The Rebel Bride (7 page)

Harry was a bit put out by her calm assumptions about the earl of March. It was at times like this that Harry wished Kate were more docile, more accepting of her older brother’s advice and counsel. He had the nagging doubt, grown stronger in the past several years, that he was no match for her quick tongue, that it was she who had the stronger will.

Harry shook himself free of this not-altogether-pleasing image of himself. After all, it was rather stupid of him to regard his sister, a mere girl, as a possible superior to him. Was he not to be Sir Harry Brandon of Brandon Hall someday? And if Kate had not yet married upon the demise of Sir Oliver, it would be he, Sir Harry, who would arrange her life and give her direction.

Seeing the rather benign smile on her brother’s boyish face, Kate thought that she had succeeded in keeping their leave-taking as unemotional as possible. She said, “I think the horses grow impatient, my dear. You may rest assured that I shall avoid Sir Oliver assiduously, as well as that alarmingly persistent suitor of mine.”

Harry was immeasurably relieved. Kate was acting her usual self again. He quieted his conscience with the thought that before too many more months passed, he would find a solution to her problem.

She added, green eyes twinkling up at him, “Do read at least one book this time, and not, I pray, one of those young gentlemen’s turf books.”

“Well, don’t you kill anyone with your dueling pistol.”

There was a sudden sound behind them, and Kate whirled about. It was only Filber, the Brandon butler, come to wave good-bye to Harry. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Sir Oliver would openly condemn
brother and sister spending too much time together. It was strange, she thought suddenly. It was as if their father thought her a bad influence on Harry.

“You did say good-bye to Father?” she asked nervously, still expecting to see his tall, gaunt frame appear at any minute in the open doorway.

“Oh, yes, not to worry, m’dear. Now, I must be off. Do keep out of trouble, old girl.”

She watched Harry swing himself onto his horse and signal Marcham to do the same. He kissed his fingers to her and whipped his horse about. He turned and waved once again before disappearing from sight.

Kate raised her own hand in silent reply. She had certainly succeeded in cheering him, and she supposed now that she should feel quite noble. After all, it was not his fault that he was a male and therefore free to go and do as he pleased. But it seemed a cruel twist of fate.

She turned away, feeling sorry for herself.

S
he stood unmoving, striving to control such uncharitable thoughts. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair. Unaccountably, she found that her thoughts turned to the earl of March and the delightful morning she had spent fishing with him and Lord Launston at St. Clair lake.

Her depression unaccountably eased. In an unconscious gesture she pulled at her outmoded gown. His lordship had shown himself to be witty and entertaining, his descriptions of the sights and activities of London stirred her imagination. She had jokingly told Lord Launston that the earl might as well be telling her of the Taj Mahal, for London, to her, was just as remote.

The corners of her mouth lifted. She remembered his laughter when she spoke whatever was on her mind. He was a delightful companion, willing to cross verbal swords with her. Perhaps she had found a friend. But for how long? The earl of March never stayed at St. Clair for any extended period of time. She knew from Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw that this was his first visit in five months. As a matter of fact, even now he might have already returned with his friends to London.

She turned slowly and walked back into the hall. Her spirits plummeted. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Probably not. She was a provincial dowd, nothing more, as unsophisticated as the trout she’d pulled enthusiastically from his lake with his fishing pole. He was simply amusing himself. Ah, but she did want to see him again.

* * *

That very afternoon, as she sat disconsolately at her piano doing great injustice to a Mozart sonata, Sir Oliver unceremoniously interrupted her. He stood over her, his hot breath fanning on her face, his voice filled with cold suspicion

“I am informed, daughter, that the earl of March is calling.” He pursed his thin lips, and his rather close-set eyes drew closer together. “He calls ostensibly to visit with me, a fact I have difficulty crediting. Would you be so kind as to tell me where you have made his lordship’s acquaintance? And be quick about it. Men of his rank do not like to be kept waiting. Tell me the truth, girl, all of it, for I do not like to play the ignorant fool.”

Though Kate trembled inwardly, she was long used to her father’s peremptory attacks, and her expression never changed. Her mind worked furiously. She could certainly not tell him the truth, for his retribution would be swift and unpleasant. She calculated rapidly that there was at least a slim chance to come through this unscathed, and if her attempt failed, the result would be the same in any case.

She looked at her father, who looked about as pleased with her as the worms on her fishing hook, and said calmly, “Last week Harry and I were riding through the village. His lordship, as it happened, was visiting his agent, Mr. Stokeworthy. It would have been unforgivably rude of us not to introduce ourselves, given the circumstances. His lordship mentioned that he might call, as he had never made your acquaintance, sir,” she added, embroidering the lie because it would perhaps serve her. Sir Oliver was vain; he believed himself stalwart and upright. He saw himself as a model of rectitude. Even the Regent himself, were he to ride by, would surely stop.

