A Lady by Midnight (9 page)

Thorne cleared his throat. “Something like it.”

Lark sighed. “So romantic.”

Of all the words Kate had never expected to hear applied to Thorne, “so romantic” had to rank near the very top. Right beneath “talkative,” “dainty,” and “choirboy.” She had to admit, he was doing an admirable job of making this sound believable, without resorting to lies. He must have worried she’d give away the truth, with all her hesitant stammering on the subject.

“What was she wearing?” This question came from Lord Drewe. It had the sound of a quiz, not friendly curiosity. As if he didn’t believe Thorne was telling the truth.

“Lord Drewe, it was a year ago,” Kate interjected lightly, trying to divert this line of questioning. She was lucky they’d progressed this far without a misstep. “Even I don’t remember what I was wearing.”

“White.” Thorne regarded Lord Drewe across the table. “She was wearing white muslin. And an India shawl embroidered with peacocks. Her hair was dressed with blue ribbons.”

“Is that true?” Lark asked Kate.

“I . . . If Corporal Thorne says so, I suppose it must be.”

Kate struggled to conceal her shock. She remembered that shawl. It had been on loan from Mrs. Lange. Since she was angry with the husband who’d given it to her, she’d let Kate have use of the shawl all last summer. But Kate never imagined that Thorne would recall it. Much less the matching peacock ribbons in her hair.

She stole a glance at him as the serving girl removed the empty glasses. Had he truly been “struck by her” that day, the way Lark said?

“So he clapped eyes on you right here in the Spindle Cove tea shop,” Lark said dramatically, “and he knew at once—he must make you his own.”

Kate’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You know nothing of men, goose,” Harry said. “It’s been a whole year. Corporal Thorne is a man of action. Just look at him. If he’d made up his mind to have her, he would have done so long before now.”

“See, he didn’t like me,” Kate said. “Not at first. Perhaps there was some superficial attraction, but no emotions were involved.” She looked at him over her wineglass. “He didn’t feel a thing for me.”

“Oh, I won’t believe that.” Aunt Marmoset unwrapped another spice drop. “I think he liked you too well, dear. And he made up his mind to stay away.”

Kate looked to Thorne. She found him staring back at her with unnerving intensity.

“Well?” Lark asked him. “Does my aunt have it right?”

Does she?
Kate asked him silently.

She didn’t know what answer to read in those ice-blue eyes, but she discerned there was a great deal going on behind them. For a man who claimed to feel nothing . . . the “nothing” went very deep.

“Miss Taylor, are you going to keep our new friends all to yourself?”

Kate shook herself back to the present. Mrs. Highwood stood behind her, Diana and Charlotte in tow.

“Introduce us, dear,” the matron said through a clenched smile.

“Yes, of course.” She rose, and so did the men at the table. “Lord Drewe, Lady Harriet, Lady Lark, and Aunt Marmoset, may I introduce Mrs. Highwood and her daughters, Diana and Charlotte.”

“I have a third daughter,” Mrs. Highwood said loftily, “but she is lately married. To the Viscount Payne of Northumberland.” The older woman turned and made a strange, awkward motion with her fan.

“Congratulations,” Lark said, smiling at the matron and her daughters. “We’ve seen you in the rooming house, but it’s a pleasure to be properly introduced.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Highwood. “What a boon it is to have a family of your caliber in Spindle Cove. We are quite starved for society this summer.” Once again she turned and made the same swoop of her fan.

“Are you swatting a wasp?” asked Aunt Marmoset.

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Highwood flicked an agitated gaze toward the same corner of the room. “It’s nothing. Will you excuse me for just a moment?”

As Kate—and all the Gramercys—looked on, the matron turned away, walked two steps, and hurled her closed fan with such force that it smacked an unsuspecting man on the back of the head.

“Music,” she half growled. “Now.”

The man rubbed his head, offended, but he drew out a fiddle and began to saw a few creaky strains of a dance. Around the tavern, guests came to their feet to clear tables and chairs.

“Oh, look,” said Mrs. Highwood, turning back to the Gramercys with an innocent smile. “There’s going to be dancing. What a happy surprise.”

Kate shook her head, dismayed. Of course the woman would do anything in her power to engineer a dance between her eldest daughter and Lord Drewe. But dancing wasn’t a good idea for Diana. The last time she’d danced with a lord in this tavern, Diana had suffered a serious breathing crisis.

“Lord Drewe, I do hope you will honor us with a dance,” said Mrs. Highwood. “Spindle Cove offers no shortage of lovely partners.” She nudged Diana a step forward. “Ahem.”

Kate began to grow truly panicked. She didn’t know how to stop this. Even if he had no interest, Lord Drewe would not embarrass Diana with a refusal. And Diana was too shy and sweet to countermand her mother in company.

She cast a frantic, pleading glance at Thorne. He must understand what was going on. But unlike the others involved, he wasn’t the sort to let etiquette stop him from doing something about it.

Standing tall, he lifted his voice and called to the fiddler. “No dancing. Not tonight.”

