Anne Barbour (26 page)

David a fortune hunter? What nonsense. He was far above such greedy machinations. Silently, she cursed Aunt Regina for having put such notions in her head. Yes, he loved Westerly and was in despair over its present degradation, but he would never consider ... And he had never shown himself to be anything other than her good friend. Never. Her fingers crept up to brush her lips. Yes, there had been that moment when his mouth had covered hers so searchingly—so demandingly. That had not been the kiss of a good friend. She had felt in that moment as though her very soul had been absorbed into his, and—for just that instant—she had been sure he shared that sense of inevitable oneness.

But then he had pulled away, and there was nothing in his eyes that spoke of destiny fulfilled.

She had seen little of him since his surgery, though it was obvious he was doing splendidly. His stride was long and sure now, with the merest trace of the limp that would probably remain with him through his life.

Again, however, he seemed angry with her, as he had after every instance where she had allowed herself to indicate the love she felt for him. When Aunt Regina had intruded on them in David’s bedchamber, their embrace had been wholly innocent—an expression of the unbounded gladness each had felt for his release from the prison of pain in which he had languished for so long. Yet, David had behaved as though he had been caught trying to seduce a vestal virgin. And, he had scarcely spoken to her since.

A fortune hunter, indeed. She almost wished he were. It would be nice to know that at least something about her attracted him, she thought sourly.

Rising, she began to make her way back to the house, only to be brought up short at the sound of running footsteps approaching her little glade. Curious, she peered around a clump of bushes, only to be nearly overrun by the master of Falworth, clad only in shirt and breeches.

“David!” she cried unnecessarily. “You’re running!”

Whereupon, of course, he immediately stopped. He was covered with perspiration, and panting so hard he could not speak. Grasping her by the arm, he led her back to the stone bench and sank down on it.

“Lord,” he gasped. “I had no idea I had fallen so far out of condition.”

“But...”

He drew a damp sleeve across his streaming face. “I have been loping along for a mere hundred yards, and I feel as though I’ve been running in a steeplechase.”

“But...”

“But,” continued David, “you are going to say that I should not be running at all. Let me tell you, Nurse, that I have Doctor Craven’s permission.” His expression became serious, and he turned to face her.

God, she was beautiful, he thought, with morning sunlight turning that glorious mane to fire, and caressing the delicate planes of her face. His gaze dropped to her softly curved lips, then to where the lace-covered muslin of her gown fell softly over her breast. His fists clenched involuntarily as he forced a smile to his lips.

“Under his supervision, I have embarked on a series of exercises, as suggested by that doctor in Spain—the only one, I might add, for whom I had an iota of respect. Besides the occasional gallop, the program calls for calisthenics that can easily be done indoors.”

Kate’s eyes shone, not only at his news, but at the fact that the silence between them was at an end.

“I’m so glad, David, that you have slain at least some of your beasts. For I’m sure that once you regain your bodily health, that of your spirit cannot be far behind. I had been sulking over losing my villa, but if its collapse resulted in your new outlook, I am amply rewarded.”

“Losing your villa? What are you talking about?”

David’s tone seemed oddly concerned, and Kate’s brows lifted. He laughed in some confusion.

“That is, surely, since the first two rooms are intact...” He glanced at her and smiled again. “You will think I’ve taken leave of my senses, but your villa has been very much in my mind of late. At least, part of it. Your soldier—the one in the wall painting ...”

Kate said nothing, but her gaze remained questioning.

“I keep seeing him before me—I don’t know why, but I feel a sort of affinity for him.”

Gently, Kate touched his hand. “You are both warriors,” she smiled. “I wonder where his battles were fought? Certainly not in Britain, for the Romans had held undisputed sway here for some time before our friend built his house high above the Avon. Indeed, he may have been a Briton, granted citizenship years before. Perhaps he received his wound in Germany.”

She lowered her eyes, suddenly aware that his strong, brown fingers still lay under hers. She marveled at the power of their touch to warm her, and she longed to stroke them—to feel them respond and lift to caress her.

