Puritan Bride (4 page)

‘I understand. Might I ask what Viscount Marlbrooke’s feelings are?’

‘That is immaterial. He has made an offer. It provides an excellent settlement and I will not allow you to throw it away. It is a political marriage and you should not look for emotional involvement. You will grow to like him well enough, I expect, and if you don’t—well, it will still
have served its purpose and your children will give you plenty to occupy your time!’

Kate took another deep breath and threw caution to the winds. There was little point in doing otherwise. ‘I feel that I should tell you …’ she was angry to note the uncertainty in her voice but ploughed on ‘… I wish to marry Richard. I love him. And I know that he wishes to marry me.’

Any sympathy that Sir Henry might have felt came to an abrupt end as he swept aside her admission with an impatient gesture and returned to his chair behind the desk to take up his habitual position of authority.

‘Forget your cousin. And any of those ridiculous notions expressed by Simon Hotham. Richard has no claim on you.’ He began to shuffle the documents before him into a neat pile as if Kate’s announcement was of supreme unimportance.

‘But I love him,’ she whispered, struggling to prevent tears from gathering as she realised the strength of her uncle’s will.

‘Marriage to a Parliamentarian traitor would be less than advantageous to us at a time like this.’

‘Surely Richard’s family were no more traitors than we were,’ Kate pleaded in despair. ‘We have all been pardoned. How can you condemn him like this? Please let him speak to you.’

‘It is not the same at all. Simon was too close to those who signed King Charles’s death warrant for my liking.
I would hesitate to discuss this in his presence—but it is none the less true. If there is a renewed demand from the Anglican Church to pursue a policy of revenge against those still alive, Simon Hotham’s name might just head the list. And where would that leave us, if you were married to Richard? It is not a situation I am willing to risk.’

Kate, acknowledging the truth of Sir Henry’s reading of the situation, found that there was nothing she could say. Sir Henry, sensing her hopelessness, tried for a more conciliatory tone, hoping to win her acceptance of a marriage that he had always known would be distasteful.

‘Come, my dear. You will do well to put Richard out of your mind. Look at the advantages in marriage to Marlbrooke. Wealth. Status. Recognition from the new King and a position at Court. You will be able to return to the Priory as your rightful home. You are twenty years old. It is high time you were married, you know.’

Kate shook her head, anything but co-operative. ‘I will not marry Viscount Marlbrooke!’

‘Then I have no alternative—’ Sir Henry was interrupted by the quiet opening of the library door. Swynford entered with some reluctance.

‘Well? I thought I gave orders we should not be disturbed.’

Swynford inclined his head respectfully, well used to his lordship’s peremptory tones. ‘Indeed you did, my lord. But a visitor has arrived. And I believed it best to inform you immediately.’

‘Well?’

‘Viscount Marlbrooke, my lord.’ Swynford opened the library door wider to admit the unexpected guest. Three pairs of eyes were riveted on the figure in the doorway. The unexpected visitor paused, supremely aware of his audience.

Kate received an instant impression of wealth and elegance—and of confidence. Marcus Oxenden, Viscount Marlbrooke, only son of the villain of her childhood and her proposed future husband, made a worthy entrance in the deliberate magnificence of full Court dress. Unfashionable as it might be, he wore his own hair, black and dense as midnight, fashioned to fall elaborately in ordered waves and curls to his shoulders. Otherwise he wore the latest Court fashion: a black velvet, knee-length coat and waistcoat, heavily decorated with silver embroidery and ribbon loops at the shoulder. Kate’s lips took on a derisory twist at the obvious French influence. His white shirt, visible below the wide cuffs of his elbow-length sleeves, was of the finest silk, as were his stockings. He had obviously made no concessions to the dusty journey from London. His shoes, flamboyant with black rosettes and crimson heels, merely added to his height and consequence. Light glinted on the jewels in his cravat; priceless lace cascaded over his hands. It was an impressive entrance and, Kate suspected, had been deliberately stage-managed to achieve maximum effect.

