Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

No sooner had Thorne stepped away, loins throbbing with unspent lust, than Lady Lark Gramercy came dashing into the churchyard.

He quickly moved behind a stone cross, which was conveniently waist high. There was no concealing his labored breathing, however. Nor Katie’s.

“Oh, there you two are,” Lark said, smiling. “For a moment, I worried you were having some sort of tryst. I should hate for anything to tempt Evan to a sixth duel.” The young woman laughed. “Five is impressive, but six . . . ? Six would just look predictable.”

Katie—Miss Taylor, he scolded himself—plucked a bit of ivy from her hair as she stepped away from the wall. Her cheeks and throat were washed with pink.

“We’ve had a time of it,” she said. “Badger dashed into the churchyard through a hole in the wall and we’ve been searching.”

Bloody hell. Thorne scanned the rows of graves. The pup was missing again.

What a blackguard he was. Not only had he been moments away from desecrating Miss Taylor’s virtue in a churchyard and ruining her future of wealth and comfort—he’d neglected the damn dog. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, furious with himself.

“Go on with Lady Lark,” he told Miss Taylor. “I’ll find him.”

He needed a few minutes to bring his lust into submission anyway.

Once the ladies had left, he whistled. The dog came running straightaway.

And then Thorne spent a quarter hour or so reading the inscription on every last monument in the churchyard, at his usual painfully slow rate. Might as well get acquainted with the people he’d given such a salacious show.

Four rows of dead Wilmingtonians later, his loins had calmed and he believed he might be able to think clearly again. As he left the churchyard, Badger at his heel, he ran both hands through his hair.

What the devil was he doing? Hadn’t he resolved there would be no more kisses? He knew how to withstand purely physical temptation, but her sweetness . . . this was a force unlike any he’d faced before.

If he hadn’t chosen that moment to stop . . . If Lady Lark had arrived just a few seconds earlier . . . Katie—Miss Taylor—would have been caught with her bosom hanging out of her dress. With him hulking and slavering over her like a randy youth getting his first flash of tit.

Thorne had meant what he’d told her. He didn’t use women. Growing up in a whorehouse had left him with contempt for any man who paid for pleasure. And an exchange of coin wasn’t the only way a woman could be used. He’d seen men wield power, privilege, circumstance, and physical violence to have their way.

Sometimes—many times—it all made him disgusted to be a man.

But he was a man. One like all the others, rank with dark cravings and base needs. So he took lovers—but only when he knew the relationship would be mutually satisfying, uncomplicated, and brief.

Nothing with Miss Taylor could be uncomplicated. As for brief . . . ? They had a connection spanning decades.

Today he’d been tempted to use her anyway. Oh, she would have argued that she was willing enough. But he knew what she truly wanted from life. And it sure as hell didn’t involve reclining against a churchyard wall and offering her breast to a crude, uneducated convict. If he’d given in to her pleadings and his own lust, he would have only been using her. To make himself feel stronger, more powerful.

More human.

You are important, she’d said. You need to let someone know you.

When it came to his emotions, no one could get past the stalwart defenses he had erected. No one, that was, until her. She’d been close to him long before all those fortifications were completed. And though she didn’t remember his face or his name, she seemed to recall her way through the network of tunnels. She was gaily skipping past all his Keep the Hell Out barricades, working her way to the center of his soul.

Where all the demons lurked.

He had to find some way to fence her out, before she got hurt. He’d said too much about the past already, and he could never let her know more.

It would ruin her life.

As the Gramercys’ ridiculous picnic pagoda came into view, he drew to a halt in the middle of the meadow and stared at the thing. It seemed that wherever these people went, they built a queer little kingdom of their own—and he was always outside its borders.

Badger sat at his heel, waiting on further direction.

Thorne tossed the pup a bit of dried beef from his pocket, rewarding his patience.

