A Reckless Bargain Part 11

Yes, she was in very great danger. Very great danger, indeed.

Late the next morning, Lord Bainbridge reined his gray gelding, Achilles, to a halt a short distance behind the Temple of Virtues. His lips quirked. To think that he had asked Kit to meet him here, of all places, when virtue was the farthest thing from his mind. But the house had too many curious ears, the largest of which belonged to Lady Elizabeth.

Not that he had anything against the d.u.c.h.ess's sister, mind you. She was quite appealing-if one happened to like clinging vines. Lud, the little vixen had all but thrown herself at him and professed her undying love when he had emerged from the duke's study this morning. He had eventually pried himself away from her, but Tolliver, his valet, had been most distressed by the sad creasing the young lady had given his lapels. Surely his light flirtations over the years had not given her any ideas; at twenty-two, Lady Elizabeth should know better. She'd had four Seasons, and turned down offers from any number of bucks more handsome and well heeled than he. He shrugged. Yes, he would have to marry eventually, but when he did he would not choose a woman who would choke the life out of him with her constant need for attention. He wanted someone who would not see him as merely a t.i.tle, a yearly income, or a trophy. Someone who could see beyond his reputation to who he really was. Someone like Kit.

He blinked. Good G.o.d, where had that come from?

He slid from the saddle with unusual awkwardness and landed with a thump on the springy turf. Achilles turned his great head and whickered. The marquess gave the gray's neck an absent pat. "I'm all right, old fellow. I just find myself easily distracted these days."

He let the reins dangle, and Achilles immediately put his head down to graze. Bainbridge rubbed the back of his neck, perplexed by this strange notion. Marriage? To Kit? What had put that into his head? He did not have time for such flights of fancy; he had business to attend to.

He found Kit pacing inside the folly's domed rotunda, her hands clasped behind her back, staring fixedly at the inlaid patterns in the marble floor. Sunlight filtered through the stained-gla.s.s panels in the arched ceiling, creating a halo over her gold-crowned head. She had done her hair up again today, and he found his gaze drawn to the soft, diminutive curls at the nape of her neck. For a moment, a brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to run his lips over those downy swirls and feel her shiver with pleasure. Then he shook himself. d.a.m.n it, he promised himself that he would be more guarded, and these indulgent fantasies were anything but.

Fortunately, she had not heard him approach, and so did not notice him staring. He sent silent thanks heavenward, then leaned against one of the stone urns inside the entrance to the folly and forcefully cleared his throat.

Kit jumped. "Nicholas! You startled me."

G.o.d, how he liked the sound of his name on her lips. Those lush lips that all but begged to be kissed . . . Ah, no more of that, if he valued his sanity.

"Forgive me for interrupting you," he managed to say. "If you prefer, I can come back another time. . . ."

"Stop teasing." Her face seemed to glow with antic.i.p.ation as she hurried toward him. "What did the duke have to say?"

"What, not so much as a 'good afternoon'?" He grinned at her. "You wound me, madam."

She scowled back at him. "You are a wretch, my lord, and you delight in tormenting me."

"Only because I love to watch your eyes shoot those delightful green sparks."

"What nonsense," she bl.u.s.tered, but he could see a rosy pink flush steal across the high-arched planes of her cheekbones. She retreated a pace. "Please tell me what happened. Did you meet with the duke?"

Bainbridge held up his hands and relented. "All right-I shan't tease you any longer. Yes, I met with His Grace about an hour ago. Wexcombe was not exactly overjoyed at the idea of a compromise, but I think I managed to make him see the wisdom of it."

"And how did you do that?" she asked, skeptical.

"At first I pointed out that this arrangement would keep both of them content, but he was still determined to have his own way. Then I simply stated that I did not agree with his a.s.sessment of the dowager's limitations, that I did not appreciate his high-handed manner in dealing with her, and neither would the ton once I let slip what he had done to his own grandmother."

"Never say you resorted to such underhanded methods." The hint of a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.

He shrugged. "I did. Wexcombe does not care a fig for what Society thinks of him-he is a duke, after all-but he will go to great lengths to avoid any hint of scandal. He is rather proud."

"So I had noticed," she replied with a trace of annoyance. "How should we proceed from here?"

