Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke Page 22

  “No, that’s not what I . . .” Her voice died as he scooped up her skirt, flinging it over her back. Now his hand was on her bottom, squeezing and shaping her flesh even as he held her immobile for the increasingly persistent touch of his other hand, still stroking her through her skirts. In spite of herself she was growing wet. Pray God no one passing through Queen Square looked up at this window . . .

  “Then what did you mean, Kate?” There was a shush of cloth; he was unbuttoning his falls. She closed her eyes. She could feel the moisture between her legs now, as her shift grew damp where he pressed it against her.

  “Just . . . you,” she said inanely. He slid his length, hot and thick, between her thighs, and her knees almost buckled. He was going to take her like this, from behind like an animal, bent over a table overlooking Queen Square, in the midst of an argument, and she was shaking with desire. She squirmed, not sure if she wanted to escape or spur him onward, and he responded by pressing the blunt head of his erection right against her—her—her quim. She blushed vividly; he had called it paradise.

  “I can feel how much you do.” He nudged forward, and Kate shuddered. “Why lie?”

  “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “But I mean to know why, just the same.” He pressed into her, and she squeaked; it felt different this way, more primal. He forced his feet between hers and hiked her onto her toes as he pulled out. “Why did you want me?”

  “Because . . .” He thrust, and her body clenched so hard she heard him suck in his breath.

  “Why, Kate?” He began stroking into her, hard and deep but relentlessly slow. Tears ran down her face as she braced herself to take him, wanting him even as he scraped away at her restraint. “Tell me why . . .”

  “Stop,” she sobbed. “Stop asking!”

  “Stop?” He paused midthrust, almost withdrawn. She moaned and tried to push her hips back into his. “You said stop,” he said, holding her in place easily. “Was there something you wished to say?”

  Kate pressed a fist against her mouth. Her heart was burning, her body screaming. If he had been unaffected, she might have been able to do it, but she heard the roughness in his voice and felt the tremors in his hand where he held her. He liked making love to her; perhaps that would be enough. She could make him laugh. He was good to her, the matter with Lady Stanley aside. She would give anything at all for him to love her, but it would kill her if she laid her heart at his feet and he looked at it in shock, horror, amusement.

  “Because you were desperate,” she said recklessly.

  “Was I?” He drove hard into her, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning. “How kind of you to take pity on me.”

  “And I didn’t have time to wait,” she added, gasping as he shoved aside the folds of her skirts and put his hand between her legs.

  “Yes, of course.” He traced a shivery path through the folds of her sex before settling directly on that throbbing nub. “What else?”

  “I thought you were likely to agree.” She groped for the far edge of the table, trying to steady herself.

  “How calculating.” He flicked his thumb, then squeezed, very delicately, and she almost screamed. “Why me?”

  “Because . . .” She could feel her climax building, sending shimmering waves of heat through her veins. “Because . . .”

  “Why?” He rocked back and forth, a tormenting slow motion. “Why, Kate? Is it so terrible? Are you carrying another man’s child? Is there some other threat to your fortune you neglected to reveal to me? Did Charlie and Edward refuse you before you asked me?”

  “No . . . None of that . . .” She closed her eyes.

  “Why, Kate?” He leaned over her, his breath scalding on the nape of her neck. He bit her there, his teeth scraping her skin. He was moving deep inside her now—she could hear in his voice that he was just as close to oblivion as she was—

  “Because I loved you,” she whispered, as her climax came over her, hot and furious and debilitating. Gerard felt it; he growled against her shoulder and held her tightly against him before bucking so hard with his own release it seemed they would both fall to the floor.

  The tide ebbed gradually. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the ragged sound of his breathing. “I loved you,” she whispered again, too drained to move, her breath making shadows of fog on the polished tabletop beneath her cheek. “For years . . . I loved you.”

