And how well he had succeeded, Kate thought bitterly. The night before, she had allowed him to occupy not only her body but also the very core of her being. She had fallen in love with him. And it turned out that he was worse than Giles. Giles had never let her down. He had never given her expectations whose unfulfillment could disappoint her. Or hurt her.
She hated him. Kate lifted herself away from the pillow and punched it with both fists, her teeth tightly clenched. She had been right all along. She was the only person she could trust. She had been freed from the domination of one man when Giles died and had vowed never to allow any other man into her life again. Yet little more than a year later she had offered herself, body and soul, to a heartless wretch and criminal, merely because at some time during his life he had learned how to please a woman’s body. How could she have been so weak? She had reacted just like any other woman who did not know better. Well, it would not happen again. She had learned an expensive lesson, but she would learn it well this time. She hated him. She punched the pillow again.
Nicholas. Oh, Nicholas. Now she hated him worse than she had ever hated anyone in her life. No man had ever made her cry. And here she was, watching the wet drops land on the pillow and spread as they soaked in. Nicholas! She surprised and humiliated herself suddenly with a gulping sob and buried her face in the pillow again. Perhaps she was just being silly. Perhaps it was as she had thought at first. He had not really gone. He just wanted Lord Barton, Mr. Dalrymple, and Sir Harry Tate to believe that he had left.
He could not have left without a word to her.
She would die.
She hated him.
Nicholas!
Chapter 12
The well-kept lawn to the north of Barton Abbey descended gradually for a whole mile before having to divide itself into two branches in order to skirt a long, narrow lake. Wooded hillsides rose on either side of the lake and the grassy banks. In the western hillside, hidden from view among the trees, was a cave that was reputed to have been used as a hermitage in the time when the Abbey had been used as such, before the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of King Henry VIII.
Other structures had been built more recently: small stone shelters with benches to accommodate two persons, imposingly structured with pedimented roofs and tall Grecian columns. Several of these had been built on the slopes, where they could afford the energetic climber a picturesque view of the lake and valley below. One, somewhat larger than the others, had been set on the very top of the eastern hillside. At the end of the lake closest to the house was a rotunda, also designed as a resting shelter. Its roof was domed, and supported on slim columns. It had a waist-high wall, around the inside of which was a stone bench.
To Nicholas the scene was very familiar. It had always been a favorite play area when he was a child. The cave had been a retreat on the rare occasion when he had been out of favor with his grandfather or when he had succeeded in escaping some unwelcome lesson or chore. Looking about him now, he still marveled at the fact that he was there, quite unmolested, enjoying the surroundings that had always been dear to him.
All the house guests had decided to join the picnic party and all had agreed to walk the mile to the lake. Nicholas had Angela Lacey on his arm. She was a sensible young lady, he concluded, though she was somewhat too shy to shine in company. He rather regretted the necessity of being the haughty, bored Sir Harry Tate. Katherine, he could see, was walking with Mrs. Carstairs. She looked very pretty despite the light brown dress and plain straw bonnet she wore. Her silver blond hair gleamed beneath the brim of the bonnet and at the nape of her neck. She could so easily make all the other ladies look too fussily dressed.
He regretted teasing her at the luncheon table. He had not meant to touch her. For his own sake he must refrain from doing that. But he had quite deliberately maligned the birth of Nicholas Seyton and drawn her attention to the fact that she had stopped eating. She had clearly been upset. He did not think it was merely conceit that made him believe so. And the moment had presented him with too good an opportunity to increase her dislike and contempt of Sir Harry. But he regretted it. He had wanted to cover her hand with his and whisper to her that all was well. He loved her. He had not abandoned her out of indifference, but for just the opposite reason. And he found it hard now to keep his eyes off her. She was talking to Mrs. Carstairs, but she did not look quite the vibrant, very assertive Katherine that he knew her to be. He could not easily suppress the flashing memories of the way she had looked the night before: beautiful, her face full of passion, her hair in disarray about her naked shoulders.
He hoped the scheme would work well enough. He really had left on the stagecoach that morning with a protesting Parkin. His poor valet was indeed being sent to Shropshire in order to handle any letters or other inquiries that might arrive there and in order to take two letters to be sent back to Barton Abbey. Nicholas himself had alighted two miles out of Trecoombe and met Dalrymple at the place where he had left his horse. He supposed that the actual boarding of the coach had been unnecessary. Most of the residents of the village knew quite well that he was staying at the Abbey under an assumed identity. But he wanted to make sure that his name was on the roster of passengers in case anyone should be so thorough as to check that. It had been risky, of course, to ride away from the Abbey, where he could have been seen by a soldier of the coast guard. But Nicholas was used to living with danger.
