In Love With a Wicked Man (11 page)

“Were you going to say something?” she politely enquired.

He shook his head. “No, I was just—”

Edward was saved from his potential folly when Fendershot came in, bowed stiffly, and announced that dinner was served.

He was surprised to find that the Wentworth sisters didn’t seem prone to gossip or talk about the latest fashions over dinner as he might have expected, but instead stuck to more practical topics that were of interest to Anstruther.

Over the course of the meal, Edward learnt more about late harvests, wool markets, and apple orchards than he felt strictly necessary, but he found it interesting to study Kate in her element. Save for those few glimpses of her life he’d seen in the estate office, all he really knew of Kate was her kindness.

Over a fish course of fresh whiting in a brown butter sauce, Anstruther spoke contemplatively about the potential tin mine. He was, however, unable to counter Kate’s logic that a loan would be necessary, and that improvements to the home farm would have to be put off.

It could not, in short, be done.

“Aye, niver a borrower or a lender be,” he remarked wistfully. “Still, ’tis a rare opportunity.”

After this, however, no more was said, and they eventually retired to the drawing room, where Miss Wentworth was prevailed upon to play the pianoforte. Anstruther, to Edward’s surprise, had brought in a violin in a battered case, and tucked it behind the sofa. He brought it out now, and settled himself onto a chair almost facing her.

“How marvelous,” Edward whispered. “Are they any good?”

Kate gave a muted smile. “Suffice it to say that, for this skill alone, I would keep the man in whisky. And where Nancy got such a talent, I shall never know. I’m tone-deaf.”

Edward was soon to realize what she meant. The pair began with a complicated sonata for keyboard and violin, and played it flawlessly. Clearly they had played together for many years, each easily anticipating the other’s timing, and he felt himself being lulled into an almost dreamlike state of relaxation by the perfection of the music.

And yet he felt fully aware and grounded; perhaps more so than he had felt in some days. He could feel Kate next to him now, radiating warmth—a sort of simmering sensuality that went beyond mere beauty. Indeed, it had nothing to do with beauty. But it had a great deal to do with the sudden shaft of desire that twisted into a knot in the pit of his belly.

Good Lord. Edward drew a long, steadying breath. He was no callow lad. Many a woman had warmed his bed, he felt sure. Why should this one possess his every waking moment, and draw his heated glances? Ever since their long conversation in her office, he’d felt something shifting—changing inside his head, really—though whether it was a change he would welcome, he was not entirely certain.

She looked at him as the last notes faded, her smile soft. “Impressed?”

“It was beautiful,” he admitted.

“Mozart,” she said, fluffing the pillowslip she’d taken out to darn.

“Yes, I know.” Edward frowned. “But how do I know it, I wonder?”

“Don’t think of it,” said Kate, for they were already beginning a second piece. “Just enjoy the music. I doubt you’ve heard their like in London—or Paris, for that matter.”

“I wonder if I’ve ever been to Paris?” he mused.

She cut another appraising glance at him. “Many times,” she said, lifting one eyebrow. “I can tell just by looking at you.”

He laughed, and some of the sensual tension fell away, replaced by something sweeter. Edward felt suddenly as if he were enjoying a restful evening with a dear friend.

Except it was not quite like that at all.

No, it was something more.

But in what way
more
? Edward felt suddenly confused—well, more confused, that was to say, than he had been since falling off his damned horse. What was this strange sense of longing that assailed him when he looked at Kate?

Or was she simply all he had? All he knew? When he recovered his memory, would Kate still matter?

He felt very certainly, and a little fearfully, that she would.

He cut a sidelong glance at her now, noticing the skill with which her needle darted in and out of her fabric. She was not beautiful, it was true. Her gray eyes were serious, almost somber, her skin a smooth, pale ivory that was utterly absent of any artifice. But her face was a small, perfect oval, and there was no mistaking the keen intelligence in her eyes.

She didn’t mean to marry, she had implied.

It was a shame, really. Kate could have made some worthy fellow a fine wife. There was an unmistakable passion and intelligence simmering in that steady, unflinching gaze.

