A Lady by Midnight (8 page)

“That’s going to change,” Lord Drewe said. “The ‘good society’ part. I am determined that Lark will have the debut she deserves. I have failed twice to bring out my sisters with any success. Harriet’s season was an unmitigated debacle.”

“Only if you judge by Society’s standards.”

“That is the entire point of a season. To be judged by Society’s standards. And by the end of your season, we were not only judged by Society, but convicted, sentenced, pilloried, and exiled for the better part of a decade.” Lord Drewe folded his papers, set them aside and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Calista never even made it to London.”

“She didn’t want to,” Lark said. To Kate, she explained, “She fell in love with Mr. Parker, the stable master. Now they live together at Rook’s Fell, and we cleared out this summer to give them run of the place. Calista always did love horses, and she and Parker have turned their efforts to breeding.”

Aunt Marmoset tittered with laughter. Kate tried not to join her.

“What?” Lark looked around, bemused. “What have I said now?”

“Nothing,” Harry assured her. “Do not think on it, chicken. You are everything good and pure, that’s all.”

Lark turned to Kate and gave her an uncertain smile. “There you have it. To be a Gramercy is to be embroiled in one scandal after another, it seems. Do you despise us already? Do you want us to leave?”

“Not at all.” She looked around the room. “I’m so happy, I can’t tell you. I’m delighted that you’re not fusty and proper, or I don’t know how I’d ever fit in. I’m in heaven just sitting here, listening to you talk and tease and turn the pages of your newspapers. You can’t know what a pleasure it is for me, to be in the presence of a family. Any family.”

“We are not just
any
family,” Lark said. “We may be
your
family.”

“If you’ll have us,” Harry said. “I shouldn’t blame you if you won’t.”

Kate looked around at their earnestly hopeful faces. “In all my life, there’s never been anything I wanted more.”

But as she spoke the words, they had the faintly acid taste of a lie. Earlier that day, she’d craved a man’s touch with a fierce, primal intensity. She’d wanted it more than comfort, more than family. More than breath. Beneath her skin, her muscles still yearned and ached.

She closed her eyes and willed the forbidden feelings away. “I only wish there was some way we could be certain.”

“I’ve begun inquiries,” Lord Drewe said. “I’ve already sent letters directing my man of business to Margate, to see what he can stir up there. We’re also exploring other avenues.”

“I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope that you might . . . remember something?” Lark asked. “I don’t want to pressure you, but we thought that perhaps after seeing the portrait and being around our family, some forgotten detail might shake loose.”

“Perhaps it will in time. But truly, I have so few memories.” Kate let her eyes go unfocused. “I’ve tried, so many times, to recall. It’s as though I’m traveling down a dark, endless corridor, and my past is at the end of it. And I know . . . I just know . . . if I could open the door at the end of that corridor, I’d remember everything. But I never quite get there. I only hear pianoforte music, and I have some memory of the color blue.”

“Perhaps it’s the pendant,” Lark said. She fetched the portrait from the mantelpiece. “The one about her neck, see?”

Kate looked closely. She’d noticed the pendant before—but in the dark last night, it had appeared to be black. Now she could see that it was actually a deep, almost indigo blue. Too dark to be a sapphire. Perhaps lapis?

She lifted her head, excited. “I suppose that could be the blue I recall. Especially if my mother wore it always.”

“She must have done,” said Harry. “She even wore it when she wore nothing at all.”

Kate startled. “Oh. And there’s a little song. A song about flowers.”

She sang it all the way through for them, beginning with, “See the garden of blossoms so fair . . .”

“It’s been lodged in my memory all my life, but in all my years of teaching music, I’ve never met anyone else who knew that song. I always fancied my mother sang it to me. Is it familiar to any of you?”

The Gramercys shook their heads.

“But the fact that we don’t know the song doesn’t mean anything,” Lark said. “We never would have met your mother at all.”

Kate’s shoulders relaxed. “It would be nice if that could have been the link. The proof. But I suppose it was too much too hope.”

“Nothing is too much to hope.” Aunt Marmoset patted her hand. “And dear, we really must decide what to call you. If you’re family, ‘Miss Taylor’ just doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s not even my name at all,” Kate admitted. “The surname Taylor was assigned to me at Margate. Really, I’d love it if you’d call me Kate. All my friends do.”

Even though her full name had been listed as Katherine, she’d always gone by Kate. It simply fit. “Katherine” sounded too refined and regal. “Kitty” brought to mind a flighty young girl. But “Kate” sounded like a sensible, clever young woman with lots of friends.