He’d been waiting a long time for a hound like this. While noblemen kept purebred greyhounds and such for their fancy fox hunts, the lurcher was a common man’s hunting dog—a coursing hound specially bred for speed, sight, and intelligence. A good lurcher could chase down rabbits, fowl. Even foxes and deer.

A dog like Badger would make a fine companion in the American wilderness. He was perfectly bred to be obedient, swift, and ruthless in pursuit of the kill.

Miss Taylor couldn’t care less about any of that. She wrung her hands at the idea of Badger catching a vole.

Yet she claimed to love the creature. And for what? The too-long nose, or unevenly patched fur? The pup’s propensity to chew her belongings to bits?

The longer he stared at the dog, the less sense it made.

“What the hell does she see in you?”

“Oh, Badger. What do we see in that man?”

As Kate curled up with the puppy that night, she found and plucked a hidden burr from his undercoat.

“You like him, too,” she said to the pup. “Don’t try to deny it. I can tell you do. Your eyes go all melty when he tosses you the smallest scrap of affection, and when he’s near, you have a tendency to pant.”

She sighed, cupping the puppy’s cone-shaped muzzle in her palm. “Do you want to know a secret? I’m afraid I have the same reaction, and it’s every bit as obvious.”

Badger pawed at a bit of loosened leather binding from a copy of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies.

“Go on, destroy it,” she urged. “There are several hundred more where it came from.”

Copies of the insipid, damaging etiquette book littered the village in scores—and very few of them remained anywhere else in England. As the original patroness of Spindle Cove, Susanna Finch—now Lady Rycliff—had made it her personal mission to remove every possible copy of Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom from circulation.

Badger was welcome to chew his way through them, one by one. Because right now, Kate had no use for proper, ladylike behavior. She flopped back on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, giving in to the temptation to remember.

Her nipples peaked beneath her nightrail. With each rise and fall of her breath, the thin linen teased them harder still. She wanted his hands on them. His mouth on them. His body atop hers, heavy and strong.

She wanted that yearning look in his pale blue eyes, and the sweet, sweet taste of his kiss.

Oh, Thorne.

She lifted one hand to the valley between her breasts and lightly stroked up and down her sternum, dragging the muslin with her touch.

If only he hadn’t suffered that attack of conscience in the churchyard.

Well . . . she had to be honest. Considering the timing of Lark’s appearance, she was rather glad Thorne had stopped when he did.

But if he were here with her right now, he wouldn’t need to stop at all.

Kate slipped loose one button of her nightrail. Then two. She closed her eyes and summoned the green, earthy scent of moss and ferns, blended with a more masculine smell of leather and musk. She recalled the scrape of his whiskers against her palm.

She slipped her hand inside her nightrail, trying to relive the experience through his senses. How did she feel, to him?

Soft, she decided.

So soft. Like warm satin—or the well-worn palms of her oldest, dearest kid gloves. A little springy, like bread dough, in a way that tempted fingers to knead and squeeze. At the areola . . . amusingly wrinkled. A rosette of tightly ruched silk.

She rolled that pursed bud of her nipple beneath her fingertip, trying to recapture the excitement and pleasure of his touch. Imagining his mouth and his wicked, skillful tongue.

It felt good. Very good.

But nowhere near the same. If there was one thing she’d learned over the course of her life, it was that no amount of imagining could make her forget she was alone. If she wanted to recapture that intense, forbidden thrill, Thorne would have to be involved.

She sighed and brought her hand out from the nightrail, flinging her arm above her head.

In the next moment, she was seized by a paroxysm of torment. Badger had found something interesting to nose and lick on the underside of her arm.

“Stop.” Kate convulsed with helpless, ticklish laughter. “Stop, you little imp.”

His cold nose burrowed into the crook of her elbow, rooting and sniffing. She had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from yelping aloud. It was torture of the sweetest, furriest kind.

Once she’d managed to turn on her side and restore order, the dog leaped down from the bed and began circling and sniffing at the carpet.

Kate sat bolt upright.

