Page 48 of Only Scandal Will Do

The closed door separated his room from hers, but he had not heard her lock it after he left her. That boded well. He could ask her to reconsider. Show her that he could be genuinely kind and gentle. Convince her that marrying him was not a sentence to the fires of hell.

He crept toward the doorway, held his breath then gripped the handle so tightly his fingers turned white. Gathering his courage, he slowly lifted the latch. The sound of muffled crying penetrated the oak door. He cocked his ear toward the soft noise. Low weeping, as if the sobs were trying to be restrained.

A scarcely controllable urge seized him to rush in, take her in his arms and comfort and soothe her. If he burst in on her, though, she would assume he had come to force her and would fight him tooth and claw. But why was she crying? Loneliness at being in an unfamiliar place?

Exhaustion? Bitter regret at all that had transpired? He sighed.

But her weeping could mean she was not as self-possessed as she let on. Perhaps she was lonely. If so, he could woo her gently over time, become her friend before becoming her lover.

The thought sent a pang to his loins, but he held resolute. He would demonstrate that he was not the coldhearted wretch he had been before. God, what on earth had possessed him that night?

He released the latch and backed away. Much as he hated leaving her alone and hurting, he would wait and plan a strategy. Katarina, as he had noted, had a very bad record of keeping her promises where he was concerned. Perhaps the right persuasions would change her mind one more time. He could only pray it would be so.

CHAPTER 20

Next morning, Kat awakened to Margery opening the bronze damasked draperies, which let in an appalling amount of light.

“God, Margery!” She pulled the covers over her head. “Have pity. You ply me with strong drink then wake me at the crack of dawn with light bright enough to be the Second

Coming.”

The muffled words drew a sharp “Hah!” from the maid, but the rustle of material said she continued to open drapes and had begun to lay out clothing.

Kat peeked from beneath the coverlet. Margery had set out a yellow-print morning gown. “I’ll need my riding habit this morning, Margery. I am to ride with Jack before breakfast.”

“Then it will have to be tomorrow morning, my lady, for the clocks have struck ten already.”

She sat up abruptly. “Ten o’clock in the morning! Jack was expecting me.”

“Yes, my lady, but the marquess left strict instructions you were not to be disturbed until you woke on your own. Said you’d been overtired last night and needed your rest.”

“Then why did you wake me now?”

Margery fixed her with a wry look. “Those who lie abed too long start to make a habit of it, my lady. Besides,” Margery’s eyes twinkled wickedly, “you did wake on your own. It’s not my fault if you can’t sleep in the daylight.”

Kat glared at her then jumped out of the bed in alarm. “Jack! He must think I’ve been beaten to death!” She started to throw off her night rail, only to find Margery at her side.

“Don’t fret, my lady. Lord Manning is downstairs finishing his coffee with Lord Dalbury.” The maid sent her a knowing glance, arching her delicate brows and inclining her head. “I put a word in his ear as soon as he come this morning that you were fine, just sleeping.

He settled tolerably well after that.”

Some of her panic left at this revelation, but she trembled at the idea Jack had breakfasted alone with Dalbury. That was a dangerous combination. Either collusion or combat was possible, and no way to tell which way the wind would blow. “Just help me dress quickly. No telling what mischief I’ll find, leaving those two together for very long.”

Fifteen minutes later, she ran down the staircase, listening for sounds or signs of mayhem in progress. All was quiet. Too quiet. She now stood in the main hall, unsure where breakfast might be laid. No servants presented themselves for guidance, so she walked to the nearest door and opened it. This was now her home after all; she had the right to enter any room she pleased.

A small, impersonal receiving room glittered bright and empty, so she closed the door and turned toward the rear of the house. The next room, equally empty, showed more warmth in its furnishing. A dusky pink and cream motif--embroidered tapestries of flowers and shells, dainty silk brocade upholstered chaise lounge, and elegant Queen Anne chairs with cushions-made this room inviting and feminine. This was likely where Juliet received her callers. She withdrew and marched to the next room, wondering if she would stumble upon another soul before she starved to death.

The final door on the left side of the hallway proved to be to an office, which held a massive Chippendale desk piled high with neat stacks of paperwork, books and ledgers. Behind the desk sat her husband, impeccably dressed in blue coat and breeches, and the last person she wanted to see this morning. He raised his head at her entrance, and she flushed.

“Oh, excuse me.” She withdrew, and the door clicked closed. As she started down the hallway, the door jerked open and her hand seized in that iron grasp she was coming to know all too well.

“My Lady Dalbury,” he said, his voice a trifle higher than usual. “I trust you slept well in your new home?”

She’d expected mockery, after that wretched scene last night, but his tone held no hint of disparagement. Stealing a glance up at him, she found him frankly assessing her face, as if he were indeed sincere. “It was tolerable, thank you, my lord,” she replied. “As I said last night, yesterday was a trying day.”

“Indeed, it was so for many of us, my lady, although you seemed to bear the brunt of it. I am sorry for that, but I hope that now life will settle down and you can enjoy your new home in London.”

Would he forever keep her off balance? She had expected recriminations, or at least a continuation of their disagreement of last night. He, however, seemed to have disregarded it, as though that wild shouting match had never taken place.