  He didn’t say anything or move for several minutes. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Vaguely she wondered if she should hope for that, or hope her great secret was finally revealed. “Kate,” he said at last, sounding unutterably weary, “you can’t love someone you don’t know.”

  “I know.” She closed her eyes. “It was silly and childish, but you were kind to me, once—years ago. I know you don’t remember, but I do. It wasn’t real love—calf-love, perhaps—but I never stopped. I never asked anyone else to marry me, nor would I have. If you had said no . . .” She flapped one hand helplessly. “I suppose Lucien might have persuaded me eventually.”

  He raised his head. “When was I kind to you?”

  She sighed. A lone tear ran over the bridge of her nose and congealed under her cheek, cold and wet. “A long time ago. I was caught walking in the rain, and you took me up on your horse and rode me to my gate. I was soaked and miserable, yet you put your coat around me and made me laugh. It was before my father had made his fortune; young gentlemen had no interest in me. But you . . . you were wonderful.”

  The silence was terrible. After a moment he stepped away from her and let her skirts fall. She felt bereft, listening to him restore his clothing. She made no effort to rise, but Gerard lifted her with gentle hands and turned her to him. She tried to compose her countenance and keep her chin up, but the astonished, perplexed expression on his face was awful to behold. “When was this?”

  She swallowed. “Ten . . . no, twelve years ago. It was nothing. I—I was silly to remember it.”

  “I took you up on my horse?” He was frowning now. “A dozen years ago—in ’98 or so?” She nodded once. His frown deepened. “A girl in the rain, near Henfield . . .” he murmured. “I do remember—I think. I had taken Charlie’s horse without permission and was trying to get home before he did. But she was so bedraggled . . . Was it really you, Kate?”

  She just looked at him. Her eyes must be as red and puffy as they felt.

  “And you asked me to marry you because of that?”

  “You were the only man who ever put his arm around me,” she said simply. “Willingly, anyway.”

  He stared at her, thunderstruck. “And you remembered it? That was enough for you to want to marry me?”

  Her chin trembled, and she pressed her lips together to still it. She inhaled and straightened her shoulders. “As I said, my choices were few, and I hadn’t much time.”

  “You might have made a bloody awful mistake!”

  It was beginning to feel like she had. “I met Lord Howe three times before my father signed the marriage contract. No one cared whether we suited each other. My mother told me he was the best match I could hope for. At least I went into my second marriage”—she hesitated—“disposed to like you.”

  His expression changed. “Kate, I didn’t mean it like that—merely that you approached a man you didn’t know, hadn’t spent any time with, had no mutual acquaintances to vouch for him. There are liars and cheats in every level of society, and many would be happy to lead you to the altar without any thought of you beyond your fortune.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “It was a gamble.”

  Gerard stared at her in dumbstruck shock. At least she hoped that was all. Her first, deepest wish, that he would admit he loved her as well, had given way to a secondary wish for escape. She shouldn’t have said anything. The longer he said nothing, the more certain she was that it had been a terrible error to tell him.

  A loud knock sounded at the door. She started. Gerard blink
ed. “Not now!” he growled.

  “ ’Tis urgent, sir,” called Bragg through the door. “About Reverend Ogilvie.”

  Gerard froze. He strode across the room and threw open the door with a snarl. “What?”

  “His son is here,” said Bragg, face scrupulously blank. “Or rather, son-in-law. In the drawing room.”

  For a long moment he was still. Kate could see the tendons in his neck above his neckcloth, which must have been pulled askew when he bent her over the table and tossed up her skirts. “I’ll be right down,” he said quietly, and closed the door.

  Slowly he turned to face her again. The room had never seemed so large as it did right now, when a vast ocean could have filled the distance between them. “I should see him,” he said at last.

  She gave a tiny nod. There was no joy for her in the chance that her letter would bring useful information. It might be the key he needed to unlock the mysteries surrounding his family. That was surely more important to him than her confession of feelings both rash and imprudent, to say nothing of unwanted. “Of course.”

