kate wasn’t
certain how she felt about herself at the moment and witnessing her
sisters with their gentlemen callers would only upset her further.
Kate sensed that somehow, she’d undergone a great change, one which
propelled her out of girlhood and into a much larger world.

Feigning a headache, Kate read most of the
day, amazed that some of her favorite books had suddenly taken on
new meaning overnight. In poetry, the words now bespoke volumes.
The writer pining over his lost love, the desperate suitor eager
for the touch of his true love’s hand or the melodic sound of her
voice, suddenly made more sense.

Edgar was puzzled and concerned by his
youngest daughter’s absence. Downstairs, the viscount was making a
spectacle of himself, too, alternately pacing through the garden
like a furious bear cub or collapsing on one of the benches in
utter despair.

Kate certainly wasn’t showing any sign of
being pleased with the nobleman’s offer. Perhaps, Edgar thought,
he’d been wrong to encourage the young man’s suit. Finally, Edgar
rose from his chair and went upstairs. Kate opened the door at her
father’s second knock.

“Father,” Kate acknowledged.

“How are you, Kate?” Edgar asked with
concern.

“Well enough,” she sighed.

“That’s good news,” Edgar replied with a
smile. “Then we can expect you at dinner?”

Quickly, Kate averted her eyes, retreating
into her room. “I’d rather be alone just now, thank you.”

One of the maids paused to peer inside and
Edgar gruffly waved the woman away to pursue the rest of her
duties. Frowning with concern, Edgar followed Kate inside her room
and closed the door. He sensed that his daughter was hiding
something.

“What is it, Katie girl?” Edgar softly asked,
using the name he’d called her when she was very small. “You don’t
seem yourself.”

Kate managed a weak smile for her parent.

“I’m fine, Father. Really,” Kate assured him.
“It’s just a headache.”

Edgar chuckled.

“As I recall, you said much the same thing
the day you fell off the garden wall and cut your leg in three
places,” Edgar remembered. “And all that your mother could see was
that you’d ruined your gown.”