He tried to force his attention back to Miss Wentworth and Anstruther, but failed. Their music, a faster selection this time, was already rising to a crescendo.

Kate looked at him and smiled. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I find myself missing my mother. This is her favorite piece.”

“She loves music?”

“Very much,” said Kate.

“But she does not care for life by the moors, your sister said.”

“Oh, she flits in and out, but Aurélie seems to thrive on the excitement of London,” Kate conceded, letting the pillowslip crumple into her lap on a sigh. “Papa did, too. And Stephen. But Nancy and I, we have always been content at Bellecombe.”

“You’ve always lived here?”

“More or less,” she said. “Papa thought London an unhealthy place for children to be raised. Especially Nancy; she had weak lungs as a babe. Once she came along, we were sent here to stay.”

“Quite a sacrifice for your mother to make,” Edward murmured.

“Well, no, it was not like that.” She looked at him with what might have been chagrin. “Aurélie stayed with us when she could, but Papa would grow irritable. Mostly we lived here with our grandparents and Anstruther. Eventually it was just Nancy and me. Well, until Stephen was injured. By then Papa had died. And Aurélie thought the country air might be best for Stephen, so she sent him here to recover.”

Edward was beginning to have some notion of Mrs. Wentworth’s maternal instincts, and it wasn’t particularly endearing. But if Kate didn’t perceive her mother’s inattention as neglect, who was he to argue?

And there it was again.

The turn of a face. A flash of ice-blue satin. A high twist of glorious golden hair, caught by the sun. And then it was gone, leaving nothing but the scent of lilies behind, and an awful, aching sense of longing, and of loss . . .

But the scent was not real. None of it was real. It was just a glimpse, like a scene flickering past the window of a moving train, only to vanish on the next breath.

“Edward?” Kate’s voice came from far away. “Edward, are you all right?”

“What?”

He looked up and realized he was staring at Kate again. She was watching him intently.

“I think my mother was very beautiful,” he said on a rush, as if the thought might leave him again, “with a . . . a mole just to the left side of her mouth. And dark blonde hair that reached her waist. But she always wore it up very high when she went out.”

“Did she?” said Kate calmly. “In a chignon? Or braided? How?”

“A sort of twisted style, with a diamond tiara,” he said. “I don’t know what one calls it.”

“And what was she called?” asked Kate very softly.

He shifted his gaze, wracking his brain. “
Mamma?
” he finally said.

A long moment passed. Edward tried again to recreate the fleeting vision. But there was nothing. Kate, too, realized it.

“Well,” she said with a faint smile, “at least she allowed you to call her that.”

Edward said no more, and Kate, bless her, didn’t press, as if sensing that more questions might drive the fragments away. “Yes,” he finally agreed, “we must take our little victories where we find them.”

“That has always been,” said Kate quietly, “my policy.”

And he had the oddest feeling that hers had been few and far between. Yes, victories both small and rare; all were to be savored. At least he could see—could
almost
see—his mother’s face.

And the inexplicable rush of mixed emotions her vision engendered? Those explanations would doubtless come another day. But he was not at all sure he would welcome them. Beneath it all lay a sense of dread, and a certain knowledge that theirs had been a troubled—perhaps even an unhappy—parting.

Could that have something to do with his almost visceral reaction when it came to Kate’s mother? But how fanciful that was.

“Ah, well,” he said as Anstruther began restoring his bow and violin to its case. “Tonight seems like too pleasant an evening to conjure up visions of my dead mother.”

Kate leaned nearer, her expression intent. “
Is
she dead?”

He was sure of it; she had been dead for a while, he thought, and told Kate so.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

But Miss Wentworth had risen from the pianoforte, and was crossing the room toward them. “Not another tatty pillowslip, Kate?” she said, looking down at her sister’s lap. “How many does that make?”

“An even dozen,” said Kate ruefully.

Just then, Anstruther came to thank Kate for dinner and say his good-byes. After laying aside her mending, Kate rose to see the steward out, their heads bent together as they began wrestling with the topic of the tin mine again. They walked from the room arm in arm, looking more like dear friends than employee and employer.

