Page 44 of 10 Things I Hate About the Earl

Marcus refrained from mentioning it was scarcely eleven in the morning and held out his own glass.

“I wondered last night what had happened when she refused to go to Lady Ithorpe’s masquerade. She’d been looking forward to it.”

“No, don’t say anything. I doubt she’ll talk to either of us, and I don’t want you to badger her.” Why could he not have told her from the beginning? Or given up the idea once he’d become enamored of her? “She’s within her rights to think herself ill-used. I fear I’ve hurt her deeply, for which I shall never forgive myself.” Never, ever forgive himself for ruining her irreparably. “Please don’t make it worse on her.”

“You sound as though you care about her, Haversham.” His friend contemplated him keenly while pouring another shot. “I thought this was merely a bit of business. A means to an end.”

“Then you were mistaken, Ainsley.” Marcus stared at the green-leaf patterned carpet as though it might hold the answer to his problem. “I wanted to make her happy. I believed, after that first evening at Lady Carrolton’s, that she might come to care for me, and I for her.” The thing that twisted like a knife in his heart was that she had come to love him—and as quickly to hate him all over again. She should have no problem finishing her list now.

“You care for Kate?” His friend’s eyes were trained on his face.

“I love her, Ainsley.” If he could have kicked himself, his footprint would be indelibly printed on his own backside. He’d been so close to winning her, to happiness he’d not imagined. Now he’d lost it all.

Ainsley watched him keenly. “You needn’t worry about the debt of honor. Consider it paid, old chap.”

“Hah.” Marcus grunted and rose from the chair. That payment was the least of his worries now. “I’ll pay it all right.” He drew a sheaf of bills from his coat and tossed them on the desk. “I’ve had this for days. I never found a chance to give it to you, too busy enjoying the company of your sister.” He winced and shot a look at Ainsley, who stared at the pile of bills, eyes impossibly wide.

“Where the devil did this come from?” He picked up the money gingerly, staring at it as though he’d never seen currency before. “Is this King’s blood money?”

“No.” Marcus waved him away. “I broke it off with King when I thought I’d be marrying Kate…Miss Locke.”

“Then where?” He shuffled through the bills. “There’s three thousand pounds here. It certainly didn’t fall off a tree.” Ainsley began to stack the bills before him on the desk.

“It hardly matters any more. There it is. It’s yours. I’m done with it.” Marcus drained his glass and set it beside the growing piles of money, his heart aching. He’d lost what had most likely been his one chance at happiness. He’d realized over the course of these past weeks that Katherine Locke was the perfect woman for him. No matter that they’d once argued like Punch and Judy, at last he’d seen the passion, and compassion, in Kate he’d always missed before. Her spirit and most generous nature toward his sister kept drawing him more and more toward her, like a moth to the destructive beauty of the flame. The pain of knowing she would never be his bride now seared like a blade on a fresh wound. Knowing he’d have to live without her ate him alive.

Ainsley had arranged the bills neatly, crossing one stack over the other.

Of course, there was a way out of this hell if he would only take it. Temptation whispered in his ear a song as sweet as it was treacherous. He’d obviously not told his friend about what had transpired at his townhouse on Saturday. If Ainsley had the least inkling he’d ruined Kate—he hated that such a loving experience could be deemed ruination—he’d insist they marry no matter how much his sister might protest. Or call him out as Kate had predicted.

Marcus looked over at Ainsley, still tallying figures in his ledger. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue. If he survived his friend’s wrath, he might possibly be able to woo Kate, to make her love him once more. He cleared his throat.

Ainsley looked up from his accounting, a curious look on his face.

“I suppose I shall see you at Almack’s?” He was too much of a gentleman to trap her into a marriage on the hope she might one day forgive him. He loved and respected her too much to submit her to such an existence. If worse came to worst, and she’d caught with his child, then he’d have to rethink that position.

Ainsley frowned. “You’re still going about?”

“Letitia must be chaperoned.” Marcus shrugged. “Aunt Alexandra has asked that I be present to help her put my sister forward. She is much better now that I took your sister’s advice, but it is still not a task for a single person.” It was also not a prospect he looked forward to. To attend these festive events and remember how his own hopes for happiness had been dashed would be agony.

“Are you still forbidding Lady Letitia the waltz?” His friend tried to smile, but the effort failed.

“I never forbade her.” Marcus grasped the back of a red-leather office chair with a tufted back. “She begged me not to make her dance it. She said being that close to a stranger would be too embarrassing for her.” He sank his fingers into the soft leather. “So I said I’d take the blame for her reluctance. That way no one could tease her about it. She could point to her ogre of a brother and be vindicated.”

“Did you ever tell Kate that?” Ainsley stared at him as though he’d never seen him before.

“No, I never did.” Marcus smiled, remembering their heated debates on the subject of his antiquated views on dancing. “I thought it might prove an incentive for her to try to change my mind about the waltz.” He laughed mirthlessly. “You can tell her if you like. Or better still, tell her that her persuasions have borne fruit. If Letitia desires to waltz still, I have no objections.” Marcus headed for the door, hoping to God Hobbs had laid in a good supply of brandy.

* * * *

“I came as soon as I received this.” Celinda waved a piece of paper at her then stared at her cousin in disbelief. “What are you doing?”

Kate looked up from the piles of clothing covering her bed to find Celinda holding the familiar piece of rumpled stationery, the lines on it wandering up and down, the words blotted and splotched where tears had fallen as Kate wrote. She sniffed and dropped a stack of freshly laundered nightgowns into her open trunk. “I’m packing. Could you not read the note? I didn’t think it that ill-written.”

“I could make it out fine. But that doesn’t answer the question of what you think you’re doing.” Celinda came over to the bed and stayed Kate’s hands as she picked up a white morning gown.

Kate shook her off and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. They simply would not stop tearing up this morning. She hated that she could be so weak about this utter disaster. “Clarke is indisposed this morning, so I am packing up my belongings and returning to Somerset.”

“In the middle of the Season? Why? For how long?” Celinda’s thoroughly shocked face stopped Kate as she picked up a yellow ball gown, already folded and ready for the trunk.