He was directly in front of her suddenly, his hands on her shoulders, squeezing so tightly that she would have felt pain if her mind had not been so totally taken up with its own horror.
“It would not have happened,” he said. “I would have reached you in time. Do you think I followed you, you foolhardy woman, to enjoy the show, as you put it? I came to save you, difficult as the idea may be for you to grasp. Uppington will not molest you as long as I am here to intervene.”
She might have noticed that he spoke with Nicholas’ voice without the French accent if she had not been so distraught. “You do not care!” she said passionately. “To you I am merely a figure of fun. I may not be a very feminine person, sir. I am not given to the vapors or hysterics and I very rarely cry. But I have feelings. Damn you. I have feelings.” She lifted her fists and pounded them once against his chest.
“Well, of course you do,” he said, making a valiant effort to be Sir Harry Tate. “Of course you do. I have never doubted it, my dear.”
“I am not your dear!” she cried petulantly, pounding his chest once more.
“Oh, I am not so sure of that, Mrs. Mannering,” he said. “Sometimes you can be annoyingly dear.”
“Don’t tease me!” she demanded. “Hold me. I need to be held. I don’t think my legs will support me much longer. They feel remarkably like jelly.”
The hands that were still at her shoulders slid around to her back and she was brought against a comfortingly firm body. His shoulder was a broad and remarkably safe feeling pillow. Kate put her arms up around his shoulders. She really did feel close to collapse now that her body had had a chance to react to the near-disaster she had just experienced. She closed her eyes, her face turned inward to his neckcloth.
Nicholas held her close, recognizing her need, knowing that soon she would be strong again and lashing out at him to cover what she would consider weakness in herself. How he loved her. Dear, brave, independent Katherine. He laid his cheek against the top of her head.
And then, unable to resist, he lowered his head and kissed gently the soft cheek that was exposed to his view.
Her eyes were still closed when she tilted her face up, blindly searching for the comfort of his mouth. And he gave it to her, his lips closed and undemanding. He let her take, gave what she needed. Her arms closed around his neck and she rested herself fully against the length of him. He circled her waist loosely with his arms.
It was not a passionate kiss. Nicholas kept firm control over himself. She did not need another passionate encounter that afternoon. She needed a man on whom to lean, literally and emotionally. She needed to feel protected. He held her, allowed her to kiss him until she was ready to stand alone again, contented himself with letting his love flow outward to her through the undemanding touch of his body and the supporting circle of his arms.
The feeling of safety, of the security of home, was purely a physical sensation for several minutes. Kate would not allow herself to think. She let the fright and the nausea lose themselves against the warm comfort of the body on which she leaned, within the arms that held her. She let her grief and emptiness over Nicholas’ desertion and silence follow after the fear and flow out of her. She was safe, and she felt incredibly happy. She did not want to think. Once she started thinking, there was something very unpleasant, just waiting to pop into her mind. She knew it. But she would not allow it in. She lifted her mouth to the warm lips that brushed her cheek, in an effort to keep thought at bay. She put her arms around the neck of the man who held her, in an effort to hold close the comfort. And the love.
He was Sir Harry Tate. There! She had relaxed her mind for one moment and there it was—that unpleasant thought that had been waiting to pop inside at the first chance. He was Sir Harry Tate.
My God, she was kissing Sir Harry Tate! Again. Wantonly.
“What?” she said, pushing wildly against his chest. “What are you doing? Unhand me this instant, sir. How dare you take advantage of a momentary weakness? Oh, I see how it is. You have gathered ammunition this afternoon with which to bombard me with scorn for another week. You are despicable. I hate you. There. Now you have forced me to be openly unladylike. One never tells even the most thoroughly villainous gentleman that one hates him. But I hate you, sir. Is my hair tidy? And did you have to throw my bonnet down into the dust, when there is clean grass all around us?”
Nicholas was very glad that in her confusion she did not once look into his face. He was having a very hard time making that face belong to Sir Harry Tate. He must do better with the voice.
He sighed. “Considering that your hairstyle is not exactly a Paris original at the best of times, my dear Mrs. Mannering,” he said with a heavy drawl, “I think you will do. Now, will you condescend to take my arm and we shall make our sedate way back to the lakeside? You may wish to tie the sash beneath your bosom first, perhaps. I would hate the company to think that I had loosened it.”