  “Kate, I . . .” He cleared his throat, still looking utterly nonplussed by her admission. “We shall talk more later.” He hesitated a moment, his face dark, then left, closing the door behind him.

  Kate stayed where she was. There was a faint ringing in her ears, and the floor seemed a very long way down. She believed he cared for her, in some way. Gerard was too honorable to mislead her so cruelly, at least by intent. But just as clearly, he didn’t love her. If he had, he surely would have reacted with delight, perhaps even declared his own love for her. And she shouldn’t be surprised. Hadn’t he been just as charming and solicitous of Cora as he’d been of her? Didn’t she already know herself to be quiet and plain, not at all the sort of woman who appealed to hearty, vigorous men? And now he’d all but told her she’d made a mistake in marrying him.

  Feeling very old and stupid, she made her way to the chair, where her knees finally gave out. She didn’t know what to do. Part of her still clung to the hope that it wasn’t too late. Who knew what he might say later? But part of her wondered how long she could withstand it. He hadn’t loved her before she told him, but she’d had no expectation of love from him. It was one thing to nurse a secret infatuation; a secret, after all, couldn’t subject one to rejection and hurt.

  But once the secret was told . . . Now it had the power to wound. Now Gerard knew just how much he owned her—not only her fortune, not only her body, but her very heart. Hearts should never be given, she realized too late. They should only be exchanged. But she had given hers and gotten nothing in return, and it felt like a gaping void inside her chest.

  Birdie tapped at the door. “Madam?”

  She wiped her eyes quickly, dashing away the tears that had gathered. “Come in, Birdie.”

  Her abigail rushed across the room. “Are you well? I heard raised voices. Oh, madam, if he hurt you—”

  “No, Birdie. He didn’t hurt me.” He’d decimated her. Kate took a deep breath and squeezed Birdie’s hand. “We had a slight disagreement.” Another deep breath. She had cast off all her reserve and control and had to reassemble it one brick at a time. “I understand someone called to see Captain de Lacey?”

  Birdie snorted. “Some ferrety little man. A thief, mark my words. But your eyes are red—let me bring some tea.”

  She shook her head. “No, I—I think I shall go for a walk. Some fresh air . . .”

  “Of course. I’ll get your shawl.” Birdie whisked across the room to retrieve it from the wardrobe, where it had been all along. “Shall I bring an umbrella? There are some clouds.”

  Kate got to her feet, slowly, stiffly, like an old woman. “I’ll go alone today, Birdie. Not far, just around the Square and perhaps to the Crescent. If it rains, I’ll be home in a trice.”

  Birdie’s face wrinkled in concern. “Are you certain, madam? You don’t look well.”

  “I am perfectly well,” she said desperately. If the man who had called about Reverend Ogilvie turned out to be nobody, Gerard might come back upstairs. No matter what he said, she needed a little time alone to clear her mind and settle her emotions. She had let her guard fall away and couldn’t face him without at least some semblance of her old armor in place again. She tied on her bonnet with shaking fingers and let Birdie fold the shawl snugly around her shoulders.

  “Don’t go far,” Birdie fussed as she hurried after Kate, down the stairs and through the hall. “Really, madam, I don’t think you ought to go alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Her face heated as she passed the closed parlor door and caught the rumble of Gerard’s voice. “I’ll return in an hour or two.”

  “What should I tell the captain?” cried Birdie, as Kate flung open the door and rushed out.

  She glanced back at her abigail, wringing her hands in the doorway. Her throat constricted. Birdie was acting out of true concern. “Nothing,” she said, her voice breaking at the end. “Nothing but what I’ve told you.” And she turned and fled.

  Chapter 22

  Gerard strode down the stairs. It was just his luck to have someone relevant to his search turn up in his own drawing room when something more shocking had happened. Kate loved him—and had for years. He couldn’t comprehend how one polite gesture, years ago, in circumstances that would surely have moved any gentleman to do the same, could have made such an impression on her. He could have been anyone, for God’s sake, and with no other confirmation of his worth or decency, Kate offered herself up to him more than a decade after he’d been kind—merely kind—to her.

