Anita Mills (20 page)

“It was exceedingly kind of you to lead Miss Dunham out,” she said softly.

His eyebrows lifted. “Doing it too brown, Miss Gordon. As you will recall, I was prodded into it.”

“Still, you could have resisted.”

“What—the Ice Maiden thaws? Can it be that I am finally to be forgiven?”

“I suppose there is something to be forgiven on either side, and your attempt at revenge was justified,” she conceded.

“Revenge had nothing to do with it, I assure you.”

Her eyes widened at the warmth in his voice, and she dared to meet his gaze. He was smiling in a manner that almost curled her toes. It was as though they were the only people in the room.

“I am heartily sorry for overdosing you,” she said finally. “Truly sorry. And for everything else.”

“Well, the price was worth—”

“Red Jack! Red Jack Rayne! And damme if it ain’t—Mrs. Smith!”

For an awful moment, she stared up into Colonel Barswell’s thunderstruck face, wishing that somehow she could sink from view. “Uh, there must be some—”

“Hullo, James.” Jack’s hand took possession of Kitty’s in her lap. “May I present Miss Catherine Gordon, my betrothed?”

The room spun around her, and there was a sudden air of unreality about her. His warm fingers clasped her suddenly cold ones tightly. Above her, Colonel Barswell’s face swam.

“I say, but—” He looked from Kitty to Jack suspiciously. “It was you!” he announced suddenly. “John Smith indeed!”

“ ’Tis a long tale, but I can explain,” Jack insisted. “Come over to my house and we’ll split a bottle of Madeira over it. Suffice it to say that I had reason.”

“Don’t see what—lying to a magistrate—”

“Over the Madeira, James.” He rose stiffly. “Got to see Miss Gordon home first, then meet you there. Haverhill House in Arlington Street.” He tugged at Kitty’s hand. “Let us find Miss Merriman and Rollo.”

“Damme if I know what to make of it,” Barswell muttered. Turning to the first person he saw, he asked, “Did you know Red Jack was engaged to the little chit?”

Neither Rollo nor Jessica seemed to be anywhere to be found. Dragging Kitty through the crowd, Jack criss-crossed the room until he saw Sturbridge. “Got to discover Merriman, Charles,” he muttered in a low undervoice. “In the basket—magistrate’s recognized Miss Gordon.”

“What? Uh—”

“Lord Haverhill! Lord Haveihill!” Lady Childredge waved her handkerchief frantically to gain his attention, then glided through the group that pressed against them. “I have, just heard the most diverting tale, I vow! ’Twas told to me that you and Miss Gordon are become engaged!”

As Kitty stiffened in mortification, he slid an arm around her shoulders. “Puffing it off to the papers in the morning, in fact,” he announced.

“Then you are?” she asked incredulously. Her eyes took in Kitty as though she could see no good reason for this travesty. “La, but you have broken half the hearts in London, Miss Gordon,” she said finally. “To think an American has stolen the march to his heart.”

“Going to have a summer wedding,” he added, squeezing Kitty. “Aren’t we, my love?”

“Uh—”

“Charles, I leave it to you to speak of the matter with Rollo and Lady Millhaven. Your servant, Lady Childredge. Got to run—Kitty has the headache.”

“Burn some camphor and feathers!” Lady Childredge called after her, waving her handkerchief again.

It was not until he had bundled her into his carriage that it came home to her what he had done. He leaned across the seat to chide her. “You do not look precisely overjoyed, Miss Gordon.”

“Tell me, my lord, do you make it a habit to become betrothed to every female in distress?” she asked archly.

“First time ever.”

“What about Jess?”

“You never listened. If you had, you would have heard me say we had an understanding. I never used the word betrothed. She’d already told me about Sturbridge, you see.”

The moonlight seemed to reflect off his eyes and his dark red hair. But his face was sober and very, very close, so close in fact that she could feel his breath on her face. And the smell of Hungary water mingled with the lilac scent she used.

“Never,” he repeated softly.

She closed her eyes. “You cannot wish to marry me,” she said weakly just before she felt his lips against hers.

It was a kiss she would always remember, she was certain. His arms closed around her, cradling her, and his mouth was gentle at first, then more insistent. She was overwhelmed by it all—the scent, the warmth of his body and his breath, the strength of his arms about her. In the beginning, it seemed as though her own arms were superfluous appendages, then she slid them around his waist and returned his embrace. It was a heady, dizzying experience.

