Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke Read online

  The door burst open, and Katherine jerked backward in her chair. The captain strode in, his saddlebags over one shoulder and his hat in his hand. He closed the door and dropped the saddlebags on the floor near the hearth. “You’ve not eaten?” he asked, spying the still-covered dishes.

  She shook her head. He was unbuttoning his coat. A moment later the bright scarlet jacket was hanging on the back of the spare chair, and he was working on his waistcoat. Katherine curled her toes under her feet. Wedding night, wedding night, wedding night, seemed to echo in her heartbeat.

  “There was no need to wait,” he said as he stripped off yet another layer of clothing. “You must be half-starved, and tired to boot.” The waistcoat joined the coat. He untied his cravat and began unwinding it. Katherine watched from under her eyelashes as he moved about the room, utterly at ease, removing his watch from a pocket and rummaging in his saddlebags. He looked so very big and male, even larger and more intimidating than when clothed, for now she could see the muscles in his throat and arms. Lord Howe had been a slender, elegant man. She didn’t think she’d ever seen stubble on his face, unlike the dark bristles that shadowed Gerard de Lacey’s jaw and throat, and she’d never watched Lord Howe undress.

  He caught her watching him. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked in surprise. “I expected you to be starved after such a long day. You’re as thin as a reed, Kate.”

  She cleared her throat. “Why do you call me that?”

  He grinned. “Do you like it? I do.”

  “No one’s ever called me Kate.” Her father had called her Katie when she was a child, but her mother fretted over the low-class sound of it. By the time she was twelve, he never said it anymore.

  “Unless you have a strenuous objection, I should like to call you that.” He pulled loose the button at his shirt’s neck and slipped the braces from his shoulders. He leaned over the basin and splashed a great quantity of water over his face and head, coming away dripping wet halfway down his chest. Katherine tried not to stare as he dried off.

  “Do you?” he asked. The white linen of his shirt clung wetly to his shoulders. The vigorous toweling made his hair stand up in a riot of damp waves.

  “Do I what?” she whispered. Somehow those curls in his hair appealed to her. She barely let herself look at his shoulders and arms, where muscles and sinew were perfectly outlined by the wet fabric.

  “Have an objection to being called Kate.” He dropped into the seat opposite her and began removing covers from the dishes. “I hope not. Are you hungry?”

  Mutely she nodded. He looked pleased and heaped a plate for her, and an even larger one for himself. He poured the wine and set the tray aside. “May I call you Kate?” he asked again, and she realized he had asked twice already.

  She drew a quick breath. “Of course.”

  “Very good,” he murmured. “Kate.”

  Then they ate in near silence. She supposed she should say something, but between the fatigue of the journey, the stress of the last few days, and the nervous anticipation of the evening ahead, her tongue wouldn’t move. She ate mechanically, consumed by what might come next. But although he ate with perfect manners, her husband seemed just as tired and quiet as she felt. Aside from refilling her wineglass, he left her alone.

  When the meal was done, he rang for the servants to come take away the dishes. She ran her hands over her knees as they cleared the table and left. The door closed, and she was alone with him. The air felt thin. The fire seemed to blaze hotter than ever, and the room suddenly grew small. Wedding night, wedding night.

  The captain appeared unaffected by similar nerves. He pulled off his boots and slumped in his chair, stretching out his feet toward the fire. His head fell back, and he sighed wearily.

  She must have made some small noise, for he glanced at her. “Yes?”

  Katherine wet her lips. She had to say something other than what she was thinking about, how very undressed he was becoming. “There is a hole in your stocking.”

  He raised his foot. The tip of his toe peeked through a small hole. “Ah. So there is. Bragg must have missed it.”

  “Your man?” she asked cautiously. “I did not realize . . .”

  “I sent him on ahead,” he said, when she fell silent. “My batman. A master of organization and efficiency.” He wiggled his toes. “Except, obviously, for the mending.”

  “I could darn it for you,” she offered.

