A Reckless Bargain Part 3

"Do not let his easy manner fool you, my dear. The marquess is a rake, a scoundrel who leaves nothing but broken hearts in his wake. He has quite a reputation in London, you know. You would do well to be on your guard around him."

A rake? The word reverberated in Kit's ears. Well, that would explain his calculated flirtation. Or would it? Why would such a man even bother with her? She was a drab little wren when compared with the ethereal Lady Elizabeth, and yet he had called her attractive. Was his kindness to her an act? A prelude to seduction? Perhaps, yet his concern had seemed so sincere. Kit worried her lower lip between her teeth. What was she supposed to believe?

The rational side of her intellect warned her to avoid him. The irrational side was attracted to him, and infinitely intrigued. The marquess was amiable, handsome, and witty-everything George was not. Forbidden fruit, indeed.

The dowager patted Kit's arm with one wrinkled, blue-veined hand. "My great-nephew can be quite charming, but rakes never make good husbands."

"Good husbands?" Kit echoed. Then she sighed. She really must put a stop to that.

"No, not at all. Until they've been properly tamed, that is."

Kit's brows knit together. "What are you up to, Your Grace?"

"Why, nothing, child. I only thought to give you some good advice."

"Well, you need not concern yourself overmuch, ma'am, for I have no intention of marrying the marquess, or anyone else, for that matter!"

"I am glad to hear it. Perhaps now you can tell me about what else has been troubling you."

"Troubling-?" Kit caught herself just in time.

The dowager nodded, and the ever-present ostrich plumes in her headdress nodded with her. "Quite. You've been cross as crabs ever since we left Bath."

Kit swallowed. "I have not," she lied.

"Really?" drawled the dowager d.u.c.h.ess. "You forget how well I know you, my dear."

"It is a matter of little consequence," the young woman insisted. Her argument was with the duke, and the duke alone. Although she loved the older woman dearly, she did not want the dowager to fight her battles for her.

The d.u.c.h.ess was not convinced. "Oh?"

Coldness washed over Kit. The dowager's perceptiveness threatened her resolve; the more she had to deceive the d.u.c.h.ess, the less she liked it. "Nothing I cannot deal with upon our return, I a.s.sure you. And I apologize for being so out of temper."

The dowager peered intently at Kit. "I am willing to listen, child, if you wish to talk about it."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Kit replied with a wan smile, "but it's really not necessary."

When they arrived at the dowager's bedchamber, the elderly woman hesitated in the open doorway. She gave Kit's fingers a gentle squeeze. "If you need help, my dear, or a.s.sistance of any kind, you know you can always come to me."

"I appreciate your generosity, ma'am, but everything will turn up trumps," Kit answered. Then, in a whisper, she added, "I hope."

Chapter Three.

The next day dawned fair and warm, and the d.u.c.h.ess's suggestion of a drive to Stow-on-the-Wold garnered great enthusiasm from everyone but Kit, who pleaded a megrim and asked to remain behind.

"Are you certain, child?" asked the dowager, peering intently at her.

"I shall be fine, ma'am," Kit hastened to a.s.sure her. "It will pa.s.s. I just need to rest for a while."

"You do look a trifle f.a.gged. Perhaps Lady Elizabeth should stay behind and sit with you," the dowager suggested.

The thought of spending time alone with the d.u.c.h.ess's spiteful sister made Kit's abused temples throb all the more. And judging from the distasteful expression on her face, Lady Elizabeth welcomed the proposal no more than she did.

" 'Tis only a megrim," she replied before the elderly woman could become too fond of the idea. "Lakshmi can look after me. I would not wish to deprive any of you of this lovely weather."

"Well, all right," the dowager agreed, obviously reluctant. "We shall not be gone long, and I shall check on you when we return."

Kit watched from the doorway as the ladies climbed into the open carriage and the gentlemen mounted their horses.

Lord Bainbridge nudged his steel gray gelding close to her; he tipped his hat and favored her with a slight smile. "I do hope you will be well enough to join us for dinner. I am counting on you to rescue me from another of Caro's attempts on the pianoforte."

In his forest green jacket and buckskin breeches that hugged every curve of his muscular legs, the sight of him robbed Kit of breath. "I shall try, my lord," she managed at length, "but I make no guarantees."

He threw a brief glance over his shoulder at the d.u.c.h.ess, who was holding down her fancy plumed bonnet against the a.s.sault of the mischievous breeze. "Then I shall pray for your immediate recovery," he drawled, and winked at her.

Kit gaped at him, but before she could form a reply the marquess replaced his curly-brimmed beaver atop his head and took up the reins. Then, in a clatter of hooves and crunch of gravel, the group was off down the driveway, trailing dust in their wake.

She watched them depart, one hand lifted in farewell, before pulling her paisley wool shawl closer about her shoulders and going back into the house.

