Julia London (12 page)

“Kate. Dear Kate,” he gasped, and cupped her bottom, drove into her once more, erupting powerfully inside her, filling her completely as the rapture continued to wash over her. She collapsed backward, tightening around him, never wanting the incredible experience to end. Somewhere, above her, Darien called her name on a soft groan.

Kate opened her eyes. He was holding himself above her, his arms muscular and strong, an unfathomable look in his brown eyes. Carefully and tenderly he lowered himself onto his elbows and cupped her face in his hands while his gaze roamed her features.
“God, Kate,”
he whispered.

Eventually, and very reluctantly, they left the boathouse behind and returned to Mayfair, wrapped in one another’s embrace as they floated down the Thames.

Darien hadn’t felt so bloody alive or so much a man as he did that afternoon. He had an urgent desire to hold her always, to keep her very near.

Of course he intended to offer for her—he’d reached that conclusion the moment he’d really touched her, in the very same moment he realized she could never belong to any other but him, and he said as much to her. “I shall keep you near me always,” he’d said, but Kate laughed and kissed him, and he was not entirely certain if she truly believed his intentions.

Nevertheless, he was determined to offer, and to do so properly, perhaps after the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball, in which he knew she was rather involved, and after which the season would begin to wind down. There’d be less distractions then . . . less talk, too, for it was not often a man of his social rank took a vicar’s widow to wife.

That gave him a little over a fortnight to prepare his offer and his home for her.

When they reached Kate’s street, Darien signaled for the driver to stop, and gathered up her umbrella and bonnet and handed them to her, then set about straightening her clothing, unbuttoning and buttoning the gown again, as Kate had managed to do it crookedly.

She laughed as he deftly repaired her. “Oh my,” she said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “I’m so terribly clumsy. One would think I was a girl who’d received her first kiss.”

“One look at you, madam, and one would rather believe that there walks a woman who is true to herself and her passion,” he said with a wink.

Her flushed cheeks turned cherry red, and she playfully slapped his hand away, finished the buttoning herself, as he sought to tame errant wisps of her hair and tuck them behind her ears. “You’re a wicked man, Darien,” she said, but she was smiling. “You’ve led me quite astray with your picnic.”

“I should like to lead you much further than that.”

With a laugh, she smoothed the front of her gown, then looked up, cupped his jaw with her hand. “You’re a scoundrel, my lord. What would my poor father think?” she asked, and impulsively lifted up, kissed him fully before abruptly breaking away and grabbing her things. “I must hurry,” she said, and reached for the coach door. “It’s quite late.”

“Kate!” Darien said sternly after her as she poked her umbrella outside and opened it. “I shall call again.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I must go now.” And with that, she was gone.

Darien pulled the door to, then pushed aside the curtains and watched her striding purposefully through the rain, her head held high, her bonnet hanging down her back. And her chemise, unfortunately, hanging below the hem of her day gown. He couldn’t help but smile, and reluctantly, he let go the small drape, tapped on the ceiling to send the driver on, and leaned back against the squabs, wondering if he could possibly bear it until he saw her again.

 

 

William’s wife, Mary Beth, served leek soup for supper that night. Kate sat across from her father, a bit fearful that he might note the flush in her cheek or inquire as to her whereabouts in the afternoon while he lay napping. But if he noticed any change in her, he said not a word and talked on about a game of cards he had enjoyed in the past week with the vicar.

That evening, after reading to her father as she did every night, Kate at last lay on the small four-poster bed in her room, reliving every moment of this astonishing afternoon. She stared blindly at the peeling wallpaper and faint cracks in the ceiling, giggling at the prospect of being completely and inexorably in love again.

There had been a time, shortly after Richard’s death, that she was quite certain she’d never loved anyone before him and would certainly love no one after him. The young men with whom she had flirted and shared an occasional kiss before Richard were sweet memories, but she never felt the same sort of deep esteem for them that she had for her husband.

She regretted never telling him about the kiss she shared with Darien. It had been a colossal mistake, and she’d been so fearful of what he might do or think, of losing his respect. In hindsight, however, with time and grief having dulled her girlish feelings, she believed he might have understood and forgiven her.

Would he forgive her now? For being so wanton as to sleep with a man out of wedlock? For wanting to feel love again? And she did
so
want to feel love again, to know, with all certainty, the strength of a man’s love for her, to feel his arms around her, protecting her, holding her. She had convinced herself she’d not know such love again, that she’d spend the rest of her days doing charitable works and looking after her father.

And she’d be quite content with it, really, for hers was a good existence. As a widow, she was not as restricted as the unmarried girls about town. In truth, she was free to come and go as she pleased, to speak freely with gentlemen at church, to live her life as
she
wanted, and not the way a man might dictate.

There were, of course, drawbacks to her carefree life. Her current spate of callers for example—Kate had not heard anything in particular about herself, but she was beginning to have the uneasy feeling that something untoward had been said about her, something that was being passed around as truth. She knew that certain widow’s were rather free with their affections. Had that been said of her?