When at last he released her, he whispered, “I am getting used to the notion, believe me.”

“But why?”

“I have never forgotten how you pulled up your skirt and lay atop your wadded petticoat to keep me from bleeding to death,” he answered fondly.

Grateful for the darkness, she turned her flaming face away. “You were supposed to be unconscious.”

“I would not have missed that for the world.”

N
OT SINCE SHE’D COME HOME
from Blackstone Hall the last time had Kitty spent such a sleepless night. And it had not been helped by the fact that even Lady Millhaven was beside herself over Kitty’s conquest of Red Jack Rayne. Then, to make matters worse, Jessica had come home and spent the better part of two hours regaling her with every detail of Lord Sturbridge’s proposal, which he’d finally made in the Childredge garden. It was, Kitty reflected tiredly, an insignificant development when compared to the near ignominy of the Barswell incident.

The Barswell incident. ’Twas all she could call it, and she felt the veriest fool for allowing it to happen. She ought not to have gone to the Childredge party or to any other party, for that matter. See and be seen indeed! Well, she’d been seen by the wrong person, that was a certainty.

And now Red Jack Rayne, hero of everything, had gallantly offered for her, and it was in a fair way to being all over London, she supposed. That Colonel Barswell had trapped him into it was utterly lowering.

What had Jack answered when she said he could not wish to wed her? That he was getting used to the notion. And why had he offered? Because despite everything she’d done to him, he remembered that she’d possibly saved his life.

Well, she would not do it. If she ever did get a husband, she’d like to think that he had not been trapped into the marriage, after all, that he’d offered because he loved her. And Red Jack had never said one word about the tender passion. She had only that one kiss, and as much as that meant to her, she was not such a fool that she did not know men viewed such things differently. He’d probably kissed a dozen females before her—in fact, in view of the expertise he’d demonstrated, she was sure of it.

No, it was the ridiculous English notion of honor that had made him do it, the same thing that had made Charles offer earlier. Well, she was not English and therefore not governed by such silly constraints. Not that it was all that much easier for a female in America, she had to admit fairly. And what she’d done would not have been condoned in Charleston any more than at Blackstone Hall. But, she consoled herself, they would not know of it there.

Rising early, she rummaged through her writing case for pen and ink, then sat down to compose a letter to Red Jack.

“My dear Lord Haverhill,” she began, “I very much regret all that has befallen you since first we met.” She stopped. Well, perhaps not quite
all.
And the greeting sounded so terribly formal. She crumpled the paper and reached for another sheet. “My dear Haverhill,” she scratched across the paper, “Though I am cognizant of the signal honor you do me, I simply cannot … ” She stopped. That sounded even worse. A second ball of paper joined the first.

It had been so easy writing to Charles, but then she’d never wanted to wed him in the first place. Red Jack, she realized suddenly, was quite another matter. Even as she sat there, nibbling at the feather end of her pen, she could not forget the feel of his arms about her, the smell of his Hungary water, or the way he’d kissed her. A sense of intense longing flooded over her.

Forcing such traitorous thoughts from her mind, she resolutely tried again, writing,

She sat back and regarded the lines critically. They sounded foolish, but she did in fact mean them. Sighing, she continued,

Now she was indeed sounding like an utter ninnyhammer. Nonetheless, she had to go on.

She shuddered reading it. How pompous she must sound. She concluded with “I shall always remember you with great fondness, and remain your servant, Catherine Gordon.”

Well, after he read this, he would be in whoops, but at least she would not be there to see it. She’d forgotten to beg his forgiveness for the abduction, she recalled, and she considered appending that, then discarded the notion. She never liked to get those letters where the writer insisted on adding all manner of things past the ending.

While she waited for the ink to dry, she dipped her quill into the inkpot again and composed a short note to Isabella, Jessica, and Roland, asking them to dispatch the letter to the baron. At the end of it, she promised to write more fully when she reached Charleston, then signed herself their affectionate niece and cousin.