“Oh,” she said, grabbing the ends of her sash, “I might have expected that your own reputation would be your main concern, sir. And I am not your dear Mrs. Mannering.”
Chapter 17
Kate fled down the driveway as fast as her feet would carry her without breaking into a run. She was quite safe, she kept telling herself. She had returned with the first boatloads, several members of the party having been still engaged in strolling beside the water. The Marquess of Uppington had been nowhere in sight. She had not even gone inside the house, but had immediately set out for the lodge. The marquess was a few miles away, either in a boat or still at the other end of the lake. But she hurried along, her back prickling, feeling pursued.
What was it she was fleeing from! she asked herself. Clearly not the marquess. Sir Harry Tate? He had shown no inclination to follow her. In fact, he had not even ridden in the same boat as she, but had chosen to attach himself to Mr. Dalrymple and Miss Lacey as soon as they returned to the bank of the lake. And when she and four others had landed close to the rotunda, he had been walking away with the same two companions in the direction of the wooded hillside. He was going to show them the hermit’s cave, Lady Emma had said, an expedition she had declined to join.
Besides, Kate thought, she was not afraid of Sir Harry Tate. She did not like him, but she did not believe he would do her any harm. No, more than that. She knew he would do her no ham. From what was she running, then? The answer was obvious when she stopped to consider the matter. She reduced her pace to a steady walk, for in fact there was no outdistancing her fear. She was trying to run away from herself.
What in heaven’s name had she done? She dismissed with a shake of the head the method she had used to protect herself from the marquess. The more she thought about that, the more she applauded herself. She would do the same if she had the decision to make all over again. No, it was what had happened afterward that had her running from herself.
Why had she been kissing Sir Harry Tate? The very thought now was enough to make her flush hotly with embarrassment. The thing was that she had been the one doing the kissing. Although she had scolded him afterward, really he had not done anything wrong. She had asked him to hold her. She could distinctly remember doing so. She hoped for one moment that her memory was playing her false, but she knew it wasn’t. She had asked him to hold her. Mortifying thought!
And how had she come to be kissing him? He had not initiated it or taken advantage of it. Had he kissed her on the cheek? She could not recall. When she had come to her senses, her arms were around his neck and her body pressed to his. He was doing nothing beyond what she had asked him to do. He was not taking advantage of her mindlessness at all. His arms were wrapped around her waist, but he was holding her merely. Although she tried to recall everything that had happened since she had asked him to hold her, she was sure that his hands had not done any wandering. And his mouth had been still against hers. There had been no heat and no passion in his touch.
It was quite dreadful. She had been wantonly kissing a man she despised and a man who would take full advantage of the memory in any future verbal exchanges they might have. Horrid man. She would never again be able to hold up her head with dignity when he was present.
Oh, dear! Kate stopped walking altogether, although the lodge was already in sight. Could she in all conscience continue to call Sir Harry a horrid man? If she were to admit the full truth to herself, she would have to say that he had behaved with remarkable kindness that afternoon. He had come to rescue her, had he not? He must have done so. There seemed to be no other reason why he was so far from the rest of the party and alone. So he had been watching after her safety. And what would have happened if she had not dealt Lord Uppington that blow when she did? Sir Harry might well have been involved in violence. And the marquess would be no mean opponent, she guessed. He was a large man. Sir Harry would have risked that for her?
And then what? He had taken her into the woods, into further seclusion so that she would have a chance to collect herself before having to face more people. And when she had come close to hysterics—embarrassing memory!—he had held her. Very comfortingly. She could remember now just how very safe she had felt when his arms came around her. It was true that his words before and after had been languid and unfeeling. But she had to admit that he had been there when she needed him. It seemed that there was humanity in the man behind the rather bored exterior.
And that was not at all a comforting thought, Kate told herself as she resumed her walk toward the lodge. She found Sir Harry attractive. She undoubtedly did. And now what defense did she have against that attraction? She could no longer tell herself that he was thoroughly despicable. He was still unpleasant, of course. She did not like him at all. But she had to feel grateful to him. And gratitude could well be dangerous in her present lonely state.
