Lady Midnight (45 page)

"Sh, cara," Kate whispered, smoothing Christina's wild curls and kissing her cheek. "It is all right now. I'm sorry you had such a dreadful night."

Christina sniffled. "It wasn't
dreadful,
really, not until I got lost and I thought I would never find you or Michael again. The party was really quite interesting, and getting locked in by Mary even had its moments. Of course, that wouldn't have been quite so exciting if there wasn't a window to escape from. I would hate to be trapped at Lindley House forever. Now I'm dying for a cup of tea and something to eat. The food at the Hollingsworths was good, but that was hours ago."

Kate laughed, grateful beyond words to see that Christina's indomitable spirit was not broken, or even bent. If Kate had anything to say about it, it never would be. "I could certainly do with a cup of tea myself. And you should change your gown, Christina. That one is rather the worse for wear."

Christina nodded, and let Kate take her arm to lead her into the house. "I wouldn't be sorry to never wear another evening gown again. I just want to go back to Thorn Hill and see how my experiments are faring."

Thorn Hill.
Kate could see it so clearly in her mind: its delightful jumble of brick and stones, its overgrown gardens and winding pathways. Its aura of peace and welcome, which could enfold a woman in its safety and never let her go. "I'm sure you will see it again very soon, Christina."

"And you, Mrs. Brown! Thorn Hill would never be the same without you." Christina paused on their doorstep and said, without looking at Kate, "Mrs. Brown, is that man in love with you?"

Kate could not prevaricate, could not pretend she did not know what man. Not with Christina. "He thinks he is," she answered carefully. "We knew each other a long time ago, in Italy, and he—devised of feelings for me. Feelings which I could not return."

"And now you can't, because you love my brother."

Kate was too tired, too sad, to deny it. "Yes. And because that other man is simply not someone I could love."

Christina frowned thoughtfully. "He is very handsome."

"He is."

"And very sad. I feel sorry for him. But I am very glad you love Michael instead." Christina turned and disappeared into the house. Through the open door, Kate saw her kick off her slippers and dash up the stairs in her stocking feet.

Kate followed slowly, pausing to pick up the shoes before she made her own way up the stairs. The house was silent. There were not even any servants dashing around, going about their daily chores. All the doors were closed, and the absence of human life was palpable.

Yet that was good. The quiet, the lack of turmoil and upheaval and talk, made it easier to do what she had to do.

Chapter 24

Kate's room was exactly as she had left it. Her rose satin gown draped at the foot of the unruffled bed. The window draperies open, letting in bars of light and shadow.

She felt oddly detached from the scene, from the whole situation. Cold. Distant. She carefully placed Christina's slippers on the floor beneath the dressing table and took her own valise from the bottom of the wardrobe. It was the same old valise she had used on her journey to Thorn Hill, with its clasp that didn't like to stay closed and shabby sides. Once, she had resented its age, its secondhand nature. Now she felt a strange affection for it. It had carried her to Thorn Hill, to a new life she could scarcely have dreamed of before. Now it would carry her into—she knew not what.

She removed her few garments from the wardrobe, her petticoats and chemises and stockings from the bureau drawers, her books from the bedside table. A part of her urged her to move faster, to stuff them into the valise, to move quickly past the pain. Much as one had to pull a bandage swiftly from a wound, so as not to prolong the agony. But she folded the clothes slowly, carefully, tucking them in neatly.

There
was
pain. Her decision to leave, made so swiftly there in the park, caused a pain that was almost physical in her chest. It made her want to cry, to rail against the fickleness of the Fates like some character in a Greek tragedy. She hated Julian Kirkwood as she ran away from him, hated him with a raging passion for bringing
reality
into her beautiful fantasy life. He reminded her, sharply and finally, of who she truly was. She was not Kate Brown of Thorn Hill, no matter how very much she longed to be her.

But now, as she packed her meager belongings and prepared to fly again into an unknown world, she felt another, quite unexpected emotion—peace.

When she was a girl, she would sometimes stand in the Piazza San Marco and watch as the nuns from the nearby Convent of St. Cecilia marched past in an orderly line, on their way to prayers. Always more prayers. They looked like nothing so much as a row of ravens in their heavy, flapping black wool habits, and they were unnaturally quiet. Even the soles of their sandals made barely a click on the stones. Yet, on every black-framed, pale face was etched a glorious calm, a serenity that Kate envied. She never wanted to take the veil—even as a girl, she was too steeped in the worldly things, clothes, poetry, romance. Yet she envied them that serenity, envied them the knowledge that they served a higher purpose. That they served
goodness.

She had to turn to good now, too, to something higher than her own selfish desires. She would not let Julian hurt her family. She wouldn't let gossip ruin Christina's future. She
definitely
would not let Michael duel with Julian! Even the thought of Michael being hurt sent a shudder of pain coursing through her. He had given her unimaginable beauty. She couldn't pay him back with ugliness.

And there
was
still a little selfish part of her, a part that did not want people, especially people she cared about, to look on her with disgust. She did not particularly like Lady Darcy, either one of them, but their disapproval still stung. And they were a part of Michael's family.

As Kate put her old, plain shawl on top of the contents of the valise, a flash of sunlight spread down her rose-colored gown, still draped across the bed. The luxurious satin seemed to shimmer to life, reminding her of all the silly hopes she had last night, when she first donned its soft loveliness.