As her eyes didn’t waver and her improvised story sounded plausible to Sir Oliver, he merely grunted and said sharply, “Well, then, girl, you might as well come along with me and perform the proper introductions. I only hope that the present earl is not the dissolute arrogant sinner that his grandfather was. Probably a disdainful nobleman like his hypocritical father.”

He strode out of the room, Kate following on his heels, her mouth suddenly gone quite dry. She did not have time to ponder the earl’s intentions for visiting Brandon Hall. She ran her tongue nervously over her lips and, in an unconscious gesture, pulled on her gown to make it longer. Not only did she look provincial, she looked quite outmoded.

At the door of the drawing room, her father had the good manners to allow her to enter the room first.

The earl stood by the fireplace, elegantly dressed in riding clothes and gleaming Hessians, looking quite at his ease.

Kate forced her leaden feet to move forward. She extended her hand and said as calmly as she could, “How very kind of you to call, my lord. It’s very nice to see you again, and unexpectedly, even though you said you would perhaps call, for you are so very busy and have so little time for other matters.”

Julien clasped her slender fingers in his hand. Before he could make a suitable response, she added quickly, “I have been telling my father how Harry and I met you at Mr. Stokeworthy’s house in the village. I told him,” she hurried on, not meeting his eyes, “that you expressed a wish to pay us a visit. It is delightful that you have come.”

Julien gave only an infinitesimal start at her story. She looked up at him then, and he saw the fear in her eyes. No, surely not fear, that made no sense, but nonetheless, he gave her hand a slight squeeze before releasing it, and turning to greet Sir Oliver.

He extended his hand and said with exquisite good manners, “A great pleasure, sir, finally to meet you. I count it provident that I met Harry and Katharine so conveniently in the village, for I have long wanted to reestablish good relationships with the Brandons.”

Kate gazed with something akin to awe at her father, who had received the earl’s suave and fluent speech with an almost obsequious deference. His hard eyes softened, and he clasped the earl’s outstretched hand with the greatest alacrity.

“Indeed, my lord,” he breathed in a voice full of awe, “I am greatly honored that you have deigned to call.” He gave a slight cough that reminded Julien forcefully of Mannering, and added in an apologetic voice, “I presume your lordship is aware of the rift between our two families. An unfortunate affair, and if your lordship is willing, best now forgotten.”

Julien executed the most elegant of bows and replied smoothly, “I count myself grateful that you wish it to be so, sir.”

Kate cast a furtive glance at the earl. She had the strangest feeling that what had just transpired between her father and the earl had not—indeed, could not—have really happened. Why, her father’s very attitude was one of a condemned criminal being pardoned by royal command. It was unnerving. It made her feel inferior. She felt even more gauche and provincial. She became acutely aware of her old dress and the scuffed sandals that were all too visible beneath her hemline.

Sir Oliver turned to his daughter, who was standing literally openmouthed. He ground his teeth but managed to moderate his voice. “Katharine, my dear, won’t you see that Filber brings in the sherry? His lordship is undoubtedly needful of refreshment. Don’t dawdle now, my dear.”

Kate nodded and hurried to the door. In all likelihood, she thought, Filber had already heard his instructions through the closed door and was probably even now fetching the sherry and glasses.

“Yes, Miss Kate, right away,” Filber said, before Kate had time to speak.

She walked quickly to a mirror and regarded her messed hair with vexation. She was trying to smooth down errant curls when it occurred to her to wonder if the earl were here merely to mock her and her father. She felt a new wave of humiliation at her father’s toadying behavior and at the thought that the earl had seemed to find nothing amiss with such deferential treatment. She paced the floor in long, boyish strides waiting for Filber to bring the blasted sherry.

Sir Oliver rubbed his hands together and asked the earl to be seated. Kate was only partially right in her assessment of his attitude. Certainly he was impressed at his lordship’s courteous condescension to visit Brandon Hall, but more than that, he was aware that the earl was as yet unwed. It did not take him long to see the earl as a possible answer to the number of bills that lay piled on his desk.

Julien would not have been at all surprised had he known what Sir Oliver was thinking. In fact, he found himself watchful of Katharine’s father, hoping that he had made a favorable impression, that the natural desire of a parent to see his progeny well placed in the world and, he thought cynically, to line his own pockets would work to his advantage. He hadn’t been deceived by Sir Oliver’s deferential treatment of him. Having read the fear—and yes, he knew now that it was fear he’d seen—in his daughter’s eyes, he realized that to his family Sir Oliver was an altogether different man.