Oh, no. Oh, no you don’t.

Kate jumped out of bed and jammed her feet into a pair of slippers. She grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it on over her nightrail, hastily knotting the belt at her waist.

“Just wait, Badger darling. Just hold it one minute more . . .”

Scooping up the dog in one arm and taking a candlestick with the other, Kate shouldered open the door of her bedchamber and padded softly down the corridor. The hour was well past midnight, and she didn’t want to wake anyone.

After descending the stairs, she opened the front door of the rooming house a crack. Cool night air rushed over her exposed throat. She set Badger on the ground and pulled her dressing gown closed at the neck.

“Go on.” She shooed him with a hand. “Do your business and come back. I’ll just wait here.”

As Badger scampered across the front garden to have his choice of the hitching posts, a light caught Kate’s eye.

There was a lamp burning in the Bull and Blossom.

Odd.

To be sure, the Bull and Blossom was a tavern, but this was the country—Fosbury always closed up shop by nine or ten at the latest. Village life began with the crack of dawn. What man would be up drinking at this hour?

Perhaps a man occupied by the same thoughts that kept her awake, when all the other ladies were asleep.

It had to be Thorne.

And she simply had to see him.

Kate rewrapped her dressing gown, tying it as modestly as possible. Anyway, it was dark. No one could see much. She blew out her candle, leaving it on the small entry table. Then she shut the door behind her and moved into the garden, summoning Badger to her side with a little chirping noise.

“Come along,” she told him. “We’re going to have an adventure.”

A chill crawled down her spine as she crossed the dark, shadowy village green, but having the dog at her heel was some comfort. Badger might not be fully grown, but he could tickle an attacker into submission, if nothing else.

When she reached the red-painted front door of the Bull and Blossom, she put a hand to the door latch and tested it. It was unlocked.

And vibrating.

She held her breath and opened her ears. From inside the tavern, she detected soft strains of pianoforte music. But they sounded as if they were coming from a long distance away.

The faint chords threw her back to those first hazy memories. She was in that long dark corridor again. Pianoforte music played from somewhere. From below? In her memory, she felt the distant strains of music shivering up through her heels. The arches of her feet tingled.

“See the garden of blossoms so fair . . .”

The corridor was cramped and dark. Endless. But in the darkness, there was something blue.

Be brave, my Katie.

Kate awoke from her trance with a gasp, sucking breath into air-deprived lungs. Her white-knuckled hand remained clasped on the door latch.

She gathered Badger with her other arm, then opened the door and entered.

What she found inside surprised her.

Lord Drewe.

He was seated at the pianoforte, and he had not noticed her entrance.

Light from a small lamp revealed him to be dressed in an open shirt with rolled cuffs and a dark pair of trousers. His feet were hard to see through the shadows, but Kate thought they were bare—just long, pale wedges against the dark floorboards.

He was playing the pianoforte, but with the top closed and the damper pedal pressed to the floor. The result was that no matter how vigorously he attacked the keys—and he was going at them with true fervor—only a faint, music-box sound escaped the instrument.

She could have laughed, if she weren’t so afraid of being caught. Watching a powerful marquess play the pianoforte in this fashion . . . Well, it was a little like watching a side of beef being butchered with a penknife.

Badger wriggled free of her grip.

Kate held her breath, mortified, as he hit the floor with a clatter of tiny claws.

Lord Drewe’s hands froze on the keys and he looked up sharply. He peered hard toward the shadows that concealed her.

“Who’s there?” His voice had a rough, end-of-day quality to it, and his jaw had a dark sprinkling of whiskers. For the first time, he seemed less of an elegant marquess and more of a . . . man.

“It’s only me,” she managed to whisper. “Kate.”

“Oh.” In an instant he’d mastered his shock. He rose from the bench and waved her forward. “Please come in. What a surprise.”