She ran one fingertip along the pearl trim of the bodice. Then she picked up the gown, cradling it in her arms, and went to hang it in the wardrobe. She closed the stout wooden panels, blocking its pink glow once and for all.

As the soft satin disappeared, there was a short, sharp knock at the chamber door.

"Come in," Kate called. It was probably a maid, bringing breakfast. Good—she could use some sustenance before she found her way back to her old employment agency.

But it was decidedly
not
the maid. It was Michael who stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him. He, too, had changed from his evening attire into the more familiar garb of dark blue wool coat, buckskin breeches, and plainly tied white cravat. His hair was still damp from washing, and she could smell the clean, enticing fragrance of his soap.

He was so very beautiful. An angel, in truth. Kate longed to run to him, to throw her arms around him and never let go, but she curled her hand tightly around the wardrobe door, holding herself back.

His sharp blue gaze moved over her, standing there by the wardrobe, and over to the valise on the bed. "So," he said. "Christina was right."

Kate swallowed hard. "Right?"

"She said she thought you were planning to run away." His voice was clear, calm, uninflected. It was impossible to tell if he was unhappy, happy, or indifferent to her plans. Kate had a flashing remembrance of the two of them entwined in ecstasy, and she sincerely hoped he was
not
indifferent.

"Christina is too smart for her own good," she said.

"Indeed she is, at times." Michael stepped forward to the edge of the bed, and pinched the valise's clasp between his fingers. "It still does not close. You should have bought a new one."

Kate stared at the silly old valise. Anything not to look at Michael. "It hardly signifies. That one will take me where I want to go as well as another."

"And where
are
you going, Kate the curst?" He shoved the valise out of the way and sat down on the bed, his booted feet swinging above the floor, hands clasped between his knees. She saw with a pang that his leg was stiff this morning, braced against the side of the mattress. "Are you going away with him?"

Her gaze flew up to his, to find him watching her steadily. But at least he was not indifferent. She could see that now, so clearly. "Him? Julian?"

"Is there another one? Lurking around the corner, mayhap, or behind a tree." His tone was deceptively carefree.

Kate choked on an hysterical bubble of laughter. Run away with Julian? When she had gone to so much trouble to get away from him and his sort in the first place? To escape his intense stares, his possessive caresses? No. "Of course I am not going away with Julian. I loathe him."

A frown puckered the smooth, brown skin of his brow, creasing a sharp line between his eyes. "Then where are you going? Surely you at least owe me that."

She owed him her life, her very heart. "I don't know," she admitted, leaning back against the wardrobe door. "Back to the employment agency, for one thing. There must be another family who needs a governess or lady's companion, somewhere far away, like the Highlands of Scotland where no one has heard of me. Then I will find lodging. I have some of my wages saved." And she could always change her name again.

Michael slowly shook his head. "Kate, Kate. Why are you running away?"

"I'm not running away. That was what I did when I left Italy. I am merely—seeking another situation. I've certainly proved unsatisfactory in this one."

"No," Michael said, still so damnably calm. "You are running from us, from me. And I want to know why."

Kate gave an exasperated laugh. Oh, the stubborn, darling man! Couldn't he see what she meant to do? "I am leaving because I care about you, and about Christina and Amelia. There is sure to be much speculation after last night, a scandal. I cannot put you through that. Not when you have worked so long to carve a respectable place for yourself. The old Katerina might have thought only of herself, of her own happiness, but I cannot!"

Michael smiled at her, a wide, enticing grin. "Oh, bonny Kate. I believe you have been reading too much poetry."

Kate paused. "Too much poetry?"

"Yes. Or perhaps too many Minerva Press novels. For are they not full of saintly, self-sacrificing ladies?"

"I am
not
being..."

Michael held out his hand to halt her words, beckoning her closer to him with his fingers, his smile mellowing, gentling. "Kate, I do see what you are trying to do, and I admire and love you for it. Very much. You only want to save others pain."

"Yes, I do want that," Kate admitted. She did step closer to him, as if drawn by a magical spell, and slipped her fingers into his clasp. He drew her down beside him on the bed, holding tightly to her hand as if he feared she might fly away. "You are the finest person I have ever known, and I never want to hurt you, Michael. I can't erase the past, but I can keep it away from you and your family if I leave now."

"Don't you see? It would cause me far more pain to lose you than any silly gossip could ever cause. I was only half-alive until I found you, losing myself in work, trudging from day to day. But you—you made the sun come out. Because of you, I like waking up in the morning, I can't wait to see what every day holds. You make me laugh, you make me think. You drive me insane. And Amelia and Christina love you, they need you. I can't help them learn to be young ladies. Only you can do that. Please, Kate. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

Kate stared at him in wonder. She reached up with one fingertip to trace the sensual line of his lips, his jaw and nose. He was so warm, so sweet and alive under her caress.
Did
she hear what he was saying? As clearly as a line of music. Every woman dreamed of such words, so full of heart and truth. "You don't want me to leave."

"Never." He caught her hand, pressing kisses into her palm, against the frantic pulse of her wrist. "I never want you to leave. Whatever was in your past, I don't care. It can't be as bad, as ugly as what is in mine. And it made you who you are today. A wonderful, mercurial woman, romantic woman."

"I don't want to leave," she whispered. "I never wanted to leave you and the girls. But Julian will still be here." Following her. Watching.