Untamed (8 page)

Once she’d gotten home and deposited her father, fully dressed, into bed for the night, Kate had hoped to find solace behind the closed door of her bedroom, but such was not to be. Crossing the threshold, she found Beatrice, Bea, waiting for her inside.

Long legs tucked beneath her night rail, her sister scowled at her from the foot of the bed. “It’s not fair that you got to go and I didn’t.”

Resisting the urge to point out that life, strictly speaking, wasn’t required to be fair, Kate bypassed the bed and crossed to the bow-front dresser. Peering into the mirror atop, she said, “We’ve had this discussion until I at least am blue in the face. You’re not out yet. You have four months before you turn eighteen, and then you may attend all the dreary formal functions you desire.”

“But four months is an eternity.”

Kate smothered a smile and reached up to remove her earrings. “It seems so now, but the time shall fly by before you know it.”

In the interim, there was at least one more payment due her from Mr. St. Claire. Sales of the
cartes postales
continued to be brisk, and of the PBs whose photographs he stocked, she remained his best seller. She hoped that would continue. Those yet-to-be realized funds were already marked for the dressmaker. To come out, a young lady must be properly turned out. Even if family pride was not at stake, she wouldn’t see her sister go about looking like someone’s country cousin or poor relation. The good news was she doubted Bea would require more than one season before a match was made. Coltishly tall, slender, and blond like their mother, Bea was a pretty girl who promised to bloom into a beautiful woman. If only she might grow some sense to accompany her fine looks.

She finished taking out her earrings, the pearl drops her sole remaining legacy from her mother, and flipped the lid on the rosewood jewelry box. Laying them to rest in the velvet-lined compartment, she said, “You should have been in bed hours ago. It’s almost one o’ clock.”

Reflected in the mirror, Bea hugged her tented legs and leaned forward, resting her chin atop her knees. “Very well, I’ll go, but first I want to hear all about it, every delicious detail.”

Delicious details such as their father getting drunk—again—and gaming away funds they didn’t have—again? Tonight’s loss was limited to fifty pounds. Where he’d gotten his hands on the blunt to play, Kate couldn’t begin to know. Tamping down her anger, or trying to, she plucked the pins from her hair. As much as she tried to shelter Bea from the truth, she was beginning to wonder if keeping the girl in the dark wasn’t doing her a disservice.

Where
had
he gotten his hands on that kind of money? A horrid thought struck her, and though she wanted to believe it was only her paranoia at play, she couldn’t go to bed until she’d settled her suspicions one way or the other. She pulled the dresser’s top drawer all the way out, emptied it of handkerchiefs and under things, and turned it over to examine the sliding drawer at the false bottom.

Bea unfolded her long legs and rose from the bed. Walking up behind her, she frowned. “Kat, what are you doing?”

“Hush.”

Kate slid the compartment door back and felt around the hollow for the pouch secreted within. It was there still. She sighed, this time in relief. She loosened the drawstring and pulled the folded money out, counting quickly. Her “nest egg,” one hundred pounds, was thankfully all there.

Bea’s eyes popped. “Why, Kat, it’s a fortune. Where did you get—”

“Hush!” Kate spun about and grabbed her little sister by the shoulders. “Bea-Bea, mind me, you are never to tell Papa about this money, do you understand?”

Goggle-eyed, Bea nodded. Dropping her voice, she said, “All right, but what’s it for?”

“It’s my … pin money from posing for Mr. St. Claire, and that is all you or anyone else need know.”

Kate turned back about, shoved the wad back in the pouch, and replaced it in the drawer. She slid the drawer back inside its cavity and turned back to Bea, once more seated on the bed. Moving to the bed, she sank down on the edge next to her sister.

Twisting her long blond braid about her index finger, Bea turned to her. “Since you’re not going to say what the money’s for, at least tell me about the ball I missed.”

“Well, I met a most interesting woman, in the ladies’ retiring lounge of all places. Her name is Caledonia Rivers. She’s a famous suffragist, and she’s about the same age as I. I have an inkling we’re going to be very great friends.”

The brief interlude in the ladies’ room had brought home just how much Kate had missed having friends. Most of her school chums had gone their own ways years before. The few with whom she’d kept in touch were married with families of their own. She didn’t accept many social invitations because to do so would have obligated her to return the hospitality in kind. She’d only attended that evening’s ball because her volunteer work for the charity school afforded her free tickets.

Unfortunately their cozy chat had been cut short by the appearance of Mr. St. Claire, who had come in search of Callie. The warm, urgent looks passing between the pair stood as Kate’s cue to make her excuses and leave. She’d headed off to the supper room, half-hoping she might encounter her waltzing partner, but there was no sign of the sexy Scot. She told herself she should feel relieved. No doubt he’d found some other poor woman to trod upon and hold far too close. Instead she’d felt a keen sense of disappointment—followed by a surge of irrational jealousy. She’d spent the remainder of the evening dodging Dutton and company and standing by the potted palm pushing canapés about her plate.

Bea blew out a bored breath. She dismissed the promise of female friendship with a flick of her long-fingered hand. “I meant the men, Kat. Did you meet anyone … interesting?”

Kate hesitated.
Interesting
seemed such a paltry word to describe him.
Intriguing, mesmerizing,
and
exasperating
even, but surely not
interesting.
Hours later, she still found herself marveling over how she could be so powerfully attracted to a man who in no way matched what she thought of as her “type.” He wasn’t even good-looking, at least not in the traditional sense. Before now, Kate had fancied tall men with lean builds, similar to Lord Dutton’s. Mr. O’Rourke was several inches shorter than her former fiancé, and yet he’d somehow managed the trick of seeming the tallest man in the room. Beyond that, the arm she’d laid her hand atop had been granite-hard, the bulging bicep threatening to rent the sleeve of his obviously expertly tailored evening jacket. The coat had fit his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and trim torso like a glove.