She hated for him to see her in her dressing gown, but it seemed a greater sin to remain hidden. “I’m so sorry. I just took Badger out for a minute, and then I saw the light burning. I was curious. I didn’t mean to interrupt your . . .” She bit her lip. “Your seething.”

He smiled and laughed a little.

Kate released her breath, relieved. “I’m so glad you laughed.”

“Were you thinking I wouldn’t?”

“I wasn’t sure. To tease you felt like a risk, but I couldn’t resist.” She approached the pianoforte. “I didn’t know you played.”

“Oh, yes. My brother Bennett does as well—or at least, he used to. Oddly enough, none of my sisters show much inclination for it. It seems to be a trait confined to the Gramercy men.” A half smile tugged at his mouth. “That is, on our side of the family.”

“Do you know if my—if Simon Gramercy played?”

“I believe he did.” Lord Drewe slid down the bench and gestured for her to sit. “Shall we try a duet?”

“I’d like nothing more.”

She choose a simple piece—one of those easy duets that all novice pianists learn with their tutors. Kate had played the lower part of it countless times with her students. Today, she took the upper part, and Lord Drewe quickly entered with the bass.

He was good. Very good. Within a few measures, she could discern his skill. He had long, deft fingers and a reach that she envied. But his talent went deeper than mere skill—he possessed a natural musicality that even a gifted teacher could not impart. Seldom did she have a pupil who could match her for training, but occasionally one came close.

This was the first time in years she’d felt herself truly bested.

But it was marvelous. As they played, she felt him making her better. She soon left the proscribed boundaries of the exercise, taking the melody down different paths. He followed her lead, occasionally made his own suggestions with a new, surprising chord. It would have been difficult to explain to anyone who didn’t play—but the duet was a conversation. They responded to one another, adjusting tempo and dynamics. They finished one another’s phrases. They even told each other jokes.

His technique was flawless; his style, restrained. But she sensed true passion beneath it all.

When they ended the duet with a playful flourish and one final, muted secret of a chord, they looked to each other.

“Well, then,” he said. “That seals it. You must be part of the family.”

Her heart missed a beat. “What are you saying? Did you have some news, some result from the inquiries . . . ?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But there’s so much indirect evidence. We’ve spent the whole week with you, and we’re all agreed. You simply fit in, Kate. This”—he indicated the pianoforte—“is just one more reason. In my mind, the investigation is concluded. Don’t you feel it, too?”

Kate didn’t feel certain of anything—except that she was most certainly going to cry. She tried to hold the tears back, but a few spilled over. She swiped at them with the side of her wrist.

A few moments passed before she could speak. “Lord Drewe, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“To begin with, you must call me Evan now. And no thanks are necessary.”

Kate drew up her legs beneath her dressing gown and angled to face him on the piano bench. If he was truly her cousin, she now had the right to fuss over him. “Why are you up so late, Evan?”

“I might ask you the same thing.” One dark eyebrow arched. “I won’t believe it was only the dog.”

When she stammered a bit in response, he waved off her explanations.

“It’s all right. You needn’t manufacture excuses. We’re all a bit haunted, we Gramercys. Each of us has a passion. My sister Calista—you’ll meet her soon—has always been wild for nature. Harriet lives for drama, and Lark loves a puzzle. Our brother Bennett would tell you his passion is vice, but he once had nobler pursuits.”

“So your passion is music?”

He shook his head. “I enjoy music, and I often take refuge in it. But music is not what makes me . . .”

“Seethe,” she finished.

He smiled. “Precisely.”

“Then what is it? Or whom?” The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to ask.”

“No, it is your place. Because you’re part of it now. My passion is the family, Kate. This title I’ve inherited, the responsibilities of managing several estates. Being a good steward of the land. Taking care of those in my protection. Guarding my siblings from themselves.”

He stared into the corner, and Kate took the opportunity to study him. She noted the small creases at the corners of his eyes. Here and there she could glimpse a thread of silver in his dark hair. But these subtle signs of age looked well on him. They harmonized with his worldly demeanor, as though his body were learning to reflect the maturity of the soul inside. He was a fine-looking man by any standard, but she suspected his most handsome years were yet to come.