Edward watched them go, and fleetingly wondered if Anstruther was up to anything, but he cast aside the notion on his next breath. No, John Anstruther was solid as a rock, of that he was oddly certain.

Miss Wentworth perched herself on one end of the sofa and chattered happily at Edward until her sister’s return. When Kate returned some ten minutes later, she immediately flicked an assessing glance down his length.

“I’ve been thinking, Nan, that it’s time we did a little shopping.”

“For once, sister dear, we are in total accord,” said Miss Wentworth. “Where do we go?”

“To Taunton, I think,” she said, still looking more at him than at her sister. “Anstruther says he can spare me tomorrow. There are still a few things that want ordering up for Aurélie’s visit. And Edward, there are several fine haberdashers there—not what you’re used to, of course—but you cannot live in riding clothes.”

“I could simply ride back to London in them,” he suggested.

Her eyes flashed prettily. “And go where?” she demanded. “To one of those vile London hotels? Then wander about the streets asking random strangers if they know you?”

“It could be done,” he said softly.

And the truth was, he felt well enough to go. More than well enough. And yet he held his breath, feeling a little like Hephaestus about to be cast from paradise for his imperfections.

But it was Miss Wentworth who spoke first. “Oh, Edward,” she chided, “that is quite out of the question.”

“It certainly is,” Kate agreed with asperity. “And if it comes to that—which it certainly hasn’t—then you will take the train, and take Jasper with you.”

“And thus inconvenience you even further, Kate?”

She gentled her tone. “Again, you’re the one inconvenienced, I think.”

“Yes,” said Miss Wentworth, her gaze softening. “You’ve likely left your family—or at least your aunt Isabel—terrified. Give it a few more days, Edward, at least. Stay here, and meet Uncle Upshaw.”

Edward cast the girl a dark look. “I cannot imagine Lord Upshaw will wish to meet me,” he answered. “Indeed, my presence here is apt to meet with his sharp disapproval.”

“Your presence here
is
apt to bring him rather more quickly,” Kate agreed. “A circumstance I have used to my benefit. Our uncle knows everyone, and has a slew of solicitors at his beck and call.”

Edward bowed. “I see you ladies will not be dissuaded,” he murmured. “You must do as you see fit, then. But I believe my presence here can only cast a pall over your mother’s house party.”

On a trill of laughter, Miss Wentworth rose. “Oh, Edward, there you could not be more wrong!” she said. “No,
your
presence—oh, the mystery! The drama! Lord, if Aurélie knew we were harboring a handsome and mysterious man, she’d be coming all the faster!”

Kate smiled. “I fear she’s right,” she said, sliding her sewing basket back under her chair. “Off to bed, then, Nan?”

“Heavens, no! Off to make my shopping list,” said the girl, her blue eyes still sparkling with humor.

When she was gone, Kate sighed. “It must be half past ten, and I shall have letters to write before we head out tomorrow.”

Edward cut a glance at the longcase clock by the door. “Nearly eleven, I’m afraid,” he said, sketching her a little bow. “Well. Thank you, Kate, for a lovely dinner.”

O
NCE UPSTAIRS,
E
DWARD
didn’t ring for Jasper to help him undress. Instead, he whipped off his cravat and his coats, then managed to yank off his boots before going to the decanter of brandy the efficient Mrs. Peppin had left a day or two earlier. He had some hope that, given enough of it, he might wash away his burning lust for Kate.

After pouring a glass, he went to the window and looked out across the moonlit landscape. It was a cloudless evening, and in the bailey below, he could see Anstruther locking the inner gate behind him, securing the castle for the night. Edward hitched a hip high on the thick stone windowsill and sipped pensively at his glass.

In a matter of two or three days, he gathered, Mrs. Wentworth and her friends would arrive. He really did not want to be here. But nor did he wish to leave, either.

He was just fooling himself, he feared. This strange interlude—this languorous respite from his ordinary life—could not go on. He had responsibilities. Duties. He had begun to feel their weight even if he could not remember their particulars.

His reverie was fractured by a light knock at the door. He crossed the room in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet, expecting the dutiful Jasper, perhaps, though he had firmly dismissed him hours ago.

But it was not Jasper who stood on his threshold.