  “Thank you.” He twisted in his chair to regard her with mild surprise. That rumpled wave of hair fell over his brow again. “We shall have to get to know each other, Kate. You’re always so nervous when I look at you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Unconsciously she straightened, smoothing her expression.

  He sighed. “There’s no need for that. Don’t shy away from me.”

  Katherine didn’t know what to do. “I’m not afraid of you,” she insisted. “Do you think I would have proposed what I did if I feared you? No, I told you I esteem you very highly—”

  “There’s a vast gulf between esteem and affection.” He rose from his chair and came to stand in front of her, hand extended. “Come here.”

  Slowly she put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. Heart thumping, muscles frozen, she waited as he brushed her hair back from her forehead, his large hands gentle. “You have nothing to fear,” he whispered. “I’m here to protect you.”

  “Thank you.” She cringed as she said it.

  He tipped up her chin until she looked at him. His blue eyes were thoughtful. “I don’t know what sort of chap Lord Howe was, but I gather he wasn’t much like me. Rest assured I shan’t beat you for disagreeing with me, or punish you for speaking your mind. And for God’s sake stop thanking me. You’ve brought something of unquestionable value to this marriage, while time will only tell if you received as much in return.” A corner of his mouth crooked up, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. “How are you to know if I’m preferable to Lucien?”

  The very fact that you could ask the question, she thought. “I have no doubts, Captain.”

  He released her. “Gerard. You said it this morning.”

  She hesitated. “Gerard,” she said softly.

  “Much better.” He yawned and stretched his arms overhead. The ceiling wasn’t terribly low, but he could have pressed his palms against it. “Shall we go to bed? Tomorrow will be another long journey.”

  Her muscles knotted up even worse than before. Somehow she nodded. Katherine took off her dressing gown and laid it across the chair. She climbed into the bed, keeping self-consciously to one side, and stared at the ceiling as he moved about the room, tossing another log on the fire and shedding his breeches and stockings before blowing out the lamps. The whole mattress dipped as he slid in beside her.

  “Good night, Kate,” he murmured, leaning over her. His lips brushed hers, too lightly. “Sleep well.”

  “Good night,” she whispered back.

  He turned onto his back and after a moment of shifting was still. Within minutes his breathing deepened into the slow cadence of sleep. Katherine wished she could do the same. It was her wedding night, and even though she told herself it was a relief he hadn’t tried to make love to her, part of her was irrationally let down. He had said he wanted to make love to her, and now that it was time, he went to sleep. She was sore and tired from the coach ride, but her mind refused to rest, not when he was lying beside her so close she could feel the warmth of his body. She lay listening to the sound of his breathing for some time, until she was certain he slept deeply, then slipped from the bed.

  The room was dark, but the moon was near full. She pulled back the sturdy curtains at the window, letting a slice of pale moonlight fall across the bed, onto Gerard’s face. She crept back across the room and settled herself in bed again, lying on her side facing him. For the first time she felt at liberty to look at him as much as she wanted, and she did so, as greedy as a hungry child left unattended with a whole pudding.
r />   He had changed a great deal, but she would never forget her first sight of him more than a decade ago. She had walked into town by herself that day in search of the latest Gothic novel. Her mother had told her to go in the carriage, but Katherine wanted to be free to take her time, to dawdle along, to read a chapter or two if the novel proved engrossing. The rain put an end to that idea, of course; she’d had the book tucked tightly under her arms and cloak before she was halfway home. She was pretty well soaked to the skin, bonnet drooping hopelessly, when a horse pulled up beside her, its prancing hoofs splashing mud onto her skirt.

  “Whoa, there!” The young man controlled his horse with ease. “It’s rather a dreadful day for a walk, miss.”

  She remembered looking up in astonishment, shocked both that someone stopped to speak to her and at the manner of that address. Even on that rainy day, his blue eyes seemed dazzling. He was smiling at her, with an air of exuberant merriment about him quite at odds with the wretched weather. Somehow she gave a hesitant nod and mumbled something inane. He leaned down and extended his hand, sending a cascade of water from the brim of his hat. “May I take you up, miss?” he asked. “It’s dashed cold in this rain.”