He pushed a hand through his hair. “Corporal Thorne does not like me.”

She startled at the abrupt change of topic. “Oh, please don’t believe that. If you go by appearances, Corporal Thorne doesn’t like anyone. He’s very . . . reserved.”

“Perhaps. But he resents me in particular, and for good reason. He believes that I should have known of your existence, and that I should have tried harder to find you. I know he’s right.”

“You couldn’t possibly have known. You were only a youth when you inherited.”

“But you were just a girl, living penniless and alone.” He rubbed his temple. “As you might have gathered . . . a violent temper is one of my worst faults. I have no patience for those who cross my family.”

A rather grave understatement, Kate thought, given the five duels. His having walked away unscathed from one or two such confrontations would be impressive enough, but . . .

Five.

Evan sighed heavily. “This is what Corporal Thorne does not appreciate. No one can be angrier with me than I am with myself. You’ve been wronged, Kate, and I have no one to call out. No malfeasance to blame but my own inattention. Someday, I will ask you to forgive me. But not tonight.”

Kate leaned forward, boldly placing her hand on his arm. “There is no need. Please believe me when I tell you I have no room for bitterness or rancor in my heart. It’s too full of joy and gratitude. I’m so happy to have a family at long last.”

“I am soothed to hear it.” He took her hand in his and regarded it carefully. Thoughtfully. “Do you care for him?”

“Thorne? I . . .” She hesitated, but only to choose her phrasing. The answer was instinctive. “I do care. I care very much.”

“Do you love him?”

Now here was something she’d been avoiding asking herself. But she couldn’t let pass the opportunity to unburden her heart. Evan was family.

“I think I could come to love him,” she said. “If he would let me.”

Evan’s thumb rubbed a lazy circle on the back of her hand. “It’s plain you have a brave and generous heart. I imagine you could love just about anyone, if you made up your mind to do it. But you deserve a man who can love you in return.”

Kate smiled a little, nervously.

His grasp on her hand was warm and firm. “I mean to take care of you. I want you to know this. If there’s no legacy allotted in the terms of Simon’s estate, I will ensure that you have one. You will be an independent woman of significant wealth. A woman with choices.” He leaned meaningfully on that last word.

She swallowed. “Evan, you needn’t do that for me. I’ve never had any expectation of—”

“I have expectations of myself, Kate.” His eyes glittered in the dark. “I have a passion for protecting this family. And that passion now extends to you.”

A silence opened between them. As they regarded one another, Kate’s curiosity grew.

He had a “passion” for her. The insides of her elbows tingled. What did that mean, exactly?

“Corporal Thorne is a good man,” she said.

“Perhaps. But is he the best man for you?” He looked down at where their hands remained linked. “Kate, it’s possible we won’t accumulate enough evidence to satisfy the courts of your identity. But that’s not the only way I can give you the family name.”

She stared at him through the flickering shadows. Surely he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. He couldn’t possibly be hinting at—

A floorboard creaked, and Kate startled.

Evan released her hand. “Just the dog. Don’t be alarmed.”

Relief washed over her. Nothing improper had passed between the two of them. At least, she didn’t think it had. But she cringed to imagine how the scene could have looked to a gossip-minded villager. That would be a juicy rumor for Sally Bright to stock in the All Things shop—Miss Taylor holding hands with Lord Drewe, when she was engaged to Corporal Thorne?

But no one would believe that rumor, Kate assured herself. A girl like her, courted by two virile, powerful men—and one of them a lord? She felt silly for even entertaining the idea herself.

Wrapping her dressing gown tight around her chest, she rose from the chair and gathered Badger.

“I’d best go back to the rooming house,” she said. “Please don’t stay up too late seething on my account.”

He gave her an intent look and a cryptic smile. “I make no promises.”