When they arrived at the lake, the older members of the party immediately settled themselves in the stone rotunda, from which they had an unobstructed view along the length of the lake. Lord Barton was recounting to those who did not already know the fact that an orchestra had been set in this very rotunda on the occasion of his uncle’s wedding, the trees around this end of the lake hung with lanterns, while the wedding guests drank champagne and even danced.
“How charmingly romantic, Clive,” Lady Lacey said. “You must keep that idea in mind when Adam or Thelma weds.”
Christine Barr-Smythe loudly declared that she wished to climb the hillside to the shelter at the top. Her bosom friend, Julie Carstairs, echoed her enthusiasm. Lord Stoughton and Lord Poole stepped forward to accompany them, and Charles Dalrymple smiled at Angela Lacey and asked if she too was game for the exercise. Nicholas looked at his friend in some gratitude. The Marquess of Uppington, he had not failed to notice, was talking to Katherine, and he felt a pressing need to keep her within his sight. There were some situations in which even a fearless young lady like Katherine Mannering might find herself helpless.
Sir Harry Tate raised his quizzing glass and gazed at his friend in some incredulity. “Frolicking like a child, Dalrymple?” he said on a sigh. “You are like to be quite disheveled and positively gasping for air by the time you reach the top.”
“It would not hurt you to break out of a sedate stroll once in a while too,” his friend replied, grinning.
Nicholas shuddered. “I was born a gentleman, not a laborer,” he said.
“You must show me this hermit’s cave, Lady Thelma,” the marquess was saying. “You do not know exactly where it is? No matter. We will find it together. And of course we must take a chaperon. Mrs. Mannering? And Moreton? You are not joining the other party, I perceive.”
Nicholas had perceived the same thing. That poor young man was obviously nursing a hopeless tendre for his hostess, and if he were not much mistaken, Lady Thelma returned the feeling. It was equally clear that she was destined for marriage with Uppington. Well, that was not his problem. He had problems enough of his own. He shrugged and pushed himself away from the pillar against which he had been leaning.
“Lady Emma,” he said on a sigh, “I see that we shall be teased mercilessly this evening if we do not join one of these insanely energetic excursions. I favor the cave for the simple reason that it is reputed to be only partway up the hill on this side, whereas the scenic shelter is at the very top on the other. Would you care to take my arm and make the effort, ma’am?”
Lady Emma, who had seated herself beside Lord Barton in the rotunda, rose and came toward him. “Indeed, I find everything about Barton Abbey quite fascinating, sir,” she said. “One cannot but be sensible of the air of history surrounding it. I should be quite delighted to see the hermit’s cave.”
This group of six quickly became lost among the trees. None of them knew exactly where to find the cave except Nicholas, and he could not reveal his knowledge. By the time they reached one of the imposing little stone shelters partway up the hill, Lady Emma was decidedly cross, her light muslin dress having twice caught on the twig of a tree, and her parasol having had to be lowered, with the result that her complexion must suffer from exposure to the sun. Her breath was coming in short gasps. Sir Harry quite agreed with her that Lord Barton should have his laborers cut a clear path from the valley to the hermitage.
Lady Emma and Thelma sat down on the bench of the shelter while the gentlemen gazed down at the lake in the valley, which seemed to be a surprising distance below them. Nicholas felt greatly annoyed that Katherine had been left to stand. If they moved closer to the outside edges of the seat, the other two ladies could have made room for her between them.
“Mrs. Mannering,” Sir Harry Tate said with a languid sigh, “your fortitude positively amazes me. You are not even panting for breath. You must be more accustomed to hard work then we more indolent mortals. But do lean on my arm for a few minutes, ma’am.”
He moved across the short distance between them, made her a little half-bow, and extended his arm.
She stared back at him without the flicker of a smile. “Thank you, sir,” she said, “but as you have observed, I do not feel at all in need of support.” And she turned away from him to gaze out toward the far end of the lake, leaving Sir Harry with one arm still outstretched and one cynical eyebrow raised.
“Now,” the marquess said, “if we are to find the cave this afternoon, we clearly must depend on a little more than luck. I suggest that we go three separate ways and that those who find the cave call out to the other four.”