"Wexcombe has planned a meeting with his bailiff this afternoon, and with the ball at Shering Park this evening, perhaps we had best wait until tomorrow morning. Everyone should be in an amiable mood, and we can settle this issue once and for all. And then . . ."

"And then-what?" Her gaze slid away from his face. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

Bainbridge's mouth went dry.

Tell her the truth, you great oaf. Tell her and regain your sanity!

"Do not tell me, Kit, that you still cringe at the thought of being my mistress," he heard himself say. "Is the prospect so unpleasant?" So much for honesty.

Her incredible jade eyes widened. "N-no," she stammered. "Not unpleasant. Merely . . . unnerving."

"How so?"

"As I told you yesterday, my lord, I hardly know you."

"Oh, please, my dear Kit, not another of your virginal protests," drawled the marquess. "I thought we were past those."

"Hardly, sir," she reproached him. "I told you I have every intention of fulfilling my portion of our bargain. Indeed, I am resigned to it."

"Resigned?" He raised an eyebrow. "How lowering. You do my reputation as a rake no credit, sweet Katherine."

"I should hope not, my lord. But I am curious. . . . Any number of London beauties must be eager for your company. Is that not so?"

"True," he admitted. His brow inched upward another notch. What was she getting at?

"Then why me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I am no Toast, sir, nor a diamond of the first water. My looks are too . . . unusual to conform to the standard of English beauty celebrated by society. So what is it about me that prompted you to propose this arrangement, rather than simply agreeing to a.s.sist me?"

Tell her.

What could he tell her? My deepest apologies, Mrs. Mallory, but I only pretended to seduce you in order to discover the true nature of your character? G.o.d, that disgusted even him, the rake who had never claimed to possess an ounce of principle when it came to the fairer s.e.x. Until now. But he had not pretended his attraction to her, which even now was enough to drive him mad.

Kit waited, gazing at him expectantly.

"You seem to labor under the misconception that you are undesirable," he replied, choosing his words with care. "But I fail to see why."

Her gaze did not waver. "That does not answer my question, my lord. Is it simply because I am a widow, and therefore fair game?"

"No, although it does add spice to the equation."

"Ah." Disappointment clouded her eyes.

"And as for your perceived lack of beauty, Kit, I disagree with you. True, you will never be an English rose, but I think of you more like some exotic flower transplanted from a faraway garden."

She started. "I was not fishing for compliments, my lord, I a.s.sure you," she said with an embarra.s.sed laugh.

Bainbridge grinned. "I am not offering you Spanish coin, Kit. I happen to find the combination of beauty and a strong will infinitely appealing."

Her laughter faded. "You do?"

The scent of her perfume drifted past, tantalizing him. He closed the distance between them.

"Let me show you," he breathed. He tilted her chin up, then leaned down and kissed her.

Everything about her aroused him-the scent of her skin, the soft curls that framed her face, the taste of her lips, the slender span of her waist beneath his hands. G.o.d, he didn't want to kiss her so much as devour her. Her mouth parted beneath his a.s.sault; her arms wrapped around him, and her body relaxed into his embrace. Every curve and swell seemed to fit so perfectly against him.

She tipped her head back; his lips strayed down her neck until he found the soft hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse throbbed at a wild, almost frantic tempo. He cupped her breast, and a ragged moan escaped her.

The sound brought Bainbridge back to his senses, however temporarily. Like a man in a dream, he drew back and looked down at her. Kit remained motionless in his arms, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was his for the taking. Dear G.o.d. If he didn't stop himself now, he'd have her propped up against one of the stone urns, her skirts rucked up about her thighs. The very thought sent another dangerous jolt of desire through him. With deliberate care, he released her. She wobbled a bit, then opened her eyes and stared at him.

"Now-never again doubt that I desire you," he said, his voice rough.

"Nicholas, I-"

Achilles's nervous whinny distracted them. Kit sprang back, a guilty look on her face, as a harried footman came pelting across the folly's stone portico.

"Lord Bainbridge?" The man halted in the doorway, gasping for air. "My lord?"

With a frown, the marquess stepped forward. "Yes, what is it, man?"

"His Grace begs you . . . to come . . . to the house . . . at once," the footman panted.

"What is it?" Kit asked, her eyes huge. "What is wrong?"

"The dowager d.u.c.h.ess," gulped the footman. "She has taken a terrible fall down the stairs."