  The words would be forever branded on her memory. He had offered so gallantly, as if she were the town beauty instead of the plain, awkward daughter of an upstart merchant, as another young buck had once referred to her. And he was no ordinary young man being polite; Katherine knew exactly who he was once she got a good look at his face. The Duke of Durham’s sons were famously regarded as the three most eligible gentlemen in Sussex. Katherine had seen all three in Henfield from time to time but never spoken to any of them. The gentleman on the horse was the youngest, a tall, lanky young man with too-long dark hair falling over his brow in a very dashing way—or as dashing as one could be, dripping wet. He waggled his gloved fingers as she continued to gaze dumbly at him. “Come,” he added in a cajoling tone. “Let me see you home.”

  Rain sluiced down the back of her neck, her boots were ankle deep in mud, and she still had two miles to go—and Katherine didn’t know what to say. Who would have guessed that a handsome gentleman, the son of a duke, would ask to see her home when she looked as though she’d been dragged through a pond? “I don’t mind the walk,” she said stupidly. His greatcoat was securely buttoned up to his chin, and with his hat pulled low, he was about as dry as anyone could be in the downpour. She had a sudden fear that she would only prove herself a complete idiot if she accepted his offer, and surely that would be even worse than looking like one.

  He laughed. “I would, in your place. You don’t want to take a chill; I would never forgive myself if you did.”

  “It’s not far,” she protested weakly, even as her hand rose toward his of its own volition.

  “Then it will be no trouble at all. Come; put your foot on mine—there—step up—and here you are.” With almost effortless ease he pulled her up onto the saddle in front of him. Katherine balanced awkwardly, not sure what to cling to. He shifted behind her, then folded the fronts of his coat around her, settling her securely against him. Underneath the greatcoat he was warm and dry, and the feel of his chest at her back almost made her lungs stop working. She glanced down at the ground as he nudged the horse into motion. Far below, a veritable stream ran down the middle of the muddy, rutted lane where she had stood just moments ago.

  Good heavens. This must be a dream, or perhaps a fit of delusion. She was riding in front of Lord Gerard de Lacey, wrapped in his greatcoat with his arm snug around her waist to hold her steady. Things like this did not happen to her. Any moment now, she would startle herself awake and be standing in the mud again.

  “I hope you completed whatever errand brought you out into this gale.” His voice rumbled in his chest, and his breath was warm on her cheek. Her heart seemed to be doing a dizzying dance inside her breast.

  “I only wanted a book.” She shifted it clumsily under her wet cloak. Why couldn’t she think of something entertaining to say? “It was silly to go out just for that . . .”

  “Nonsense,” he said with another laugh. “Some things require urgent action.”

  She smiled in uneasy gratitude. “Thank you for taking me home.”

  “What sort of gentleman would leave a lady to walk in this?” A gust of wind threw a sheet of rain straight at them, and Katherine reflexively ducked into the shelter of his coat as the horse shied and snorted. His arms tightened around her as he brought the horse back under control, and for a moment she could almost pretend it was an embrace. She pressed her cheek against his lapel, inhaling the warm scent of his cravat, and a little piece of her heart fluttered helplessly.

  The next two miles passed in the blink of an eye. He made a few jokes and good-natured curses about the weather, and she managed to smile and even laugh. This was unreal. She no longer felt the rain or the cold; instead she felt like a princess, safe in the arms of a handsome prince—she, who had never been sought out by any young man. When the gates of her home appeared, she was somewhat dismayed it was over.

  “There is my gate,” she said, turning her head to tell him.

  “This one?” His blue eyes flashed, so very close to hers. “Shall I turn in?”

  She shook her head. “Let me down at the gate, please.”

  Perhaps he understood that she preferred no one see her riding with him; he surely couldn’t know why, but he merely nodded and halted the horse. He dismounted and lifted her down. “Safe and sound, I hope,” he said with a grin. Before she could register his intent, he had caught her hand and brushed a soft kiss on her knuckles. “Take care to get warm and dry right away.”