  For a moment he felt ashamed for ever believing her story that she was desperate to escape Lucien by marrying someone else, and that she chose him because his family scandal made him desperate as well. Of course Lucien Howe couldn’t force a woman to marry him, especially not a widow of legal age with her own fortune. The Durham scandal had only just broken when she’d approached him. He should have known there was something more behind it . . . although he never would have guessed what. She loved him! Gerard had been determined to discover her true motives, but now he didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. He had never expected to love his wife. He certainly had never expected her to love him.

  But now he had to put it out of his mind, on the off chance the caller had something significant to say. That alone put him in a short temper. Who would have guessed Kate’s blind query about the Fleet minister would yield anything? He flung open the drawing-room door. “Sir.” He bowed. “I am Captain de Lacey. I understand you are a relation of Reverend Ogilvie.”

  The visitor was a stooped, spare man several decades older than he. The crown of his head shone bald and pale amid his thinning gray hair. He leaned heavily on a cane, but when he turned around, there was nothing frail or unsteady about his eyes. He put Gerard in mind of a giant fledgling, plucked and shriveled.

  “Yes,” murmured the other man. His shiny black gaze traveled up and down Gerard. “Excellent. I am Robert Nollworth.” He gave a bow so stiff, Gerard expected his bones to creak. “I received a letter from your wife, I believe.”

  Receiving a letter was far different from having anything helpful to say. Gerard closed the door behind him and gestured to the sofa. “Indeed. Won’t you be seated?”

  Nollworth dipped his head. “That is very good of you, sir.” He limped to the sofa and seated himself, keeping his cane before him and clasping his spidery fingers about the knob.

  Gerard took the chair opposite, preparing himself for anything. “You believe your father-in-law is the man my wife wrote of?”

  “It’s a long journey to Bath from Allenton,” Mr. Nollworth replied obliquely. “Almost twenty miles. I came yesterday, and I mean to return today.”

  “That was very good of you to come so far. I’m sure a letter in reply would have sufficed.”

  “No, not in this case.” He tapped the side of his long, pointed nose. “Discretion, young man.” Gerard rai
sed his eyebrows in question, but Nollworth merely settled himself on the cushion. “Yes, I was acquainted with the man your wife wrote of.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Gerard, hiding his surprise. “What can you tell me of him?”

  The old man made a face. “Depends. What are you hoping to hear?”

  Nollworth, he realized, was a cardplayer. He alone knew the value of the hand he held, and he meant to win with it. Precisely how much he meant to win was an open question, but Gerard had no doubt there was a figure fixed in the man’s mind. Brilliant. This could take an eternity. He eased back in his own seat, keeping his face carefully blank. “I hope to hear the truth,” he replied.

  “Truth!” Nollworth’s eyes glittered. “Very hard to pin that particular creature down sometimes, eh, young man?”

  “Yes,” said Gerard dryly.

  “It bends and twists and looks one way in one light, and another way entirely from a different perspective. It’s likely the most elusive thing in the world.”

  For a moment they took each other’s measure in silence. “How are you acquainted with Reverend Ogilvie?” he asked at last.

  Nollworth cracked a humorless smile. “Through marriage. My wife is his daughter. His only child.”

  “Then you know where I can find him.”

  “Of course,” said Nollworth, his smile growing. “He’s not hard to find; been in the same place for these last ten years or more. You can find him in the churchyard, lying under a headstone that cost me a pretty penny.”

  Just as he’d hoped. Ogilvie was dead—not really surprising, given he would have been well over eighty if he still lived. The only better news would be that Dorothy Cope had been buried in the same churchyard for forty years. “I’m very sorry for your wife’s loss,” he said politely. “How kind of you to come personally to Bath to tell me.”