She had never been in love with Giles and had never been really keen to marry him. But at the age of seventeen she had not been averse to the match either. There had been something rather exciting about the prospect of marrying a man who had something of a reputation as a drinker and gambler. Not a very bad reputation. Kate did not believe her father would have favored the match if Giles had been obviously depraved. He had seemed very masculine. Kate had been rather proud of the fact that such a man of the world had chosen her for a bride. She had been the envy of her friends.
But over the following five years she had discovered just how difficult life with such a man could he. She never knew from one hour to the next what his mood would be. If he was sober, or if he had won at cards, he could be charming at best, heartily cheerful at worst. If he was charming, he might kiss her hand, buy her some bauble, or take her visiting. If he was cheerful, he might kiss her or slap her playfully on the rump or take her to bed. If he had been drinking heavily, or if he had lost at cards, he could be morose at best, vicious and abusive at worst. She had learned to dread him in those moods. Only once, in bed, had he given her a sustained and severe beating. But he had abused her verbally, accusing her of every wifely failing, from coldness to ugliness to disobedience.
His behavior outside his home had never been bad enough for anyone to suspect the full truth, Kate guessed. And she supposed that she could have done a great deal worse. Only that one beating, and that had been with his bare hand, not with belt or whip. But she had hated him by the time he died. She had never been able to mourn his death or to feel sorry that it had happened, though she had been present to witness the full horror of his choking, and she had genuinely tried to help him.
And she would always recognize his type. The surface charm, the earthy sort of attractiveness, the apparently flattering attention on a woman’s person: none of those qualities could hide from her opened eyes the self-centered focus of such a man. And such a man was the Marquess of Uppington, she knew. She would stake her reputation on the fact. And his desires were focused on her. She knew that too as surely as she knew that the Earl of Barton had brought him there as a suitor for Lady Thelma.
As she bowed her head in acknowledgment of his words of sympathy, Kate was mentally assuring the Marquess of Uppington that he would have either her or Lady Thelma when hell froze, if she had any say in the matter.
Dinner was announced without further ado, and Kate felt all the awkwardness of her situation as Uppington bowed over Thelma’s hand and led her toward the dining room, in the wake of her father and aunt. Viscount Stoughton and Lady Emma followed. Who would lead her in? Kate wondered. Perhaps she should not wait and put some poor gentleman into the awkward position of having to offer his arm to a servant. Perhaps she should quietly follow her employer. Oh, bother, she thought, feeling herself flush, she did not really know a great deal about correct protocol, especially that which applied to ladies’ companions.
“Mrs. Mannering, since I am more or less a self-invited guest and you are not a guest at all, perhaps we would do well to combine forces.”
How all this longish sentence could be delivered on one languid sigh, Kate did not stop to analyze. She knew only that at the moment at least she was grateful to Sir Harry Tate, who was standing before her, his arm outstretched for hers. She smiled and placed her hand on it.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I am sure Lord Barton would not wish you to feel unwelcome merely because you were not part of his original guest list. He is, I know, quite delighted to receive you as Mr. Dalrymple’s friend.”
“Quite so,” he said. “And you really do not need to exert yourself to do the honors of the house, Mrs. Mannering. Invited or not, Sir Harry Tate invariably makes himself welcome wherever he goes.”
Kate’s gratitude evaporated. The conceited . . . fop! she thought, bursting with indignation, and glancing with some contempt at the lavender silk sleeve on which her hand rested. He had offered her his arm, doubtless with the conviction that she would swoon quite away at the honor he was doing her. All the dislike she had felt that afternoon returned in a rush.
“That is a very sensible attitude to take, sir,” she said sweetly. “That way you may be sure there is always at least one person to welcome you.”
