Untamed (15 page)

Sitting at Gavin’s breakfast table the next morning, Rourke sipped his second cup of black coffee and avoided looking at his friend’s plate of deviled kidneys and buttered eggs as best he might. For someone who was three-quarters Scots and one-quarter Irish he really ought to have a stronger stomach, along with better tolerance for spirits. His ancestors on both sides must be turning in their graves to see what a lightweight they’d weaned.

Thinking aloud, he said, “I haven’t given up on marrying her, you know.”

Seated next to him, a freshly ironed and still-folded copy of the
Times
between them, Gavin shot him a horrified look. “You can’t mean to marry someone out of spite.”

Rourke shrugged, reached for a sweet roll, thought better of it, and then set it back on his plate untouched. “I don’t know why not? Lust and beauty fade, but a good, solid hating has a hold that stands the test of time.”

“What of love?”

Rourke was fond of Gavin. More than fond, he loved him like a brother. Still, at times such as this, he couldn’t help finding his friend something of a sop.

He shook his head, which proved to be a very large mistake. Gripping the table edge, he waited for the dull pounding and black wave of nausea to subside. Sweating, he pushed his coffee cup and saucer aside and reached for his water glass instead.

Taking a small swallow, he asked, “What of it?”

“I was under the impression you held a tendre for Katherine, some fond feelings at the very least.”

Katherine.
The way Gavin spoke the name, it sounded as though he and Kate were long-standing friends. After the previous night, Rourke might detest the woman, he
did
detest her, but she was still his woman. Regardless of what he might have said about washing his hands of her, in the
sobering
light of day, he wasn’t yet ready to relinquish his claim on her, though, admittedly, forging a future with her seemed about as likely as strolling the moon’s surface or uncovering the ruins of Atlantis.

But Rourke had been pulling himself up by his bootstraps nearly all his life. When it came down to it, Kate Lindsey was just another challenge to be faced, not terribly different from overtaking a rival railway company or boxing half-blind. Whenever the prize was in sight, Rourke always, always managed to find a way.

Kate, you’ve nay notion o’ the just desserts I’ll be dishing up.

November 1891

ate sat by the parlor window, the curtain drawn to allow looking out onto the rain-soaked street, the road itself dyed to deep obsidian, the sidewalks glittering like glass where ice from the previous week’s snow had melted and then refroze. Today, however, it rained. Every so often a carriage rattled by, splashing mud from the gutters onto the curb, but so far none had stopped. Her journal lay open in her lap, the pages blank, the fountain pen abandoned to rest in the binding crease. She wasn’t feeling especially creative, but then, these days she wasn’t feeling much of anything at all.

Looking out onto the deluge, she wondered if later in the day the precipitation might turn to snow. She hoped so. Growing up in the country, she used to adore snow. Snow at least served some purpose. You could
do
something with snow—make snow angels, and snowballs, and, yes, snowmen—but rain in the winter only made things soggy and miserable.

Today was her at-home day, and the fact of slippery roads and raw winds might be marked by some hostesses as bloody bad luck. Beyond that, it would be Christmas in another few weeks. Anyone venturing out would be most likely to head for Selfridge’s on Oxford Street or Harrod’s in Knightsbridge, where they might shop the myriad departments while staying snug and dry. She doubted she’d have any callers to eat the currant buns and seed cake she’d taken pains to bake, and then decided she didn’t really care. As she did every week, she thought back to that long-ago “at-home day” when Patrick O’Rourke had shown up unannounced on her doorstep and persuaded her to go riding with him. Of course, riding wasn’t all he’d persuaded her to do. That memory seemed almost to belong to another person, and yet coming on two years, she recalled every blisteringly vivid detail.

She reached up and traced her mouth with her index finger, scratching the nail lightly over her bottom lip, reliving the magic of that moment, the gentleness of his kiss, and her own hungering response. Even with so much time passed, she marveled at her former boldness. She brought her hand down to her lap, examining the small white palm and slender pink-tipped fingers with a sense of disbelief. Had she really employed that very hand to unbutton his coat and run it down the length of him, mapping the terrain of strong neck, broad shoulders, and hard muscled chest—and in a public park, no less! That she’d taken him by surprise was clear—he’d only bargained, or rather
wagered,
for a kiss, after all—but she’d also astonished herself. Who would have imagined Capable Kate Lindsey, supposed ice maiden, self-avowed spinster, and proud-to-be shrew, might contain such a wealth of… passion?

The miracle was that she seemed to have escaped a scandal, or at least much of one. The whole White’s betting book episode seemed to have blown over in a week’s time, no doubt eclipsed by some more savory scandal broth. As for the garden scheme, from what she gathered, those who’d participated must have been too ashamed or too bored by its lackluster result to speak much about it. Of course, she didn’t go about in society much, less and less if she could help it. There’d been one episode where she’d chanced to cross paths with Isabel and Penelope Duncan on Bond Street, their gloved hands laden with parcels from an obviously successful day spending their papa’s money in the shops. The sisters had looked straight through her, their pinched noses pointed north and thin mouths sneering, and then swept past. She hadn’t minded all that much. It hadn’t been empty bravado when at Lady Stonevale’s charity ball she’d counseled Caledonia, Callie, not to mind a single word they said.

The suffragette and Hadrian St. Claire had married. Surely they would have heard about the cruel trick she’d played upon their friend. When she’d stopped into Mr. St. Claire’s photography shop to stage the Artemis sitting and to collect her latest installment from the previous quarter’s sales, he’d treated her civilly but had not been overly friendly. It was no better than she deserved. She hadn’t seen Callie since their brief meeting at Lady Stonevale’s charity ball. Though she thought about her a great deal, she’d been too ashamed of her behavior to renew their acquaintance—yet another loss.