The thoughts of neither of the men were at all perceptible on their faces or in their painfully polite and mundane conversation. Bonaparte was always a safe topic, and Julien, in his most respectful manner, elicited Sir Oliver’s opinion.

“It has now been nearly three months that Napoleon has been on Elba,” he began. His choice of topics seemed at first an excellent one, for Sir Oliver immediately sat forward in his chair, his eyes blazing.

“Would for the safety of all men’s souls, that the Allies had not allowed the monster to live. For years I trembled for fear that an invasion of those degenerate French Catholics would throw our land back into the hands of the papists.”

Papists. Good Lord, Julien thought, as he tried not to blink with surprise, didn’t he realize that Napoleon was an atheist? Evidently not. Sir Oliver was suddenly moved to explode in religious fervor. “I would have sought them out and destroyed them and all their loathsome, filthy idols.”

“Ah, you are doubtless quite right. An England
returned to Catholicism after so many centuries wouldn’t be acceptable to Englishmen.” He wondered, now more worried than ever about Katharine, wondering if Sir Oliver were not a bit mad.

Sir Oliver gave a start. Perhaps he’d been a bit too dogmatic in stating his view. He said in a more moderate voice, “We must pray that the Allies are able to keep Bonaparte on Elba.”

“As I understand,” Julien added gravely, “the French people have welcomed back the Bourbons with open arms. Louis seems quite firmly planted on the throne.”

Julien was greatly relieved to see Katharine return, followed by the butler bearing a rather discolored silver tray. He rose quickly, and she seated herself on a small sofa facing him.

While Filber served the sherry, Julien was freed for a few moments to regard his future wife. He wasn’t at all disappointed by her appearance. He’d wondered how she would look dressed in something other than her boy’s clothes, and although the gown she wore was rather outmoded, her grace and bearing were clearly evident. And her poise delighted him. The rich auburn hair hung long down her back, secured with a simple ribbon. Tendrils curled over her ears. He wished he could lightly trace his fingertips over the freckles on her nose, a very nice, thin nose. He wondered how she would react to her new station. As his countess, she would have anything that she wished. And he would have her.

He frowned as he saw her hands twisting nervously at the folds of her gown. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and gazed alternately from her lap to her father. There was no vestige of the spirited, self-assured girl who had crowed when she caught many more trout than either he or Hugh. There was no more poise. He felt hesitant to address even the most innocuous of comments to her for fear that her answers would draw the wrath of her father after he left. He contented himself with simply enjoying her presence until he would have the opportunity to speak with her alone.

“It is a pity, my lord,” Sir Oliver said jovially as he
toasted Julien, “but you have just missed my son, Harry. He left but this morning to return to Oxford. A brilliant young man, if you’ll forgive a father’s natural pride. He has the makings of an accomplished scholar. Doubtless he will someday make his mark in some area, perhaps in science or mathematics.”

Harry, a scholar? Mathematics? Julien repressed another blink of surprise, but said easily enough, “Yes, a fine young man. You say he excels at scholarly matters? He enjoys history, or perhaps religion, in addition to science and mathematics?”

Kate choked on her sherry, and Sir Oliver cast a look of ill-concealed dislike at her. He remarked with some reluctance, “No, it would be, of course, my wish, but Harry is intent on being in a cavalry regiment. You know boys, my lord—they wish for adventure. I hope and pray he will return to a calling for which he was meant. If he doesn’t choose to—why, then, he is still my son and the future Sir Harry Brandon of Brandon Hall.”

“I see,” Julien said pleasantly. “Yes, Harry would become that eventually.” He took a sip of sherry, which was not nearly as good as the St. Clair sherry. It occurred to him again that perhaps Sir Oliver’s finances were in need of a healthy settlement, given the rather frayed appearance of the furnishings here in the drawing room.

Not at all a stupid man, Sir Oliver had seen the earl’s eyes on Kate as Filber served the sherry. Had his lordship already fixed his interest in her? The thought seemed preposterous to Sir Oliver—indeed, absurd—but nevertheless he decided to test his observation. After all, stranger things had been known to happen. He briefly saw his long-dead wife in his mind’s eye. Ah, she’d been so beautiful, beyond beautiful really, and he’d wanted her more than anything in those first months, been wild to have her, until he realized she was weak and not of his level in religious faith and scholarship. She’d also hated him in her bed after but a few weeks. She’d suffered him, damn her, when he insisted. And then Katharine had been born and she’d refused him. And he’d
watched his daughter grow up and look what she’d become, despite all his efforts.

He cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps your lordship would like to see the Brandon gardens. They are not, of course, at their full beauty, but still they are not to be despised.” He turned and trained his gaze full upon his daughter. “Kate, conduct his lordship to the gardens. Show him the roses, which will improve their appearance in but a few months.”