Her task done, she sealed both missives, and filled her portmanteau with only the most necessary things. Hopefully, once they got over the shock of what she’d done, they’d dispatch her trunk after her, thinking it a good riddance. As she packed, she had to own that she must have vexed them terribly during her year and two months with them, for she’d certainly caused them more than a lifetime of embarrassment. Even now, she could remember the look on everyone’s face when she’d stood in the foyer at Rose Farm in her bloody gown to announce that she’d abducted Lord Haverhill. And her Aunt Bella’s expression of longsuffering when it had become obvious that she’d deliberately overdosed him with the physick.

She crept down the backstairs, stopping every step or so for the creaking boards. But as she was almost to die servant’s entrance, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Kitty, what are you doing up this early?” she heard Jess ask. “And with your portmanteau!”

“I might ask the same of you,” Kitty muttered tersely, turning around. “And I would that you kept your voice down, for I am leaving.”

“I could not sleep for thinking of Charles,” the other girl admitted. “Leaving? Kitty Gordon, you are running away!”

“Yes,” Kitty admitted baldly.

“But
why!
Kit, you ought to be in alt! I mean, Red Jack has offered for you, and well—’twill be the talk of London, I vow. Indeed, there was not a female at the Childredges’ party who did not envy you excessively, and—”

“ ’Tis precisely why I am going, Jess!” she snapped. “He can do better than an American miss who is forever making mistakes and doing foolish things.”

“Fustian. You may be able to tell Cousin Margaret such a farradiddle, but I know you better.” Jessica peered into her face, then crowed, “You are in love with Red Jack!”

“Too much to make him wed me,” Kitty acknowledged simply. “Now, will you stand aside?”

“You cannot wander the streets of London alone, Kit—this is not a country lane by Rose Farm, you know.”

“I am not wandering precisely. I have sent a footman to hire a hackney,” Kitty retorted. “I am not a complete fool, Jess.” Leaning over the portmanteau, she embraced her cousin quickly. “I shall write you from Charleston to let you know how I go on.”

“Charleston! ’Tis America, Kit!” Jessica cried. “You cannot—oh, you cannot!”

“I have Mama’s jewels, and I shall attempt to pawn them in Plymouth. Really, I shall be all right, I promise you.”

“Rollo! Rollo!”

“No, Jess, I beg of you!” Kitty grabbed the heavy bag and started for the door.

“Mama! Rollo! Will somebody help me?” Jessica screamed loudly. “Mama, Kitty is running away!”

“Eh? What—?” Roland’s rumpled head appeared in the stairway overhead. “What the devil, Jess! We ain’t deaf!”

The younger girl pointed dramatically to the door through which Kitty had just left. “You’ve got to stop her!”

“Stop who? For God’s sake, Jess, but you are raising the house,” he hissed loudly, coming down.

“You don’t understand! Kitty is running away to America! She just left, Rollo!”

“America? Deuced long swim, Jess. Besides, she ain’t such a peagoose!” He stopped. “Oh, lud.”

“By the time you get to the curb, Roland Merriman, she’ll be halfway to the posting house!”

He pushed past her, running barefoot out the door. At the curb, he found his cousin stepping into die hackney. Catching her arm, he pulled her backward. She stumbled and tripped over the cracked leather bag, landing in a heap at his feet.

“Sorry,” he muttered, helping her up. “What the deuce was you doing, Kit?” he demanded, looking down at die portmanteau.

“I am going home, Rollo.”

“Home? Rose Farm is your home, Kit—you ain’t got no home over there. No relations at all. Come on—got to get you inside before you are a spectacle. Come on,” he coaxed.

“But I don’t belong here!” Uncharacteristically, she burst into tears. “Rollo, I’ve got to go!” “Dash it, Kit! Bad enough having Jess water the plants all the time! Come on—talk about it.” He tugged gently at her arm. “You got Red Jack to think of.”

“It is because of him that I am leaving!” she cried.

“What? Now, that don’t make sense! Come on,” he urged again. “Don’t want to have to pick you up—look dashed silly if I was to do that.”

“No.” She sniffed back tears, wishing very much for a handkerchief. “My mind is set, Rollo. I will not be wed to satisfy a man’s misplaced sense of honor.”

“I owe I ain’t quite awake, Kit, but I cannot make sense of you!”

“Kitty! Whatever … ?”

To her horror, her aunt, still tying her wrapper over her nightgown, was hurrying toward them. Kitty made a frantic attempt to pull away, but her cousin held her arm tightly. Exhaling sharply, she turned back to meet Isabella’s reproachful eyes.