This time it was she who drew abruptly away, only to find that David was gazing at her with such a very odd expression that she became breathless.

“Kate,” said David tentatively. “I’d like to ask you a question.”

Kate felt her blood thunder in her ears. “Yes?” she replied, in what she hoped was a tone of great calm.

“It’s about Lawrence.”

Her heart, which a moment ago had threatened to lodge in her throat, now fell precipitously to the toes of her kid slippers.

“I really don’t...” she began.

“Please, Kate, for once let me speak to you about him without your flying into the boughs. May I have a round tale please? Just what are your feelings for him?”

Kate could feel her temper rising, and she drew a deep breath as she answered carefully.

“May I ask just what is your concern here?”

David flushed, but he replied coolly. “I am your guardian, Kate. If you are desirous of marrying Lawrence, I should be made aware of it.”

“Has Lawrence said anything about marriage plans to you?” Kate’s fists were clenched into such tight balls she thought she must be drawing blood.

“No, but Regina has spoken fairly plainly on the subject. She says you have an understanding.”

Kate longed to blurt out a fierce denial, but something kept her lips pressed together. She knew an urge to make it perfectly plain to Lord Falworth, that just as he found nothing in her to hold his attention, so then must he be assured that she was equally heart-whole.

“I have not decided,” she said indifferently, “whether to accept Lawrence’s suit. We have known each other for this age, of course, and I naturally feel comfortable with him. However”—she yawned delicately—”I feel it is rather too soon for me to become betrothed. After all, when I have lived in London for a year or two, I may find someone with whom I can form a real attachment. Don’t you think? I mean, since I shall be so very rich, I think I ought to consider carefully on whom I bestow my hand.”

She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes, and was startled to find her gaze returned with one of blazing fury. His voice, however, when he spoke was rigidly controlled.

“By all means. One cannot be too careful with one’s hand, particularly when it clutches such largesse. You must be sure to calculate to a penny the worth of each and every suitor, so that you may not only retain your own fortune, but, oh happy day, combine it with one even greater. Perhaps you should consider the Duke of Grunstable. I hear he is hanging out for a rich wife. Of course, he is small and ugly and very old, but of what significance is that compared to his vast wealth? I bid you good day, Miss Millbank.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the little bower.

By the time he tramped into the house, he was aware that he had probably exceeded Doctor Craven’s instructions, for his hip ached abominably, and he fairly trembled with fatigue. He knew, however, that his morning’s outing had been good for him.

If only the tearing ache in his heart could be dealt with so easily. He shook his head, his outrage almost palpable. He could not believe the conversation he had just held with Kate. When he had questioned her on her involvement with Lawrence, he had fully expected her to deny the relationship. Incredibly, she had indicated that she was taking that puppy’s suit seriously! He had vowed that if Kate and Lawrence were really in love, he would not stand in their way—but “Miss Moneybags” had certainly not sounded as though her heart were in any way involved. “One must be careful where one bestows one’s hand,” indeed! He could not recall ever having heard her mention the fortune she was to come into one day, even in the days when it was only half the sum she and her brother would inherit together.

“Women!” he muttered to himself as, refurbished in clean shirt, coat, and pantaloons, he hobbled out of his chambers and down the corridor to Lucius’s room.

He found his friend at his dressing table amid a welter of discarded neck cloths. Fellowes hovered nearby, dividing his attention between his master and an open portmanteau some feet away, into which he was tenderly placing coats, pantaloons, and breeches.

Lucius merely held up a hand, and did not so much as look away from his mirrored reflection until, some minutes later, he had completed the final fold of his creation. Only then did he rise to face David.

“Lucius, you are a picture of manly perfection,” murmured David.

“One does one’s humble best,” his friend acknowledged modestly.

“Are you nearly ready to leave then?” David moved to the portmanteau, absently inspecting its contents. “Lord, I’ll miss you.”

“Well, you seem to be making great progress here—in more ways than one,” he added with a barely perceptible smile. “And in his note, Father sounded as though he has need for me at home. Besides, dear boy, it’s not as though I’m moving to Moscow. It’s only a two-day journey from here to Kent, after all.”