She was a “Kate.”

Except to someone, somewhere, she’d once been “Katie.”

Be brave, my Katie.

And today, when Thorne had pinned her to the ground, acting with courage to guard her life with his own—even if the threat was a wayward fruit, rather than a mortar shell—he’d called her “Katie,” too. So strange.

“Will you show us the local sights?” Lark asked. “I’m dying to explore that old castle on the bluffs.”

Kate bit her lip. “Perhaps we should save that for tomorrow. The militia are undertaking some drills. But I’d be delighted to give you a tour of the church.”

“Hold that thought.” Lord Drewe held back the curtain. “I believe our things have arrived.”

Kate watched, amazed, as a caravan of one, two . . .
three
carriages pulled up before the Queen’s Ruby, all of them bursting with valises and trunks. They must have contained enough belongings and supplies to launch a small colony.

“Thank the Lord,” said Aunt Marmoset. “I’m down to my last three spice drops.”

Chapter Nine

T
horne was a man of habit.

That evening, after all the men had left, he returned to his solitary quarters—one of the four turrets that comprised the Rycliff Castle keep. He brushed the dust from his officer’s coat and polished his boots to a fresh shine, so they’d be ready the next day.

Then he sat down at the small, simple table to review the day’s events.

This, too, was routine. In the infantry, he’d served under then-Lieutenant Colonel Bramwell, now Lord General Rycliff. After every battle, Rycliff would sit down with his maps and journals to painstakingly recreate the order of events. Thorne would help him to recall the details. Together, they laid it all out before them. What had happened, exactly? Where had key decisions been taken? Where had ground been gained, lives been lost?

Most importantly, they asked themselves this: Could anything have been done differently, to achieve a more favorable outcome?

In most cases, they arrived honestly at the same answer: no. Given a chance, they would do the same again. The ritual dampened any whispers of guilt or regret. Left unchecked, such whispers could become echoes—bouncing off the walls of a man’s skull. Growing louder, faster, more dangerous over weeks and months and years.

Thorne knew the echoes. He had enough of them rattling around his brain already. He didn’t need any more. So tonight he poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and reviewed the events of his most recent conflict.

The Melon Siege.

Could he have reasonably predicted the danger to Miss Taylor?

He didn’t think so. The trebuchet had been firing reliably seaward, if with varying degrees of strength. Sir Lewis had said afterward he could not have replicated that trajectory if he tried. A freak accident, nothing more.

Had he acted rightly to tackle her?

Again he could not regret his actions. Even if he’d been aware that the missile was a melon, he likely would have done the same. Had the fruit been any less ripe, it might not have exploded on contact. She could have been seriously injured. Thorne’s head was still pounding from the impact.

No, it was everything that came afterward. That was where he’d gone wrong. The shock had rocketed him to some other place. A place filled with smoke and the stench of blood. He’d found himself crawling on his belly toward the sound of her voice. For miles, it seemed, collecting scrapes on his knees and hands. Until he found the source—a clear, calm pool of water amidst the ugliness, with her face reflecting up at him instead of his own. He’d lowered his face to drink from it, lapping up that cool, refreshing peace. But it wasn’t enough. He’d wanted to bathe in her, drown in her.

That kiss . . .

Even when he came to his senses, he hadn’t pulled back. Not immediately, as he should have done. He’d never forgive himself for that. He could have truly hurt her.

But Lord. She’d been so sweet.

He lifted—and swiftly gulped—the tumbler of whiskey. Didn’t help. Even a second dose of liquid fire couldn’t burn her taste from his lips. He let his pounding head fall back until it met with the uneven stone wall.

So sweet. So soft in his arms. Christ, she’d been
under
him, every bit as warm and alive as he’d known she would be. Stroking his face and his hair, murmuring gentle words. The recollection made his chest ache and his groin tighten.

Good God. Good God.

He sipped the liquor again. As he forced the swallow down, a groan of raw pain and longing rose in his chest. All the whiskey in the bottle couldn’t numb this ache.

But he knew one thing.

This lusting stopped here. With these queer, mysterious Gramercys in the picture, she needed his protection. He needed to keep his wits sharp. If he came too close, he risked compromising her and losing his own focus. So there could be no more closeness. Only the bare minimum of contact. Handing her down from carriages and the like. Perhaps he’d be pressed to offer his arm on occasion.