The young woman wandered down the main hallway, absorbed in thought. Her headache was real enough, but more than anything she wanted solitude. A walk out-of-doors would give her an opportunity to make some sense of her disordered thoughts. She headed toward the back of the house.

Her temples continued to throb with a dull, steady ache, as they had ever since she'd awakened. What a wretched night-nothing but hours spent lying awake staring at the pleated damask canopy above her bed, interspersed with short bouts of uneasy sleep. Even though she had drifted off eventually, she had not been asleep for very long before Lakshmi came to wake her.

She glimpsed her reflection as she pa.s.sed by a wall-mounted mirror. Her dark blond brows formed a forbidding line across her furrowed forehead, and lines of anger and annoyance pulled at her mouth. Add to that the dark smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep, and she looked as awful as she felt. She made a face at her mirror self, then continued on, her arms wrapped around her body, her fingers clenched in her shawl.

The duke had refused to see her this morning. She had tried to speak to him before breakfast, but he had only glared down his aquiline nose and declared himself too busy at the moment to deal with her. When Kit persisted, His Grace snidely suggested that she make an appointment with his secretary, then turned on his heel and walked away.

She ground her teeth together. Some of the English n.o.bles in Calcutta had condescended to her-and she had expected as much from them, given her husband's situation-but never had she been treated in such a rude and demeaning manner as she had this morning. Kit thrust open the French doors in the drawing room and crossed the slate-tiled patio in determined strides. She marched down the steps, through the garden, and past the manicured boxwood hedge before she realized that she had no idea where she was going.

Summer sunlight fell on her face and shoulders, and she tilted her head to meet its welcome warmth. Shielding her eyes against the brightness, she paused to survey her surroundings. She stood at the top of a gentle hill; below her, separated by a broad expanse of lawn, lay a man-made lake, sun-scattered diamonds winking on its rippled surface. A Grecian-style folly, complete with Ionic columns and a domed rotunda, presided over the sh.o.r.e on the far side. Beyond the lake, acres of field and forest flourished with verdant growth. Clouds of wooly sheep drifted through the rolling meadows. The brisk breeze, redolent with the odors of manure and freshly turned earth, blew a lock of loosened hair into her eyes.

She sat down on the gra.s.s, her legs folded beneath her. In this bucolic setting, the smells and noise and riot of color that was Calcutta seemed particularly far away. Her heart twisted. If George had not gone and gotten himself killed on that tiger hunt, she would still be there. At home.

Home. The word evoked the rustle of the breeze through the coconut trees, the patter of the monsoon rains on the roof, and the heavy, intoxicating scent of cape jasmine, the white flower that the Hindus called " gandharaj." Happy memories, despite the farce that was her marriage. Her recollections of England were far less pleasant, but she would make new ones.

From across the lake drifted the sound of children's voices. Kit watched two figures, a girl and a small boy, come galloping out of the folly and along the sh.o.r.e of the lake on what looked like wooden stick horses. Behind them, a plump, soberly dressed woman followed at a more sedate pace.

Kit lifted a hand against the sun's glare as the two children approached, whooping and laughing. The girl appeared to be about five, with dusky curls drawn up in a blue ribbon that matched the sash of her muslin dress. The boy, whom Kit guessed to be a year or so younger than his sister, had tousled golden brown hair. His chubby features resembled the duke's, but there ended any similarity. Gra.s.s stains smudged the knees of his trousers, and somewhere along the line he had lost a b.u.t.ton from his jacket.

The dowager had mentioned her great-grandchildren, but Kit had yet to meet them. She could not resist; she climbed to her feet. She made her way down the hill, waving to them as they approached.

"h.e.l.lo!" she called. "What a fine day for a race! Won't you come and show me your ponies?"

The boy and girl saw her and slowed to a walk. The laughter left their faces; the little boy retreated behind his sister as Kit drew near.

"h.e.l.lo," Kit repeated, giving them her best smile. She knelt down so her head was level with theirs. "What is your name?"

"I'm Emma," announced the girl, her gray eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Are you the bad lady?"

Kit blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Mama told Miss Pym to keep us away from the bad lady who was coming to visit. Well, are you?"

A chill coursed through Kit. Why would the d.u.c.h.ess say such a thing? And what exactly did she mean by it?

"No," she replied, "I'm not a bad lady. My name is Kit, and I like children very much."

The boy peered out from behind his sister. "I'm Nathaniel," he murmured, his eyes huge.

"h.e.l.lo, Nathaniel. I am very glad to meet you and your sister."

Emma did not appear convinced; she continued to regard Kit with belligerent wariness. "Did you come from Perdition?" she demanded. "Mama said she wished you were back there. Is that in France?"

"No," Kit replied, swallowing her shock, "I do not believe it is. But I am not from Perdition; I come from India."

"India!" Emma gasped, and at once her features transformed from distrustful to awestruck. "Great-Grandmama has been to India, too! She told us all sorts of stories about tigers, and elephants, and monkeys, and . . . and . . ."