The two moved out of the room, leaving the mundane packing details to Fellowes. Downstairs in David’s study, they settled down over a last glass of wine.

“I do hope you’ll keep me posted as to how matters progress here,” said Lucius, meditatively sipping his excellent Chambertin.

“Matters?” David lifted a questioning brow.

“Oh, the harvest—Lady Falworth’s adherence to your neat little schemes for economy—Lawrence’s attempts to keep his feet on the straight and narrow. I understand, by the way, that he was involved in a brawl in some stew down on Avon Street recently. Actually,” he continued, in response to David’s grimace, “I’m told by one of the footmen, who witnessed the fracas, that your tiresome little half brother was defending your honor. Yes, indeed, it seems he was airing his grievances to one of his friends, but when the gentleman agreed with all of Lawrence’s calumnies, Lawrence immediately reversed his position and took great umbrage.”

David said nothing, but only shook his head in surprised appreciation.

“I’m also,” continued Lucius meditatively, “curious about how her ladyship’s betrothal schemes will work out.” He ignored David’s sudden stiffening. “Her plan to acquire my modest self for her daughter failed, but what of Lawrence and Kate?”

David was about to respond offhandedly, but—this was Lucius, after all. He sighed.

“I believe,’“ he said slowly, “that neither one of them has the slightest interest in the other, but I cannot be sure. I wish Kate...”

After a moment’s hesitation, he related his earlier conversation with that maddening minx. To his surprise, Lucius threw back his head in laughter.

“It is unfortunate, my lad, that you were raised without older sisters. Had I been there to be asked, I should have told you that nothing so infuriates a female as being told by the man in her life that he is anxious to marry her off to someone else.”

His words produced such an explosion of emotions in David’s mind that for a moment he could only stare at his friend.

“The man in her life?” he asked, hitting on the most shattering aspect of the statement. “Where did you get such a buffleheaded notion? And I am not, for God’s sakes, trying to marry her off to anybody—surely she must know that.”

Lucius crossed his legs and inspected the shine on his Hessians before lifting his eyes to David’s.

“Tell me, old fellow, does she know you’re in love with her?”

An unthinking denial sprang to David’s lips, but it died unspoken as Lucius held his gaze with one of understanding.

He spoke quietly. “Have I been so obvious?”

“Only to an intelligent observer, of whom, if I may say, there are damn few around here-—with the exception of her ladyship, of course.”

“Regina? You think she suspects that...”

“That your feelings for your little cousin have gone far beyond brotherly affection?
Absolutment.”

David ran strong fingers through his hair. “Oh, God, you don’t suppose she’s told Kate of her speculations, do you?”

Lucius laughed derisively. “I should imagine that Kate is the last person in the world to whom she’d divulge such information. Tell me,” he continued, “why are you so fearful of Kate discovering the true state of your heart, if you’ll forgive the fanciful imagery.”

David glared at him. “Because I am not worthy of her—if you’ll excuse an even more revolting turn of phrase.”

“Because you believe you killed her brother?”

At this, David sprang to his feet. “How the devil...?” He stopped, and sank slowly back into his chair. “Are you a mind reader as well as an acute observer?” he asked wearily. “I’ve never told anyone—except Kate ...”

“During your nightmares, you become quite—voluble, you know. And, do you remember? I was the first to come upon you lying on the edge of that infernal ditch at Badajoz. Before you had completely regained consciousness, you babbled at some length about—about what had occurred during the siege.” Lucius sighed heavily. “Later, I watched your downward spiral from the finest officer I had ever known to a haunted, reckless care-for-nothing, and there was nothing I could do.”

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the sigh of the breeze through the window and the ticking of the mantle clock.

“Yet,” murmured David, “knowing what you did, you remained my friend. For that, I thank you, Lucius.”

“What I know, you bacon-brained clunch, is that if you had been able to save young Philip, you would have.”

David’s face hardened, “Good God, you, too? Lucius, you don’t understand—” He broke off.