But on this, he was resolved—

There would be no more kisses. Ever.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Corporal Thorne! Corporal Thorne, come out.”

Thorne’s heart kicked into a gallop. He thrust his feet into his boots and punched to a standing position. As he made for the door, he snagged his coat from its hook.

“What is it?” He flung open the door to view a red-faced, out-of-breath Rufus Bright.

The young man’s eyes were serious. “Sir, you’re needed down in the village at once.”

“Where? What’s happened?”

“The Bull and Blossom. And I can’t describe it, sir. You’ll see when you get there.”

That was all Thorne needed to hear. He broke into a run. From there it was a footrace with trouble—which particular kind of trouble, he hated to imagine. Was she sick? In danger? Had the Gramercys heard about the melon incident and departed in disgust, leaving her heartbroken and alone?

Damn, damn, damn.

Walking from the castle to the village normally took about twenty minutes. Going this direction, he had the advantage of the downslope—but with the light fading, a man had to watch his step.

Nevertheless, Thorne would venture no more than five minutes had passed by the time he reached the bottom of the path and plunged into the village lanes. A few moments later he was tearing across the green and throwing open the tavern door.

Bloody hell. It seemed that every soul in Spindle Cove was packed into the place. He saw villagers, militiamen, ladies from the Queen’s Ruby. Like fish in a net they were, just a mass of wriggling bodies with gaping mouths.

To a one, they turned and hushed as he burst through the doorway. Thorne could imagine why. He was panting, sweating, growling, and furious with the need to know just what the hell was going on.

But he was so winded, he hadn’t the breath for extensive questioning. Only three words mattered, in his mind. He used the last of his air to bark them out.

“Where is she?”

The crowd rustled and sorted itself, pushing Miss Taylor forward as if she were the wheat amid the chaff.

He swept his gaze up her body, then studied her face. She was whole, and not bleeding. Her eyes were clear, not red with tears. That alone was enough to make her the most beautiful thing he’d ever beheld. As far as he was concerned, her low-cut, fitted yellow gown was merely in the way. She had better not be bruised or broken under all that shimmering silk.

“Surprise,” she said. “It’s a party.”

“A . . .” He worked for breath. “ . . . A
party
.”

“Yes. An engagement party. For us.”

He swept a look around the crowded tavern. This might have started as a party. It was going to end as someone’s funeral.

“Wasn’t it a nice idea?” She forced a smile. “Your militiamen planned it.”

“Oh, did they?”

Thorne turned to the bar, where his militiamen stood in a lazy, substandard line. Pursing their lips like buglers, to keep from laughing aloud.

He wanted to murder them all. One by one by one. Unluckily for them, he’d left his pistol at the castle. But there had to be knives in this place.

She took a few steps closer. With every labored breath he drew, he now got a dizzying lungful of her lemon-clover scent. It calmed him in some ways and inflamed him in others.

“It wasn’t my idea,” she murmured at the floorboards. “I can see you were frightened. I’m so sorry.”

“Not frightened,” he replied curtly.

Just ready to fight. And she needed to stop looking so pained, or he’d be seriously tempted to put his fist through the wall.

Fosbury, the tavern keeper and confectioner, came out from the kitchen wearing an embroidered apron and bearing a large tray. “Come along, Corporal Thorne. Even you have to celebrate sometime. Look, I made you a cake.”

Thorne looked at the cake.

It was baked in the shape of a melon, iced with green. There were letters swimming on it—they spelled out congratulatory wishes, he supposed—but he was too angry and exhausted to push them together into words. Heaped atop all his other frustrations, that last insult to his pride was enough to turn his vision red.

“There’s a fly on it,” he said.

Fosbury bristled. “No, there’s not.”

“There is. Look close. In the center.”

The tavern keeper bent his head and peered closely at the center of the cake.

Thorne grabbed him by the hair and pushed downward, mashing his face straight into the icing. The man came up blinking and sputtering through a mask of green, sugary scum.

“Do you see it now?” Thorne asked.

A thick glob of piped icing fell from Fosbury’s brow. It landed with an audible plop. The entire room had gone silent.

They were all staring at him, aghast.
What’s the matter with you?
their horrified looks said.
We’re your neighbors and friends. Don’t you know how to enjoy a party?

No. He didn’t.

No one had given him a party before. Never in his life. And the way everyone was staring at him, it was clear that no one would ever dare to give him one again.