Cold grey eyes, at present watchful and perhaps a
little judgmental, swept the room, hardly touching on Kate. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps around thirty years, but the fine lines around his unsmiling mouth betrayed a worldly cynicism. Kate swallowed as the pulse in her throat increased its pace, and as she realised that Viscount Marlbrooke was everything a bride could have dreamed of in the secrecy of her heart. He was tall, taller than Richard, broad shouldered with the muscle development fitting for a soldier and swordsman, and, of course, with the superb control and elegance essential for a courtier. His face commanded immediate attention in its austere beauty, not only the clear grey eyes but the planes and angles of cheekbone and jaw. As his hair, his brows were dark, his nose straight and masterful.

Viscount Marlbrooke, apparently unaware of the critical assessment from the lady of his choice, swept off his plumed hat and bowed with exaggerated, polished grace to the assembled company. He was, without doubt, the most handsome man Kate had ever seen. She sighed in disgust that this man who had dared to petition for her hand should be so outrageously attractive.

‘A painted popinjay!’ she repeated it, not quite below her breath, watching him bow towards her uncle. As he rose to his full height with a flourish of an elegant, long-fingered hand, he gave no sign that he had heard her opinion but instinctively, perhaps by the slight stiffening of his shoulders, she knew that he had and wondered momentarily at her temerity in antagonising this palpably
dangerous man. All in all, it seemed of little importance that she hated him on sight.

Kate was immediately conscious of her dishevelled appearance. Her assignation in the windswept garden had done her no favours and had whipped her ringlets into a riot of curls. She feared that there were obvious smears of mud and dust along the hem of her skirts. As for any remaining tear stains on her cheeks … Kate fumed inwardly that he should have caught her at such a disadvantage on their first meeting, especially as, she surmised, his only reason for travelling such a distance from London was to look her over and assess whether she was worthy of marriage to a royal favourite! And no one, as she continued to view him with hostility, could believe that he had travelled any distance at all. Certainly not in that impeccable outfit. How dare he put her at such a disadvantage!

‘My lord!’ Kate was silently amused to realise that her uncle was flustered by the sudden appearance of their previous topic of conversation. ‘Please forgive our lack of welcome. We were not expecting you. Well, certainly not today.’ Not only flustered, but over-conciliatory. Kate set her teeth as she listened to her uncle’s determined attempts to secure this marriage at all costs. He returned Marlbrooke’s bow and then approached down the length of the library to extend his hand in a polite gesture of greeting.

‘I understood that you were expecting me.’ Marlbrooke’s response was bored, languid. It seemed that it
could not have mattered less. ‘We have a matter of business to arrange. But, indeed, I should not need to encroach too far on your time or privacy.’

So, thought Kate. At least I know where I stand. A matter of business indeed! She caught her mother’s vague gaze across the room and was surprised by the sympathy for her plight that she read there. But sympathy would not bring her the means of escape. Kate smiled reassuringly, even though it was a mere tightening of her lips, and then returned her attention to the central tableau.

‘Permit me,’ her uncle was saying, ‘to present you to my sister, Lady Philippa Harley … Viscount Marlbrooke.’ Lady Philippa smiled nervously at her brother and the Viscount and extended her hand. The Viscount bowed low and touched his lips to her fingers. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Philippa. I believe that you were acquainted with my mother, Lady Elizabeth.’

‘Why, yes.’ Lady Philippa looked startled. ‘I had forgotten … It was many years ago, of course.’

‘My mother remembers your friendship with pleasure.’

‘Why … of course.’ She became even more flustered, casting a glance towards her brother, seeking approval for this friendly overture. She did not receive it and promptly lapsed into embarrassed silence.

‘And this,’ Sir Henry intervened impatiently and turned to Kate, ‘is my niece, Mistress Katherine Harley. She, of course, is the sole heir of Sir Thomas Harley, late owner of Winteringham Priory.’

Kate found herself, for the first time, being observed in such an impersonal manner that she felt a need to repress a shiver that ran down her spine.

‘Of course.’ Marlbrooke bowed again and Kate responded with the slightest of curtsies within the bounds of good manners. ‘Mistress Harley. I have heard much of your beauty. Allow me to tell you that it was accurate in every detail.’ No trace of emotion crossed the smooth features, no hint of a smile touched the firm mouth and his glance in her direction was cursory in the extreme.