As to the matter of her physical being, she had not realized how, having known a man’s love, she might yearn for it again. Oh, she yearned for it, all right. Yearned for it so hard that sometimes she lay awake at night, felt the ache of it deep in her marrow, making it impossible to sleep. And now, to have experienced that most elemental, primitive pleasure again, the ache had spread to her heart and head.

Kate rolled over, balled the pillow up beneath her head.
Did she love him?
Or did she merely enjoy the attention? And did he love her? Or was he really the sum of his reputation? A man who, by most accounts, was a
roué,
a rake, pursuing physical pleasure and careless with the hearts of the ladies—and widows—he knew?

It was hard to believe it of him. Since the first day he had appeared quite unexpectedly to walk with her as she made her calls to the elderly, and every day he appeared after that, she had never sensed anything but the most genuine of affection and esteem from him. Certainly today he had shown her his esteem—he was a powerful yet gentle lover, more concerned with her pleasure than his own. And he spoke so poetically, spilling words of passion and adoration for her that made her swoon.

Yet she could never shake the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, his was the language of practiced courtiers, that he spoke those poetic words to other ladies as well. But he’d seemed so terribly sincere when he had spoken them to her!
Only you, Kate, it has been only you these last few years.
. . .

Kate sighed dreamily. Whatever the truth, it had been a most exquisite afternoon.

Downstairs, the clock struck a quarter past one, and Kate sighed and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep and a dream of what their children might look like. Strong and handsome children, with laughing eyes, just like their father.

 

 

Darien did not appear Wednesday when Kate and her father took their rounds. At the outset, Kate thought nothing of it, in spite of her father’s wondering aloud what had happened to her constant escort. She had every faith he would call when he could and rather imagined he might appear a bit later on their route. If not, she would assume some order of business had cropped up and kept him away.

It was Mrs. Biddlesly who wedged the first sliver of doubt into her opinion.

Kate had arrived with a basket of fresh fruit, just as she did every Wednesday.
“Fruit!”
Mrs. Biddlesly had cried with great disgust. “Would that you’d bring an old woman something other than
fruit!
”

“What would you like, Mrs. Biddlesly? I shall endeavor to bring it to you,” Kate asked patiently.

“A spot of good brandy, that’s what! And a girl like you ought to know where to put her hands on it!” she said, flicking her wrist at Kate.

“A girl like me?” Kate asked airily, as she handed the basket to the footman, quite accustomed to the old woman’s ranting, and just as accustomed to ignoring it altogether.

“Yes, of course a girl like
you,
” Mrs. Biddlesly said, but with a venom that startled Kate. She turned to look at the old widow.

“I’ve a mind to tell the vicar not to send your sort round anymore! I don’t care for your reputation! You mock your good husband’s memory!”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Biddlesly! What of my reputation?” Kate demanded hotly. “What could you possibly mean?”

Mrs. Biddlesly folded her bony arms over her sagging bosom and glared at Kate. “As if you don’t know! Cavorting about with men, appearing in places of ill repute! Having a time of it, aren’t you, Mrs. Becket, now that you’re out of your widow’s weeds? And after all the dear late vicar did for you! Bringing you out of the country to a grand house and a grand existence!”

Fury and confusion erupted in Kate; she glared at the old bag. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Biddlesly, have you quite lost your mind, or have you any idea what vile things you are implying?”

“I may be old, but I’m not a fool!”

“You’ve no cause to make such appalling accusations!”

“Don’t I, indeed? It’s quite common knowledge, you strumpet! It’s said all about town!”

Kate’s stomach dropped.
Said all about town . . .
Her fear was borne out—something horribly unkind had been said about her, something to make men believe they might have their way with her, and, if one were silver-tongued, then he might possibly—

No!
She whirled away from the old woman, reached for the door. “You’ll do well to ask the vicar for another caller, Mrs. Biddlesly,” Kate said hoarsely, “for I shall never bother with you again!” She yanked open the door, stepped outside, and slammed it soundly behind her.

On the street, her father looked up in shock as she came running down the steps. “Kate! What’s happened?”

“Nothing, Papa. Nothing but the ranting of an impossible old woman!” she cried, and grabbed up the next basket, then marched forward, ahead of her father, so that he would not see the tears of fury glistening in her eyes.

Whatever the old woman thought she knew, Kate could not believe Montgomery would have talked about them. He’d said such beautiful things, had given her his word he’d protect her virtue. He’d
promised!
Her heart refused to believe it, but with every step, her doubt weighed heavier. She didn’t want to believe that he’d used her so shamelessly. She didn’t
want
to believe it. . . .

She made the rest of her rounds in something of a fog. Papa worried about her; she told him she was feeling a bit ill, so he insisted on carrying in the last three baskets. That afternoon, she went straight to her room and lay down, and stared through tears at the ceiling above her, her mind twisting impossibly with doubts and her desperate attempts to reassure herself.

That evening, at supper, Papa told her that Lord Montgomery had called, as had Lord Connery, and that he’d informed them both she was indisposed.