Then it started. Just a light ripple of musical sound, coming from Miss Taylor’s direction. It grew louder, gained strength, until it was a full-force cascade.

She was laughing. Laughing at him, laughing at the stupid cake, laughing at Fosbury’s green-covered face. Her peals of melodious, good-natured laughter rang from the exposed ceiling timbers and shivered through his ribs.

Before Thorne’s heart could remember its rhythm, everyone else was laughing, too. Even Fosbury. The mood went from black to some iridescent color only found in rainbows and seashells. The party was a party again.

Damn. If only he had it in him to love, to give her what she needed—he would claim her for his own and keep her so very close. To tease him, to kiss him back from the shadows, to laugh merrily when he terrorized his friends. To make him feel almost human, every once in while.

If only.

“For goodness’ sake,” she said, still laughing behind her cupped hand. “Someone fetch the poor man a cloth.”

A giggling serving girl handed a rag over the counter, and Miss Taylor took the cake from Fosbury’s hands so he could wipe his face clean.

She stuck her finger in the mussed icing, then held Thorne’s gaze while she sucked it clean. “Delicious.” She held the cake out. “Care to try?”

God above. No man could resist that. He had to take at least this much.

He reached—not for the cake, but for her wrist. While she stared at him, wide-eyed, he dipped her finger in the icing and brought it to his own mouth.

He sucked the creamy, sugary confection from her finger, and then he sucked the sweeter treat that was her bare fingertip, working his tongue up, down, and around it. The same way he would savor her nipple, or that hidden nub between her legs.

She gave a little gasp, and he fancied he heard pleasure in it. If she were his, he’d have her making that sound every night.

He released her hand and pronounced, “Delicious indeed.”

A raucous whoop went up from the assembled crowd.

She gave him a chastening look. Her cheeks were as red as his coat.

He shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s our engagement party. Just giving them what they came to see.”

S
ometime later, Kate was seated at a corner table with Thorne and the Gramercys. Slices of half-eaten cake sat before each place.

She was having a difficult time attending conversation—not only because the tavern had only grown louder after two rounds of drinks, but because her thoughts were entirely absorbed by a tongue.

His
tongue.

She’d gained a great deal of familiarity with that tongue today. It was nimble, impertinent, and had a way of ending in places she wasn’t expecting. It also gave her an inordinate amount of pleasure, when he wasn’t employing it to send her harsh words.

But right now, perhaps his tongue was fatigued from the day’s exertions, because he wasn’t using it. At all. He’d been sitting at this table for a half hour, at least, and hadn’t spoken a word.

“Why don’t you tell us how you and Corporal Thorne met,” Aunt Marmoset said.

Kate sent a nervous glance in Thorne’s direction. “Oh, no. It’s a boring story.”

Harry lifted her wine. “It can’t be a more boring topic than estate management and agriculture, and that’s all we ever hear from Evan.”

Beneath the table, Kate twisted her fingers in her lap. There was no way she could spin a plausible tale of courtship. She didn’t want to lie to the Gramercys at all, and Thorne’s taciturn presence across the table would only undermine any tales of romance she might concoct.

“It’s been a year,” she said. “So long ago. Truthfully, I’m not even sure I could remember the time and place of our first—”

“It was here.”

The reply came from Thorne. The silent oracle had spoken. The collective surprise was such that the glassware rattled on the table.

Even more astonishing—he appeared to have yet more to say.

“I arrived with Lord Rycliff last summer, to help assemble the local militia. Our first day in the village, we entered this tea shop.”

Lord Drewe looked around. “I thought this was a tavern.”

“It was a tea shop then,” Kate explained. “Called the Blushing Pansy. But since last summer, it’s been the Bull and Blossom. Part tea shop, part tavern.”

“So go on,” urged Aunt Marmoset. “You came in to the tea shop, and . . .”

“And it was a Saturday,” Thorne said. “All the ladies were here for their weekly salon.”

“Oh,” said Lark with excitement. “I see where this is going. Miss Taylor was playing the pianoforte. Or the harp.”

“Singing. She was singing.”

“She sings?” Drewe looked to Kate. “We must have you perform.”

“It’s a rare thing to hear her,” Thorne said. “Too often, she’s accompanying one of her pupils instead. But that first day, she was singing.”

Dreamy-eyed, Lark propped her chin with one hand. “And right there, that first moment, you were struck by her celestial voice and rare, ethereal beauty.”

Kate cringed.
Celestial?
Lark was taking it much too far. Surely he’d balk at confirming that.