Kate swallowed, the raw ache of Nicholas’ defection replacing the irrational chagrin she had been feeling over the fact that she was in no way appealing to Sir Harry Tate. “Has he really gone away to stay, do you think?” she asked with studied indifference.
Mr. Dalrymple looked from her to Sir Harry and back again. “Yes, I believe so, Mrs. Mannering,” he said. “He has his own property in Shropshire, you know, and there is really nothing for him here. I do not believe he would wish us all to be feeling sorry for him.”
“Quite the contrary,” Sir Harry said. “Not many children born on the wrong side of the sheets have fared as well. In my opinion, Mr. Nicholas Seyton can count himself fortunate indeed to have the means with which to masquerade as a gentleman.”
“Masquerade?” said Kate sharply. “I would say gentlemanliness is more a quality of character than a simple birthright, sir. There are many men who have all the qualities of birth and fortune without being able to claim honestly that they are gentlemen.”
“Now, are you defending a man you have never met, Mrs. Mannering?” Sir Harry asked, his drawl very marked. “Or are you attacking some men that you have? You have not met Mr. Seyton, I take it? It would be quite improper for you to do so, you know.”
“Where are Lady Thelma and Lord Uppington?” Angela asked. She had been smelling the roses and had not listened with close attention to the last few exchanges.
“Oh.” Kate said. “For how long have we been walking? We must start back. They have become engrossed in their conversation. What a shame they have missed the roses.” She tugged on Sir Harry’s arm.
“You need not be unduly alarmed, Mrs. Mannering,” her escort said, resisting the urgency of her hand and strolling with her at an annoyingly sedate pace. “Lady Thelma is perfectly safe, you know, and would be if she were left for a whole hour behind locked doors with Uppington. He wants her for her money and for her breeding capacity—after the nuptials, of course. It is not for quick and clandestine satisfaction of his lust that he wants that young lady. Your case is quite different, of course. It is clear that Uppington, at least, does not prefer quiet, feminine, dark-haired beauties. Does the door of your bedchamber have a stout lock, by the way?”
“Yes,” she retorted, “and you will find it in use anytime during the night you may care to try it, sir.”
“Dear me, Mrs. Mannering,” he said, “what a sharp tongue and a short memory you have. Why would I wish to force my way into the bedchamber of a lady for whom I feel no stirring of, ah, lust? I meant, in my kindly way, my dear . . . Pardon me. I meant in my kindly way, ma’am, to advise you to lock your door against the marquess.”
Kate bit her lip and felt very foolish. That was certainly one point in his favor. In fact, she felt that if anyone had been keeping score since they left the house, he would be the winner by far. Tomorrow she would think of a way to give him such a thorough setdown that he would never recover. She almost looked forward to the challenge. She did not have to lock her door against him, indeed! Who did he think he was? The answer to a woman’s prayer? It was true that he was endowed with unusual good looks. But still and all! She had been admired in her time too.
Lord Uppington and Lady Thelma were both in the drawing room taking tea with the rest of the company when the other four went inside. Kate was vastly relieved. For all Sir Harry’s assurances, she had been worried not to come across the pair either in the gardens or at the fountain.
“Kate!” Lady Thelma came hurtling through Kate’s bedchamber and into her dressing room without knocking. “Why did you leave me alone with him? Oh. Audrey, please leave. Mrs. Mannering will ring for you again later.”
Kate rose to her feet, noting with a sinking of the heart the paleness of the girl’s face and the agitation of her manner. She did not ask what was the matter when the answer was perfectly obvious to her.
“Why did you leave me?” Thelma repeated after Audrey had left the room and shut the door of the bedchamber behind her. “Lord Uppington made me an offer and said that he had Papa’s permission to pay his addresses. I could not say no, but I did say I needed time to think of my answer. But when I went to talk to Papa just now, he gave me a thundering scold and told me that I must say yes. I thought perhaps Sidney had not talked to him yet. I have not had a chance to talk to him all evening. But Papa said that he had made an offer and Papa called him an impudent puppy and said I could certainly not marry him. I have to accept the marquess because he is of such superior rank and will be a duke one day.” She paused for breath. Tears welled into her eyes.
“Perhaps when he knows that your heart is set against the match . . . ?” Kate said hesitantly.
“He knows it now,” Thelma said, one tear spilling over and rolling down her cheek. “But he says that I am to say yes, anyway. I can’t marry the marquess, Kate. He is so cold and formal and . . . He frightens me. What am I to do?”
Kate was at a loss. Her role seemed to call for reassurance. She should be persuading the girl that her father had her happiness in mind that the marquess’s formality and coldness would evaporate into kindness when they were better acquainted. But she could not do so. She could not counsel the girl to accept a man whom she knew to be evil.
“I think you are to go to bed and sleep, Lady Thelma,” she said with a smile. “It is late and this has been a busy day. No one can force you to marry against your wishes, you know. And your father is not a monster.” Or is he? Kate’s thoughts asked her. “Tomorrow you will be able to think more clearly and plan more effectively. Just forget about your problems for tonight.”
“But I will never be allowed to marry Sidney,” the girl said, her shoulders drooping with misery.
“You don’t know that,” Kate said. “Never is a long time. Who knows what the future will bring?”
Lady Thelma turned to go eventually. Kate, locking the door firmly behind her, felt very helpless. She had been unable to offer any real help to the girl, only empty platitudes. The same platitudes that she was using on herself.
Nicholas! This time last night she had not even made love with him yet. She closed her eyes while remembered sensations washed over her.
The fiend. The low-down, cowardly, criminal, selfish, unfeeling . . . Kate could not think of a satisfactory noun with which to complete the list. But it would not have helped anyway. She could feel him against her, on her, in her. The fiend.
And never again. Oh, yes, never was a very long time indeed. Kate tugged ruthlessly at the pins that held her hair in its neat bun at the back of her neck.
Chapter 14
“Harry will not wish to come,” Charles Dalrymple said at the luncheon table the next day. “He had one of his sleepless nights and confided to me but an hour ago that he will lie down this afternoon. Is that not right, Harry?”
Sir Harry raised his quizzing glass but did not quite put it to his eye. “But that was before anyone suggested a ride along the beach, Charles,” he protested. “How could I miss that pleasure merely to catch up on such an unimportant matter as sleep?” He raised one eyebrow as his friend seemed about to protest, and Charles Dalrymple shrugged and closed his mouth.
“It seems an age since I have ridden,” Christine Barr-Smythe said with something like a squeal, “though I suppose it was little more than a week ago in Hyde Park. I wonder what it is like to ride on sand.”
“I hope, ma’am,” Sir Harry said with a shudder, “that only the horses will discover the answer to that. I would not relish the thought of getting sand on my boots.”