Outside, she heard a carriage pull up, the wheels screeching as the driver halted on the wet road. It seemed she was to have a visitor after all. Not certain if she was glad of that or not, she closed the journal, set it aside, and got up. Not terribly curious, she opened the door without looking out.

Patrick O’Rourke—Rourke—stood on her doorstep, shaking rainwater from the crown of his hat. Rain plastered his hair to his high brow and lean cheeks, the drenched locks looking more black than auburn.

“Thursdays are your at-home days, are they not?”

Kate could only stare. She couldn’t seem to find her tongue. She hadn’t expected to ever see him again. Though he occasionally came to London, and had purchased a house in Hanover Square, they hardly ran in the same circles. She hadn’t heard he was back in town.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

She found her voice at last. “Yes, of course, I… Do come in.” She stepped back to let him enter.

“Have you other guests?” He set his hat atop her banister and looked past her into the parlor.

“No, I haven’t. Just you, if you’ll stay, that is.”

Now that the shock was wearing off, she realized she was pathetically glad to see him. “I hadn’t heard you returned from Scotland.”
You never said good-bye before you left.

She led the way into the parlor, mentally cataloguing its shabbiness. Even for so-called old money, they were putting on a poor show of it these days. Keeping up appearances was harder and harder. The money Kate had been saving for Bea’s come-out had “mysteriously” disappeared from its hiding place, and she had to believe their father was the culprit. It was beyond depressing.

He followed her inside. “I just got into town yesterday. I bought a place, a town house in Hanover Square.”

“Yes, yes, I heard. That’s nice, very fashionable. Do you like it there? Will you take some refreshment?” Dear Lord, she was babbling like a brook.

He stared at her, emerald eyes raking her face. He looked the same and yet different somehow, older she supposed. Fine lines had chiseled their way into the corners of his eyes. If they’d been there before, she didn’t recall them.

Finally, he said, “I can’t stay long.”

“It needn’t be tea,” she added quickly. “I’m sure we have some sherry or brandy about.” She was tempted to add,
If Father hasn’t drunk it all,
but held back. As much as she’d missed him, she wouldn’t stoop to using pity to win him back.

Hat in hand, he stood stiffly by the door. “Nothing for now, thank you.” He glanced to the armchair, the same he’d occupied the first and last time he’d taken tea with her, the cushion slightly more worn. “May I sit?”

“Please do.”

She perched on the edge of the settee, doubly glad she’d thought to close the journal. Today’s pages might be blank and the ones from the day before, as well, but not so for the long days and months after he’d first gone.

Silence descended. They traded glances, and Kate wished she’d thought to put on a more becoming gown. The chocolate-colored satin might bring out her eyes, but the fabric was rather faded, she was afraid.

“Do you come to the city often?” Mentally she kicked herself. What an inane thing to ask.

“If by the city you mean London, then aye—or rather, yes, I do. I hold property in the north, in Scotland, and it was grouse season, after all. But as you see, I am returned—like an ill wind, you might say.”

Kate didn’t care for his cryptic tone. Her pleasure in seeing him again began to fade, replaced by a sharper version of the earlier unease.

“What brings you into town?” His affairs weren’t any of her business, but she was at a loss for what to say.

Rather than answer, he said, “This isna a social call, Kate. Forgive me, I meant to say Lady Katherine.”

Rather than answer and open up that particular wound, she asked, “If not, then pray what manner of call is it?”

“A business one.”

“In that case, I’m afraid my father is indisposed.”

He seemed to find that amusing. One side of his mouth quirked upward, not the good-natured grin of her memory, but an unpleasant smile, a snide smile, a smirk. “I don’t doubt it.”

Something of her father’s reputation must have reached him. The earl had come home that morning just as she and Bea were sitting down to breakfast. Ordinarily he was unabashed about his nocturnal carousing, but this morning he’d been unwilling to look her in the eye. Though she was always on pins and needles when he went out, his unusual sheepishness had set off an inner alarm. He’d poured himself a glass of lemon water from the pewter pitcher and stumbled upstairs to bed. It was coming on two o’clock, and he’d yet to emerge.

“My business is with you, not him—unfinished business, you might say.”

His cryptic tone sent Kate’s heart thumping. “How can that be? We have not spoken since—”

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “Humiliating me in front of half of London hardly seemed conducive to keeping up our acquaintance.”

She resisted the pettiness of pointing out that “half of London” had been only a half-dozen people. Whether she’d enlisted one confederate or legion, what she’d done was wrong. She’d hoped he would have forgiven her by now. Apparently he had not.

She folded her hands in her lap to hide their shaking. “You should know that I was … that I am very sorry about how things ended between us.”

“Is that an apology, milady?” He regarded her beneath raised brows.

“Yes, yes, it is only …” She left the sentence unfinished, unsure of what more to say.

A year ago, she would have seized on the opportunity to add that the humiliation meted out had cut both ways, but that only now she found she did not care so terribly much. The wagering episode struck her as more in the way of a schoolboy prank than mean-spirited mischief. From the little she’d cobbled together of Rourke’s upbringing, she suspected he’d been lured into accepting Dutton’s challenge more to prove his worth than to humiliate her. Looking back, it was difficult to believe she’d mustered the upset she had, but then appearances had come to mean less to her than they used to. She wasn’t nearly so angry anymore. In point, she wasn’t angry at all.

He frowned at her. “I didn’t come for an apology.”

“Then why did you come?”

The feral glitter in his gaze had her palms perspiring. “I came to collect my winnings.”

He slid a big hand into his inside coat pocket. Drawing it out, he produced a small folded slip of paper. Holding it out, he asked, “Do you know what this is?”