And who could possibly have told you anything about my appearance?
questioned Kate silently. He was certainly adept in the art of flattery, even if he hardly looked at her. She determined to give him no pleasure in her reply.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Her dark brows arched to express utter surprise. She ignored a warning glance from Sir Henry.

Marlbrooke appeared to be unconcerned with her cool response, but accepted Sir Henry’s invitation to sit, taking the chair beside the fireplace recently vacated by Simon Hotham and crossing one well-shaped leg over the other. Swynford was despatched to bring refreshment for the guest.

‘We were, of course, expecting a visit from your lordship,’ Sir Henry explained, ‘but hardly so soon. It has not been clement weather for travel.’

‘I stayed last night at the house of a family acquaintance,
only a little distance from here.’ He shook out the lace at his wrists with a politely distant smile. ‘It was an engagement of long standing. It seemed to be too good an opportunity to miss.’ Kate’s raised brows once again registered his lack of enthusiasm.

‘Indeed, indeed.’

Swynford returned with pewter tankards of ale.

‘Let us hope that we shall be able to drink to the successful outcome of this matter,’ stated Sir Henry. Marlbrooke inclined his head in agreement as he accepted the tankard.

‘It seems to me a simple matter.’ The Viscount’s gaze swept the three players in the game. ‘Let us be honest about the possible outcome of the settlement of Winteringham Priory. We have both put forward a claim. It is most unlikely that the Commission will look with any sympathy on yours, given the history of recent loyalties and involvement in the War.’

Sir Henry knew that he was fighting a last-ditch stand, but rallied valiantly. ‘The estate belongs by right to the Harley family. It was not sold, but wrested from them forcibly—by your father, my lord. My niece has the legal right to the land. You cannot refute it.’

‘Possibly not.’ Marlbrooke remained calm and relaxed, sure of his ground. He could afford to be generous in victory. ‘The estate was sequestered from my father by the county committee in 1651. If you had made a push for the title then, it might have been a different story. As it is, my
father compounded for the estate: indeed, he paid a far greater fine than the land was worth.’

Marlbrooke raised the tankard to his lips, drank, then continued. ‘For the past decade we have been excluded from politics and government until the happy restoration of our King. We devoted out energies to developing our assets. With considerable success, I might add.’ He smiled without humour. ‘I am in a far better position to bribe the Commission judges than you are, you understand.’

Sir Henry raised his hands, palm upwards, in defeat. ‘So. I have no choice but to accept the situation. I presume that you have not come here merely to gloat? What is your offer?’

‘All I ask is that Mistress Harley do me the honour of becoming my wife. I would not be so discourteous as to gloat,’ he reproved gently. ‘That will produce an immediate and satisfactory solution to any inheritance problem. She …’ he bowed his head slightly in Kate’s direction ‘… has the claim
de jure,
I have the estate
de facto.
What better solution? It is a valuable estate. We should not allow it to be harmed by interminable legal wrangling.’

Sir Henry looked with distaste at the composed and arrogant courtier before him. It was all too true, but it stuck in his gullet to accept it. ‘Very well,’ he stated, breaking the short silence. ‘Your offer has my consent. Katherine?’ He turned towards his niece who had remained silent and motionless throughout the negotiation, which had
apparently settled her future without any reference to her own feelings in the matter. ‘You understand the situation. What is your reply?’ His fierce expression dared her to refuse the offer.

Kate continued to remain silent. What could she say? Her brain seemed to have frozen and she had lost the power of speech.

‘Katherine?’

Before the hiatus could become totally embarrassing, it was broken by Marlbrooke.

‘Perhaps I might be allowed to have a private word with Mistress Harley? I would not wish her to feel pressurised into this marriage against her will.’

A range of emotions flitted crossed Sir Henry’s face, not least the hope, quickly suppressed, that this arrogant young man would be refused out of turn by his volatile niece. Since the upstart Royalist was so confident, let him try!

‘Certainly, my lord. With pleasure. Perhaps, Katherine, you would care to show his lordship into the parlour.’

There was little point in arguing. Kate stalked out of the library, defiance writ clear in the erect spine, the proud carriage of her head, and into the pleasant panelled sitting room, which overlooked the front drive. She walked to the window where she turned to face her suitor, her back to the light so that it would be almost impossible for him to read her expression. Marlbrooke followed her more slowly, closing the door gently behind him.