Lady Midnight (33 page)

Indeed, it was probably Kate's own duty to go down there and make Christina come inside, or at the very least put her bonnet on properly. But Kate had no desire to rise from her chair and go to the garden. Right now, she was too overcome by the same strange, lazy daydreams that had affected her all this long week.

A week.
An entire week since her night in the sheepherder's cottage with Michael. That sweet, wild night. No, it had been longer—eight days.

Eight days in which she threw herself as hard as she could into work, driving Christina and Amelia along with French verbs, dancing lessons, and geography tests until they both protested wearily. Days in which she took all her meals in the schoolroom, and went for solitary walks along the pathways and roadsides—but never by the river or the lake. Never as far as the tiny cottage. She was careful not to be alone with Michael, not to converse with him except on the most harmless of topics, such as the weather or Amelia's progress with her Italian vocabulary. When they spoke, she saw the spark in his blue gaze that told her very clearly that he longed to speak with her alone, to explain, rectify, make clear, or whatever it was he wanted to say. That spark also told her that he yearned to kiss her, touch her—perhaps almost as much as she yearned to
be
kissed and touched.

Her bed felt very large and cold at night as she lay there alone and sleepless. But she could not venture down to the library. She was still too unsure—too scared. His words always echoed back to her, like the tempting song of a luring demon.
Marry me. Marry me.

Did he regret those words now? She was sure he must. How could he not? He was an honorable man; he had proposed in the midst of their very compromising situation. But if she had said yes, had given into her own deepest yearnings, he would have come to regret his decent impulse when he discovered the truth of what his wife was.

Yet Kate still loved those words. Still cherished them—and always would.

Soon, she
would
have to talk to Michael about that night. She could not avoid him forever, not if they were to live in the same house. And if he repeated his proposal, she would have to find deep wells of strength within herself and refuse him again.

At least she had one thing she no longer had to worry about. Her monthly courses had started last night. There would be no child of that night.

Kate pressed her palm over her belly, over the dull cramping there. It was a good thing, of course—she did not want to bring a baby into the world to raise as she had been, a fatherless child. But there was still a tiny part of her soul that yearned for that kind of love, for a sweet, fat, fair baby like Amelia that would be hers to love and care for.

She stared out over the garden, watching as Christina finished her work and gathered up a basket filled with colorful, neat rows of greenery samples.
If only she were as careful with her curtsies as she was with her plants,
Kate thought, laughing.

That
was what she needed to concentrate on now. Doing her job, getting Christina ready for her debut. That was why she had come to Thorn Hill. And she would also have to consider her own future, make plans that would be viable for the years ahead, not an existence made up of air dreams. She could save her money, maybe open a small school one day. Perhaps look about for a husband, an obscure, respectable physician or attorney.

Somehow, those ideas, once so appealing, once all she wanted, held little charm now.

Kate pushed herself up from her chair. She had to examine the schoolroom, see if there was anything they would need in London that was still to be packed. Then she must—

Those sensible plans were interrupted by a knock at the door. Kate automatically smoothed back her hair, brushed at her eyes for any stray tears.

"Yes?" she called. It was probably a servant, come to fetch her luggage.

"Kate, may I come in?" the low, rough rumble of Michael's voice said. "Quickly, before a maid comes along!"

Michael!
Kate froze, her fingers pressed to her cheeks. Of course her day of reckoning
would
come, but now?

Don't be a coward
, she told herself sternly. She truly had no need to be afraid of Michael, of all people. And he was right—a maid could see him lurking outside her door, and the gossip would spread through the house like a plague.

"Yes, come in," she said, and straightened the plain folds of her blue muslin skirt. She stood up very straight, clasped her hands at her waist, and tried to make her face expressionless and cool.

Michael had no such qualms. As he slipped inside the door, closing it quietly behind him, a wide smile tugged at his beautiful lips. His eyes were a brighter blue than the sky today, more like the green blue of turquoise stones, warm and sweet. He leaned back against the door, his arms folded over his chest. Though he made no move to come closer to her, it was as if he reached out to fold her in his embrace.

"At last," he said lightly, still smiling. It made Kate almost want to smile, too, to forget anything unpleasant or harsh or real. "You have been very elusive these last few days, bonny Kate."

Kate turned away from him, going back to the window to stare blindly down at the garden. Christina and the gardener were gone now, the sun sinking fast. Soon it would be time for dinner.

"I have been—busy," she answered softly. "The girls' lessons, getting ready for the journey to London..."

"Avoiding me?" His voice seemed quite close, closer than it should be. Closer than she wanted.

Kate spun around to find that he stood on the other side of her abandoned chair, one sun-browned hand resting lightly on its upholstered back. He no longer smiled but watched her carefully, unwaveringly.
If only he were closer.

"I did not mean to avoid you," she whispered, knowing it was a lie. "I just thought it would be best if we had some time apart. Time to concentrate on our work."

"Yes," he said. "It is true that I have had much to do on the farm before we leave for Town. But I hope you know that I will always have time for you."

"I know that you care about my progress with Amelia and Christina—"

"No, Kate. Now you are being deliberately obtuse," he said gently. "For
you
." He leaned against the chair a bit more, swaying, and she saw that he was favoring his bad leg today.

"Oh, Michael, please sit!" she cried in concern, reaching out to plump the cushions of the chair. "You have been working so very hard—you must be careful of your leg."

"I am fine, just a bit of a twinge," he said, but he sat down nonetheless. When she would have moved away, he caught her hand in his, holding her in place. "No, Kate, do not run away from me now."