“Catherine Gordon, I demand to know the meaning of this. Well?”

“She’s running away, Mama,” Jess said behind her.

“Running away!” Isabella turned again to Kitty. “But why?”

“She’s in love with Red Jack,” Jess explained.

“She don’t want to marry him,” Rollo added.

“I have never heard such a Banbury tale in my life,” Isabella declared, sinking to sit on the portmanteau. She looked up at her niece. “You were quite right, dear—we are in Bedlam.”

“Good heavens, Bella!” Lady Millhaven hissed, hurrying toward them. She stopped when she realized what her cousin sat on. “We shall be a laughingstock,” she complained. “The neighbors—”

“Hang the neighbors! ’Tis Kit who worries me,” Roland retorted.

“Will someone tell me what is going on?” Lady Millhaven demanded awfully, looking from one to the other. “Well?”

Jessica nodded. “I could not sleep, so—”

“Dash it, Jess! She don’t care that you wasn’t asleep!” Roland expostulated.

“Well, I would not have caught her if I had been. In any event, I saw Kitty carrying her bag to the servant’s entrance, you see, and I thought it exceedingly odd.”

“Exceedingly odd!” her brother snorted.

She shot him a withering look, then went on calmly, “So I asked her where she was going, and she said she was leaving.”

“Leaving!” Lady Millhaven uttered in disbelief. “Well, she cannot—not after last night’s triumph.”

“Kitty, you cannot run away from Lord Haverhill,” Isabella said, trying to keep her voice calm. “If it becomes known you have cried off twice, you will be considered a heartless jilt.”

“Aunt Bella, he only offered for me because I was recognized by the magistrate.”

“The magistrate?” For a moment, Cousin Margaret looked as though she might faint. “The magistrate?”

“He recognized me from the night at the Hawk and Pig.”

“I do not believe I wish to hear this,” her ladyship declared definitely. “I know I do not.”

“So you see I cannot do it,” Kitty said simply.

“She loves him,” Jessica repeated. “She does not wish to be wed for the wrong reason.”

“Young lady, if he offers, it does not matter what the reason!” Lady Millhaven snapped. “She cannot let Haverhill slip through her fingers—she cannot. Full half of the females in London would give anything for just such a proposal.”

“She don’t want to marry him,” Roland repeated. “And if she don’t—” He stopped, aware that his mother, his sister, and Lady Millhaven were all regarding him indignantly.

“Well, this is England, after all, and we don’t force our females into wedding where they don’t want to,” he finished defiantly. He looked down at Kitty, and moved to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Now, I am the man in this family, and I say if she don’t want him, she don’t have to take him.”

“Rollo!” his mother gasped.

“But she loves him!” Jess insisted. “She admitted it.”

“Daresay she must have her reasons. Thing is, we ain’t going about this in a havey-cavey manner, Kit. If you was not to wanting to marry Red Jack, you got to tell him.”

“I wrote him a letter—it’s in my bedchamber.”

“All right. Ain’t the way I’d choose to do it, but then I’m a man.”

“Rollo—”

“No. If she wants to go, I am taking her as far as Plymouth myself. It ain’t proper for a female to travel alone in these times, so I don’t mind doing it.”

Kitty’s chin quivered dangerously, then she burst into tears again. “Oh, Rollo!”

“Got to quit that, though. Now, if ’tis settled, I say we pay off the hackney and go back inside. I’ll be hanged if I travel ere I’ve had my breakfast.”

Lady Millhaven shook her head. “Young man, I think—”

“It ain’t nothing to the point. What matters is what Kit thinks. And I won’t have her badgered over it.” He squeezed Kitty’s shoulder. “Leave right after we eat,” he promised. To Jess, he added, “Run get Red Jack’s letter, so’s it can be sent ’round to him.”

“No!” Kitty cried. “That is, I should wish it to be delivered after we are gone.”

“All right.”

“Roland Merriman, you are a complete fool,” Isabella declared. “Kitty dear,” she said soothingly, “you are merely overset. I am sure that Lord Haverhill holds you in the highest regard, and—”

“Mama, you forget she physicked him,” Roland cut in impatiently. “A man don’t forget that sort of thing. Might make for an unhappy marriage.”