He drew breath as if to reply, but did not do so. Kate, gazing candidly up into his face, was favored with a sidelong look from those lazy, cynical eyes and mentally scored one point for herself. She waited for Sir Harry to draw back her chair, and seated herself regally. She turned to smile at Sir Peregrine Lacey at her other side. Kate was surprised during dinner to find that despite her quite unmannerly snub, Sir Harry was prepared to engage her in conversation. She had expected that she would be quite beneath the notice of such a self-important gentleman when he had Christine Barr-Smythe on his right and Lady Toucher across the table.
“And what sort of arduous activities does a . . . companion have to engage in, Mrs. Mannering?” he asked. “I must confess I am all admiration for you females, who are willing to work for your living rather than live on credit, as we males are more inclined to do.” His voice was so heavy with boredom that Kate wondered why he even bothered to ask the question.
“The work is not arduous at all, sir,” she said. “And the task is just what it says. I am a companion. I provide company and friendship for Lady Thelma.”
“Is she so lacking in the resources for self-employment, then?” he asked.
“Ladies do not have the freedom that you men enjoy,” Kate reminded him.“We may not travel around without chaperonage. There are countless hours when we must be alone at some quiet activity, while you men can be out riding or attending races or boxing mills or any number of other activities. Being quite alone can be burdensome to a lady.”
“And what happens if the companion is livelier than the lady?” he asked. “Does she not find the shared activities irksome?”
Kate give him a sharp look. He had shown unexpected insight into the boredom of her position. “I suppose it could happen,” she said. “But at least such a woman can keep her self-respect. I believe the type of man you spoke of could not.”
His eyes moved slowly and rather insolently over her severe hairstyle and the very conservative neckline of her dress. “I would disagree, ma’am,” he said. “A man can be in debt to his ears and no one the wiser except his creditors. A woman in service on the other hand, is immediately recognizable. Which has the more self-respect?”
She would dearly love to slap his face, Kate thought, schooling her features to blandness so that he would not know how his words had infuriated and humiliated her.
“We are talking about self-respect, not the respect of others, are we not, sir?” she asked. “Is it not more dignified and honest to admit the truth before the world than to hide it in lies and deceit?”
“There is a certain sort of argument that can proceed in circles, ma’am,” Sir Harry said, his mouth curled into the sneer that Kate guessed to be habitual with him. “This is one of them, I believe. Shall we change the subject? I have been hearing that you experienced all the excitement of being kidnapped by a highwayman a week ago.”
“You speak as if you think it to have been an enviable experience, sir,” Kate said.
“I imagine that every female in the room envies you,” he said, “whether she will admit it or not. Highwaymen are perceived by females to be unutterably romantic figures, are they not? And this one was masked? Entirely irresistible, I would guess.”
“I think your opinion of women must be very low, sir,” Kate said, not even trying to hide her indignation. “Do you think we welcome having our persons, our honor, and our very lives at the mercy of men?”
He chewed a mouthful of food with studied slowness before answering. “In a word, yes,” he said. “Come, ma’am, will you not admit to having felt even a small thrill of delight at being so forcefully abducted?”
“I certainly will not, sir,” Kate said, her own food completely forgotten for the moment. “And I find your attitude toward women quite insufferable. Do you think us quite without self-respect? No, I will not phrase that as a question and give you another opportunity to express your contempt for my gender. Any man who uses the superiority of his physical strength to subject a woman to his will deserves to hang. That is my opinion, sir, and my answer to your impertinent suggestion that I must have felt some kind of erotic thrill to be carried off by a highwayman.”
He patted her hand lightly, and she looked down in some contempt at the shower of lace that half-covered his hand. She was rather disappointed to note that the hand itself was not the white, effete aristocrat’s hand that she expected, but one that looked as if it might have done its fair share of work. She pulled her hand away.
“Pick up your knife and fork, Mrs. Mannering,” his hateful, bored voice said quietly for her ear only. “You indignation is becoming marked enough to attract attention. You would find that situation insufferably embarrassing, I would guess. You might even find your employment in jeopardy.”