Chapter Eight.

A dark pit seemed to open beneath Kit's feet. Her pulse hammered in her chest. The clammy sheen of perspiration dewed her upper lip. "W-what?"

"You must come at once," wheezed the footman.

"Has Wexcombe sent for a physician?" the marquess asked.

"Yes, my lord," the servant gasped. "But she's in a bad way."

Lord Bainbridge muttered an oath beneath his breath, then turned to Kit. "We must get back to the house-"

Kit did not wait for him to finish; she gathered up her skirts and dashed from the folly. Behind her, she heard the marquess bellow to the footman to return his horse to the stables, followed by the sound of his booted strides behind her. Together they raced up the hill and through the French doors at the back of the house.

Kit hurried toward the broad expanse of the marble staircase and started up the stairs two at a time. A small object on the landing drew her attention. She bent down to retrieve it, her hands shaking. The dowager's lace cap. With a cry, she launched herself up the stairs.

In the hall outside the dowager's bedchamber, chaos reigned. The d.u.c.h.ess directed an army of servants, their faces creased with worry and anxiety, in and out of the room, carrying pillows, blankets, and trays laden with cloths and basins of water. Lady Elizabeth sat crumpled in a chair in the hallway, weeping, while the duke stood over her with his fists planted on his hips, his face contorted in a snarl.

"I didn't mean to do it!" wailed Lady Elizabeth. Hysteria tinged her voice. "It was an accident, I swear!"

"An accident?" the duke roared. "You have a screaming match with my grandmother, then she just happens to fall down the stairs? Do you take me for a fool, Elizabeth?"

Kit stood in the middle of the hall, paralyzed by what she had just heard. She clasped the dowager's cap to her breast.

Lord Bainbridge pulled up by her side. "What the devil is going on here?"

Lady Elizabeth looked up at him with reddened eyes; tears streamed in long trails down her pallid cheeks. She vaulted from the chair and flung herself against him, clutching at his lapels.

"You must believe me, my lord!" she begged. "It was all an accident!"

The marquess disengaged the young woman's hands from his jacket. His dark eyes narrowed, and something in his expression-something intent and utterly ruthless-made Kit shiver.

"I think you had best tell me what happened," he snapped.

Lady Elizabeth turned pleading eyes to him. "After . . . after we spoke this morning, she accosted me and began to upbraid me in the most appalling manner. She would not stop, my lord, despite all my protests. She even followed me up the stairs, calling me the most vicious names imaginable-"

"I find that rather difficult to believe," Bainbridge interjected, the hint of a growl rumbling through his words. "What did she really say to you? The truth, Elizabeth. Now."

Lady Elizabeth paled. "She demanded that I stop throwing myself at you, and then . . . then she called me a brazen hussy who was no better than she should be!"

The marquess did not so much as blink. "And then what did you do?"

"When I reached the top of the stairs, I turned and screamed at her to leave me alone, but she was right behind me, and I think . . . I think I must have startled her, for she stumbled backward. You must believe me-I didn't mean for her to fall!"

"Good G.o.d . . . what have you done?" Kit whispered, horrified.

Lady Elizabeth shot a fulminating glare in Kit's direction, then turned in desperation back to the marquess. "I have not done anything. It was an accident. You do believe me, don't you?"

Bainbridge's mouth hardened. "Did anyone else see it happen?"

"N-no, but-"

"Then I have only your word on the matter."

"But, Nicholas, you must believe me. You love me-"

A muscle twitched at the corner of the marquess's jaw. "I thought you had more sense than that, madam. I see now that I was mistaken."

The woman paled even further.

The cold, sick feeling in the pit of Kit's stomach expanded upward until it seemed to penetrate her very heart. Nicholas and Lady Elizabeth? She shuddered, then shoved the thought from her mind. "I must see Her Grace; I cannot wait any longer."

Turning her back on the others in the hall, she rushed into the elderly woman's bedchamber. What she saw stopped her dead in the middle of the room. Tears p.r.i.c.ked her eyes; a lump welled up in her throat. Lord, the dowager looked so still and ashen in that great bed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Kit clapped a hand over her mouth to m.u.f.fle her gasp of horror.

By the dowager's bedside, the d.u.c.h.ess turned, recognized her, and was instantly wary.

"Let me sit with her a while," Kit begged.