". . . and peac.o.c.ks, and water buffalo, and sacred bulls with garlands of flowers on their horns?" Kit prompted.

The little girl beamed at her, eyes wide with wonder. "Yes!"

The governess caught up with them, blowing hard, her face red as though she'd been running. She cast a frantic look at Kit, then latched on to Nathaniel's hand. "Come, children. Time to go into the house." She reached out her other hand for Emma, but the girl pulled away.

"No! I want to hear a story about India. Kit has been there, too, just like Great-Grandmama."

Miss Pym's nostrils flared. "I will tell you a story when we return to the nursery."

Emma stamped her foot. "I want Kit to tell me a story about India!" she shrilled.

"I'm sure Mrs. Mallory is far too busy to tell you any stories today," insisted Miss Pym. She darted another nervous glance at Kit. "Now, come along."

Kit climbed slowly to her feet and brushed the gra.s.s from her skirt. Her shoulders drew taut. "It's all right, Emma. Perhaps I can tell you a story tomorrow."

"No, now!" the girl cried. "Please?"

"Emma, a young lady should never raise her voice," Kit instructed gently. "I'm sure there will be plenty of time for stories later."

"Well," began a fl.u.s.tered Miss Pym, "I'm not sure that-"

"Oh, come now, Miss Pym," came a roguish chuckle from behind them. "Surely you can manage to fit one story into the children's busy schedule."

Kit whirled. Lord Bainbridge strolled toward them, a jaunty grin on his face.

The governess swallowed hard, then bobbed a nervous curtsy to the marquess. "I will see what can be arranged," she replied, her lips flattened in a thin line. "Come inside Master Nathaniel, Lady Emma. Now."

Emma allowed Miss Pym to s.n.a.t.c.h up her small hand. She turned pleading eyes to Kit. "Promise you'll tell us a story?"

"Promise?" echoed Nathaniel. He stared beseechingly at her, his lower lip a-quiver.

"I promise," Kit murmured, putting on her bravest face.

She watched in silent anger as the dumpling governess dragged the two reluctant children and their toys up the hill and into the house.

"I take it your headache is better?" Bainbridge inquired in an innocent tone.

Kit flushed. Actually, the throbbing had progressed from her temples to the base of her skull, but she was determined to ignore it. "Well enough," she replied stiffly. "What are you doing here, my lord? Making sure I don't run off with the silver?" She bit her lip; she hadn't meant for that last part to slip out.

The marquess's grin widened. "Not at all. The dowager d.u.c.h.ess was worried about you and asked me if I would return to the house to keep you company."

"Why did she send you?" Kit wondered aloud.

"She thought you might look more favorably on my company than that of Lady Elizabeth."

"You are correct, my lord. Five minutes in that lady's company and we are at daggers drawn."

"I am unarmed, I a.s.sure you," he said, amus.e.m.e.nt dancing in his dark eyes. "May I escort you back up to the house?"

She looked up at the Palladian grandeur of Broadwell Manor, at the path so recently taken by the duke's two children. Her smile faded. "Tell me something, my lord-why would the d.u.c.h.ess ask Miss Pym to keep the children away from me?"

"What?" The marquess's brow puckered. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Not 'what,' my lord-'who.' Emma asked me very distinctly if I was the bad lady about whom her mama had warned Miss Pym."

"Out of the mouths of babes," murmured Lord Bainbridge.

Kit continued to regard him with a steady, searching gaze. "What is going on here, sir? I suppose that pride and protectiveness may account for a portion of the Their Graces' behavior, but to think I would be an immoral influence on their children without even knowing who I am-that is ridiculous."

Bainbridge silently berated his sudden predicament; young Emma's unfailing honesty had left him in a devil of a bind. He decided to change the subject.

"Come take a turn around the lake with me," he said, proffering his arm.

She hesitated. "I do not think it wise that I be alone with you, sir."

She was a cautious creature, but he enjoyed a challenge. "The garden, then." When she hesitated, he added, "I a.s.sure you that we shall be in full sight of the house at all times."

Mrs. Mallory stared at him for a moment, her lower lip caught between her teeth in a very appealing manner; then she laid her hand upon his arm. Her touch, though very light, sent a jolt of awareness through his body. Her tawny hair and unusual eyes gave her a striking appearance; she did not conform to the standards of English beauty, yet he found her d.a.m.nably attractive. He couldn't put his finger on an exact reason why, but he did nonetheless. She seemed quite slender, but as she walked up the hill with him, he thought he detected the suggestion of curves beneath her shapeless brown sack of a dress. Interesting.

"Her Grace's tales of India are legendary in this house," he remarked. "She has made Caro faint on more than one occasion."

Mrs. Mallory laughed, a delightful, throaty ripple. "I will have to ask Her Grace what produced such a reaction; perhaps I might be so fortunate."

"I am sure you have quite a few stories of your own. Did you live in India long?" he asked.