Chapter Two #2
His uncle edged so close that Gerrit flinched away when the other man’s elbow brushed against him.
“What do you want?” Gerrit asked irritably. There was enough moon that he could leave for home tonight if he left right now. He could—
“She has come all this way and you have waited all these years. Why not go to Lady Mariska, Your Grace? Talk to her—be… gentle.”
Gerrit bristled. “Be gentle? What do you take me for, some sort of ravening beast?”
“No, no, no. Of course not. I meant no offence, Your Grace.”
Gerrit turned to Lady Palmer, pinning her with a glare. “Is that her concern? That I am a beast?”
“Oh no, Your Grace! Not at all,” she warbled, her eyes huge.
“She is not afraid of you,” his uncle chimed in.
Gerrit saw nothing on the other man’s cherubic face to calm the nausea roiling in his stomach. Why could people not speak honestly and directly? Why were van Renesse’s blue eyes—eyes that were so like Gerrit’s mother’s—flickering about as nervously as a cat’s tail?
“He should go to her, shouldn’t he, Lady Palmer?” van Renesse prodded.
“Er, yes,” the Palmer woman affirmed, once again sounding less than convincing.
“Damnation! I would have the truth from you, ma’am,” Gerrit ground out. It made him ill to think of marrying another woman who did not want him, but he should at least speak to her. Shouldn’t he? Or would that be badgering her?
“Y-yes,” Lady Palmer said. “Yes,” she repeated, slightly more convincing.
“You should speak to her, Your Grace. I left her in the garden in a quiet spot. You can talk privately,” she added when Gerrit continued to stare.
As much as he disliked meeting other people’s eyes, once he locked onto them, he found it difficult to break away.
Only when the woman lowered her gaze was Gerrit free to glance at his watch.
It was seventeen minutes until eleven o’clock.
He had wasted forty-seven minutes at this tedious function.
Fifty-one minutes if one counted the time he had spent in the receiving line before gaining entrance to the ballroom.
Damnation.
“Where is she?” he barked.
Lady Palmer—as well as several people clearly eavesdropping on their conversation—jumped. “On a stone bench in the rose garden, Your Grace.”
Without another word, Gerrit pivoted on his heel and strode toward the French doors.
“Wait, Your Grace!”
Gritting his teeth, he swung around at his uncle’s voice. “What?”
“Should—should I come with you?”
“That would rather defeat the purpose of speaking to her privately, would it not?”
The older man’s face flushed at his scathing tone. “Er, yes, I suppose so. What will you say to her, Your Grace?”
“That is between me and Lady Mariska.”
***
Katie squirmed, but the arms around her—hard and male—did not loosen.
A bolt of fear shot up her spine. Run! a voice in her head shrieked. Escape!
Katie thrust her hands between her body and the hard torso trapping her and shoved.
Either she pushed harder than she intended, or Mr. Morecombe’s grasp had not been as unyielding as she’d believed because his lips—which had been fastened over hers more tightly than a blob of sealing wax on a piece of parchment—broke away and he staggered backward, halted by the stone bench behind him.
He wore a look of astonishment on his handsome face. “Is aught amiss, my lady?”
Katie dragged the back of her gloved, trembling hand over her mouth, like a child wiping something distasteful from its lips.
Morecombe’s expression shifted from concerned confusion to mortified pique at the gesture.
“Nothing is the matter,” she insisted in a breathless voice. She stole a glance at the nearby foliage, seeking out the prying eyes of her friends. She knew Julia and Caroline had followed them from the ballroom—not believing that Katie would really kiss Morecombe—but she saw no sign of them.
“Just what are you about?” Morecombe demanded, taking a step toward her. “You all but threw yourself at me when we reached the garden and now—”
“And now I have changed my mind,” she said, giving him a cool look she was very far from feeling.
His jaw flexed and his nostrils flared. “I do not know what you are playing at, Lady Kathryn, but it is dangerous.”
Katie had to agree; this game had not been one of her wiser ideas.
Morecombe glared a moment longer, and the cold, accusing anger in his eyes made her want to hide under a nearby shrub but she forced herself to hold his gaze.
He quickly mastered himself, his face once again a polite mask as he held out his arm. “I shall escort you back to the ballroom, my lady.”
“No, thank you.” She smoothed the skirt of her gown with a shaking hand. “I will remain outside for a while.”
“As you wish.” He sounded relieved, rather than offended and the soles of his dancing shoes made a gritty sound as they pivoted on the stone walk and he strode off into the night.
Katie waited until she could no longer hear his steps before heaving a sigh and collapsing on the stone garden bench.
Her eyes burned and her vision became blurry.
She squeezed her eyelids shut, refusing to shed tears because she did not deserve to cry.
Her life was perfect. She was healthy, had a family who loved her—even though most of her sisters, and probably their husbands, were beyond frustrated with her by this point—and her brothers-in-law had collectively settled so much money on her that she could marry an impoverished street sweeper if she so chose.
In short, there was nothing for Katie to do other than please herself.
And yet she was incapable of feeling pleasure. Worse, she was miserable all the time.
Unlike her older sisters, there was no sacrifice for her to make. The four of them—Phoebe, Selina, Aurelia, and Hyacinth—had married wealthy men and saved their family from shame and destitution.
True, all of them had fallen in love with their husbands, even Hy, whom nobody—including Hy—would have believed could love somebody. But her reserved older sister loved the Duke of Chatham fiercely.
The only two who were still unmarried were Katie and her brother Dauntry. Doddy was the baby of the family and had just turned twenty, so he had an excuse.
Katie, on the other hand, would be three-and-twenty on her next birthday and was currently in her fifth Season. Her fifth.
“Are you sure you want another Season?” Hy, whom Katie had lived with for almost five years, had asked this past Christmas while discussing their plans for the New Year.
Katie had wanted to tell Hy the truth—that she wanted to go back to Queen’s Bower, their childhood home and live alone—but she’d known that even Hy, her most unconventional sister, would have drawn a line at allowing such a thing.
And so she had agreed to yet another Season.
She might have gone to stay with one of her other sisters, all of whom had invited Katie to live with them. Although as time had passed, their invitations seemed less and less heartfelt.
Katie felt a rush of shame at the thought. All they wanted was for her to be happy, and she could feel their frustration that she only became moodier every year. What on earth would she do next year?
Oh Lord. She could not bear a sixth Season. There was—
“There you are! I have been looking all over for you, my lady.” A massive shape suddenly emerged from the dimly lighted path and loomed over her.
Katie jolted at the hostile voice and did a double take when she saw who it belonged to.
It was the Duke of Dulverton, the elusive ten-point kiss.