  She nodded as he swung back into the saddle. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He leaned down toward her and touched the brim of his hat. “It was my pleasure,” he whispered back, and winked at her. Then he clucked to his horse and rode off at a brisk trot.

  She stood at the gate for several minutes until he vanished into the gloomy rain without a backward glance. Her pulse hadn’t recovered by the time she reached the house, nor even through the hot bath her mother insisted she take. She told no one about her rescuer; who would believe her if she did? In the days that followed, she nursed a number of secret fantasies wherein he returned to find her—to see that she hadn’t taken a chill, to ask to take her riding again, to declare that he’d been unable to forget her. He never did, of course. She told herself not to be silly, but her heart proved itself very silly indeed where he was concerned.

  Gerard de Lacey had lived in her memory since that rainy day as someone just shy of perfect. Katherine knew, of course, that she was quite below the notice of such a man. Even when Papa made his modest fortune into a large one, and Mama expressed a wish that Katherine were more of a beauty so she might have a chance of snaring one of the Durham sons, she knew it was ridiculous. It didn’t stop her from watching for him every time she went into town, but Katherine was too practical to hold out foolish hopes. An older, widowed gentleman like Viscount Howe was a tremendous catch for someone like her, as Mama repeatedly told her. She did as her parents wished and married Lord Howe. Gerard de Lacey went off to fight Napoleon, his name appearing from time to time in the newspaper reports. Katherine prayed for his safety every night, for it hurt to think of that kind, charming young man dying on a distant battlefield. Her prayers were answered, for he returned whole and hearty to England, only to land in the newspapers again—but this time as a man about to be stripped of his illustrious inheritance and cast out of the social class he had been born to.

  And now he was lying next to her in bed, her husband before God and man. With trembling fingers she reached out and touched a lock of his hair where it lay on the pillow. The carved gold ring on her finger shone in the moonlight. His ring.

  In her heart of hearts, Katherine admitted that she had acted as she did—proposing marriage to a man she didn’t really know—because it was Gerard and not merely because she was horrified at the though
t of wedding Lucien. The other Durham sons were in the exact same circumstance as Gerard, and she hadn’t even thought of making her bold offer to either of them.

  Seeing him should have smacked some sense into her. He was no longer the carefree boy she’d met so long ago but a war-hardened soldier, grown broad and strong and far more serious, even if he did seem to be laughing at her much of the time. This Gerard was even more attractive than the younger man, although of a darker, more seductive appeal. It made her shiver with pleasure, that he was hers, and quake with fear, that this man could never be happy with the likes of her, not for long. She had no idea how to talk to men, how to flirt and entrance and seduce. She didn’t know how to please a man in bed; Howe had been satisfied for her to lie still and leave him to his business. Katherine wished mightily that she did know, or could learn, because now that Gerard was in her bed, she wanted to keep him there.

  For now he slept on, unaware of her wistful desires and fierce hopes. She studied every feature of his face, from the dark wavy hair that still tumbled over his forehead and curled damply at his neck, to his defined cheekbones and sensual mouth, to his firm, square jaw. Her knight, her hero, the ideal man she had kept in her heart for a dozen years. The man she had dreamed of, then seized her chance to get when he landed in dire circumstances. Her husband, who had whisked her out of Lucien’s grasp and taken pains to secure access to her funds before leaving London but who also kissed her and slept beside her even after she assured him it wasn’t necessary. And with each passing hour, it became clearer that she knew absolutely nothing about him.

  Chapter 10

  Gerard woke in a very agreeable position, stretched out in a warm, comfortable bed with one arm around a woman’s waist and one leg nestled between hers. For a while he floated in barely awake bliss, aware only of the soft feminine shape against him, the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her nightdress, the curve of her arse against his groin, the way her slim legs closed around his thigh. God, it was good to be back in England, sleeping in a proper bed again with an armful of woman. He’d spent too many nights in an army camp cot, freezing cold and so bone-tired he didn’t even notice he was alone.