But more so than his rough-hewn looks, it was his manner that attracted her. Never before had a man dared talk to her in so frank and … earthy a fashion. And the way he’d swooped in like a great beast of prey to claim her for their waltz had excited her mightily. The mere recollection excited her still.

Had she been a young miss of Bea’s age, rather than an older, unmarried sister considered to be on the shelf, their dancing so intimately without first being introduced would have been scandalous. But other than a few raised eyebrows and a disapproving look or two from the matrons lining the wall, they’d been left alone. Invisibility was one of the dubious benefits of a woman growing older, she supposed. In a few years she would be thirty, and then she would no longer have to worry about what people thought at all. With Bea’s future settled, Kate would be free to do precisely as she pleased. Until now, her future freedom had taken the form of chocolate eating and novel reading, but it occurred to her to wonder if she might not supplement those relatively tame carnal delights with an indulgence of a wilder, more primal sort.

Might she also find herself free to take a lover?

Before tonight, such a scandalous thought had never so much as crossed her mind. Now that it had, her mind quickly mapped out a mental picture of her prospective partner in illicit pleasure. Who better to dive into sin with than a big, buff Scotsman with emerald eyes; a sexy, lopsided grin; and a fancy for whispering naughty bits in her ear?

Feeling her face heat, Kate shook her head. “No, I didn’t meet anyone. Why do you ask?”

Bea shrugged, the smocked night rail’s square neck sliding off one slender shoulder. “You seem … well, different somehow. Your cheeks are pink, and your eyes are all soft and … glowing.”

Kate dipped her head. “I’m sure it’s just a result of becoming overheated in the crush.”

If she was so transparent to her baby sister, what must those who’d seen her during the ill-advised waltz have concluded? Had she been making calf eyes at her dance partner? She hoped to God not. Perhaps it was a good thing Mr. O’Rourke had left early, presumably to gather his rosebuds elsewhere. If he was a typical man, and Kate was coming to believe there was precious little variation in the gender, he was likely disporting himself in some brothel at that very moment, oblivious to her mooning.

Bea’s voice called her back to the present. “I shouldn’t like to think of you all alone once I leave. Don’t you want to marry, Kat? Oh, I know you say you don’t, but goodness, if you don’t, what
will
you do with yourself once I’m gone?”

Fondness washed over her. Bea was such a child still. She reached behind and slid her arm about her sister’s slender shoulders. “In the main, I shall eat plate upon plate of lovely chocolate trifle and grow fat as milcher and merry as a clam, and I shan’t care a jot for what anyone thinks of me ever again, truly I shan’t.”

What she didn’t add was that her particular notion of spinsterhood didn’t include continuing to play keeper to their drunken lout of a father. Once Bea was flown from the nest and settled into a fine feathered one of her own, Kate meant to go, as well. The details of how she would support herself in her independence remained to be fully worked out, but that was not to say she didn’t have a plan. For years now, she’d kept a journal and written in it almost daily. Much of what she’d scribbled was dreck, but she fancied some of her recent compositions, mostly poetry and short stories, were quite good, perhaps even … publishable. How much money a published author might earn was as yet unknown to her, but once Bea was settled, she meant to find out.

In the meantime, the money trickling in from Mr. St. Claire’s sale of their
cartes postales
was amounting to a tidy sum. Had she not used the money to pay the accounts, she would have far more than one hundred pounds tucked away. Fortunately, more work was on its way. Recently the photographer had approached her about coming in for another sitting. This time he fancied a setting from classical mythology with her attired as Artemis. The Greek goddess of the hunt was also the patroness of unmarried women, a sign from the Powers That Be she was headed in the proper direction, it must be!

Until she found a way to make a living by her pen, she must leave off indulging in too many sweets. A PB could ill afford pimples or a gain in girth. Kate deemed the sacrifice well worth it.

As scrumptious as chocolate was, freedom would taste far sweeter.

Two days later, Patrick O’Rourke turned up on Kate’s doorstep.

It was her “at-home day,” that one day midweek when the lady of the house turned up her door knocker and prepared to receive callers. For Kate, the weekly ritual was also the cornerstone of her campaign to keep up the appearance of prosperity. Given the sad state of their finances, that was a considerable challenge. Whereas ordinarily a lady of her station living in London would think nothing of provisioning her tea tray with exotic delicacies purchased from Fortnum and Mason, Kate did her own baking. This week’s selection was buttered tea cakes and Scotch shortbread. The humor of the latter hadn’t hit her until she was rolling out the dough. After her thrilling but brief interlude with the stimulating Scot, she must have his birth country on the brain.

Pulling her thoughts back to the practical, she’d modified the recipe to add a few strips of candied orange peel, which she fancied would prove to be a nice touch. Certainly the simple fare was nothing of which to be ashamed. On the contrary, the bone-china teapot had a rather large chip in the curved handle, which explained why the pawnbroker had given her such a very good price. Fortunately, most of her callers would be older ladies whose eyesight was no longer the best. To stay on the safe side, she’d camouflaged the damaged spot with a hand-knitted cozy.

Congratulating herself on her ingenuity, she was dusting the gilded hallway mirror when the knock sounded. Hattie, their maid-of-all-work, was in the kitchen putting the final touches on the tea tray, including setting doilies beneath each serving plate. Kate glanced down at the watch pinned to her bodice. It was as yet only nine thirty. So-called morning calls never commenced before midday, and usually not until after luncheon.

She dropped the feather duster in the umbrella stand, tore off her apron and shoved it inside, as well, and peered out the peephole. Mr. O’Rourke stood upon her front steps, clapping his great hands together and blowing crystallized rings of breath into the cold.