"I'm not running away," she insisted. Of course she was, though. He had washed after his day outdoors, and smelled of clean soap, the starch of a fresh cravat. His hair was still damp, waving back onto his coat collar, tempting her fingers to smooth and caress its rough silkiness. Then, of course, she would have to touch the arch of his brows, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the lips whose fiery kiss she remembered all too well.

She took her hand back from his, folding her fingers into tight fists, and perched on the arm of the chair, within a breath's touch yet still a thousand miles away.

"That's better," he said.

Kate still could not quite look at him. She watched a cloud of dust motes dance in the bar of sunset light. "Was there something you wished to talk to me about, Mr. Lindley? Amelia's lessons?"

"Yes, there is something I want to talk to you about, and don't call me Mr. Lindley," he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice for the first time. "Prissiness doesn't suit you, Kate."

His words and tone pricked at first, like the sudden stab of a tiny but very sharp sewing needle. But then she had to laugh, for he was undeniably correct. She
was
being prissy, and it went against every fiber of her personality and desires. She had not been brought up to be prissy, and though it seemed a requirement of governessing, it would never come naturally. She relaxed a bit against the back of the chair, and suddenly felt more like herself again, after being bound up in knots of doubt all week. It was just Michael and Kate.

"Very well, Michael," she said. "No more prissiness, I vow. What did you want to talk to me about?"

He nodded approvingly, the hint of a smile coming back. He took her hand again, and this time she let him, her fingers soft and relaxed in the shelter of his clasp. "That is more like the Kate I know. I was scarcely acquainted with the pale creature who crept around my house these last few days. I thought the elves had captured you, and left a changeling in your place."

Kate laughed again, her weighted heart lightening just a bit at his teasing. "Perhaps they did. I just wanted you to have time—"

"Time for my work. Yes. And you needed time for yours. It cannot be easy to get a six-year-old ready for a journey, or to persuade Christina that she needn't take all her seven hundred plant specimens with her."

"Indeed."

"Yet I also fear that you thought to give me time to forget my proposal to you." His hand tightened on hers, as if he thought she might fly away.

And she would have—if she was not so frozen in surprise. She had been lulled by his teasing, his hand-holding, lulled into being comfortable with him again. Then he put the very thing she feared facing directly in front of her.

She had to answer him. He was waiting, watching her closely. He would not let her go this time, not without an explanation.

"It was kind of you to make your offer, Michael," she began.

"Kind!" He snorted.

"Yes. Because you are a kind man, an honorable one, no matter your protests to the contrary. And you did an honorable thing in offering to marry me. I will never forget that. But I cannot accept. I care about you too much, and for Christina and Amelia. Your station is too high for you to wed a mere governess. A
foreign
governess. Your family and Society would never approve."

And that was it. That was all she could say, and it was the truth—as far as it went.

Michael still did not turn away. He watched her, his face expressionless. "If that was all there was to it, bonny Kate, I could demolish your resistance in a mere moment. I live here quietly in the country, with no desire to cut a dash any longer. What
Society
do I have to impress? I have money and lands, no need to wed an heiress. I am a grown man, able to choose my own wife."

"Still..."

"No, Kate." He pressed the tip of his finger to her lips, cutting off her sputtering arguments. It was rough and delicious against the softness of her lips. Kate reached up and gently removed it before she could draw it into her mouth, tasting the salt of his skin on her tongue.

He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a quick, tender kiss to her palm before continuing. "There is more to this refusal of yours than our stations in life. And there is more to my proposal than so-called honor. I didn't set out that night to make love to you, Kate, but I can never regret that it happened. And I proposed because I
want
to marry you. That is all."

Kate longed to cry, to sob, to throw herself onto the floor and howl at the sheer pain of his sweet words. But she did not. Her only movement was to close her eyes tightly, holding in all those tears. All the regret. "I just—cannot, Michael. I'm sorry."

"We may not have a choice, you know, Kate," he answered implacably. "There might be consequences."

Kate shook her head. "No. I knew this morning there would be no consequences of that sort."

"I see." Michael fell silent for a long moment, holding her hand in his. Then he let her go and stood up. "But I warn you, Kate the curst—I will not give up. I can be a stubborn man when I choose, every bit as stubborn as you. And I won't rest until I am your husband. Or until I know the true reason why."

And he was gone, crossing the room silently and slipping out of the door as if he had never been there at all. But there was his clean scent still lingering in the air, the warmth of his touch on her hand.

Kate held her fingers out before her, studying them as if his kiss might still be imprinted there. As stubborn as she was, eh? Little did he know.
No one
was as stubborn as Katerina Bruni. She had once driven her mother and nursemaids and tutors wild with her insistence on having her own way. And never before had having her own way seemed quite so important.

She loved Michael, and as she loved him she would save him from making a terrible mistake. Even if that mistake would mean her own happiness.

For once in her life, she was going to do the right thing. No matter what.

* * *

I won't rest until I am your husband. Or until I know the reason why.

Michael remembered those words the day after he spoke them, as he stood on the drive watching servants hurry about, loading the carriage and the baggage wagon with everything they would need in London. He had to laugh at his own hubris. It had been foolish of him to challenge her in that manner. Kate truly had a stubborn streak in her as wide as the Semerwater, and when she did not want to speak of something a curtain came down behind her eyes, and she withdrew to a place deep inside herself. She had avoided him so adroitly for a whole sennight that he scarcely knew she was doing it.