The music died a quick, plaintive death. Around the room, guests muttered with discontent. Once again Thorne had single-handedly destroyed the celebratory spirit.

Only Kate knew the true reason, and it wasn’t surliness. Neither was it a lack of empathy.

Quite the opposite. There was good in him. Raw, molten goodness, bubbling deep in his core. But he didn’t possess the charm or manners to control it. It just erupted periodically in volcano fashion, startling anyone who happened to be nearby. Whether they were neighbors he prevented from dancing or teary-eyed spinsters he kissed in fields of heather.

He recalled the color of her hair ribbons on the first day they met. And she’d been blind to his essential nature all this time.

“Of course we can’t have any dancing,” Diana said, restoring peace with a smile. “How could we think of it, when we haven’t yet raised a glass to the happy couple?”

“That’s right,” someone called. “There must be a toast.”

“I’ll say something. I’m the host.” Fosbury raised a glass from behind the bar. “I don’t think I’ll be speaking out of turn to say this betrothal came as quite the surprise to everyone in Spindle Cove.”

Kate glanced at Lord Drewe, worried he’d suspect something was amiss.

Fosbury continued, “For a year, we’ve all been watching these two square off on opposites of every argument. I had it on good authority that Miss Taylor had diagnosed Corporal Thorne as possessing a stone for a heart and having rocks in his head.”

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.

“And considering these infirmities”—the tavern keeper stretched his glass in Thorne’s direction—“who would have thought the corporal could make so wise a choice?” He smiled at Kate. “We’re all terrible fond of you, m’dear. I think I speak for the entire militia when I say—we wouldn’t let you go to anyone less worthy. Or less capable of calling us up on court-martial.”

“Hear hear!”

Everyone laughed and drank, and the collective affection in the room created a knot in Kate’s throat. But it was another emotion that made her chest ache.

Fosbury was right. Over the past year, she’d abused Thorne thoroughly, to his face
and
behind his back, when he’d done nothing more egregious than ignore her. After tonight, she suspected all that neglect had been his clumsy attempt at chivalry.

Here she was, surrounded by friends—and possibly family—who believed her to be in love with the man. Engaged to marry him. But in reality, she knew she’d treated him ill.

He told her he had no feelings to hurt, but no one could be completely without emotion. And if all Thorne’s brusqueness had goodness beneath . . .

What sort of heart was hidden under all those staunch denials?

She regarded him now: arms crossed, face hard, eyes glazed with ice. He was a living suit of armor. If she listened hard enough, she might even hear him creak as he walked.

He wouldn’t surrender any secrets willingly. If she wanted to know what was truly inside the man, she would have to crack him open to find out. It seemed a dangerous proposition, and a sensible, clever young woman—a “Kate”—would turn and run the other way.

But she wasn’t a “Kate” to him. He’d called her Katie. And Katie was a courageous girl, even in the face of her fears.

Be brave, my Katie.

Yes. She would need to be.

Chapter Ten

“I
must say, that’s a true disappointment. He hasn’t any phallus.”

“What?” Kate asked, laughing.

When they’d reached their picnic spot, Harry placed her hands on her hips, clenched her teeth around a cheroot, and regarded the immense green slope a few pastures distant.

“No phallus at all.” She exhaled a puff of smoke. “And here I had such high hopes, considering he’s known as ‘the Long Man’.”

Kate exchanged amused glances with Lark. They both turned to regard the giant outline of a man carved into the chalk hillside. The ancient figure ranged over the entire slope, standing out in white lines against green.

“Ames and I went to see the Cerne Abbas carving in Dorset,” Harry went on. “The giant depicted on their hillside is magnificently pagan. He has a horrific grimace on his face, and he’s waving a big, knobby club in his hand. Not to mention, sporting a monumental erection.”

Lord Drewe frowned. “Really, Harriet. That’s enough discussion of phalluses. I don’t see why you and Ames should even care.”

Harry sent her brother a look. “It’s an artistic appreciation.” She gestured at the ancient carving on the slope. “This one’s just an outline. No facial expression whatsoever. Rather rigid and staid-looking, isn’t he? And confined, locked up between those two lines.”

“I think they’re staffs,” Kate suggested. “So perhaps that’s some consolation. He’s missing the monumental erection, but he does have
two
impressive staffs.”

Harry took the cheroot from her mouth and gave her a shocked look. “Why, Miss Kate
Taylor
.”

Kate knew a moment of pure distress. What had she been thinking, to overstep and speak so crudely? The Gramercys were the aristocracy. She was their poor relation at best, and a complete stranger at worst. Just because Harry could make scandalous jokes, that didn’t mean she should do the same.

Harry turned to her brother. “I like her. She can stay.”

“She stays, whether you like her or not.”

“I suppose that’s right,” Harry said. “If amiability were a requirement for inclusion in this family, Bennett should have been handed his permanent exile years ago.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t cease marveling at the notion that she might be a part of this. This wild, impolitic, eccentric, creative assortment of individuals. They
liked
her.

Now, if only Thorne would join in. The pagan figure carved on the distant hillside was a more active participant in the conversation.

He’d separated himself from the group, on the excuse of letting Badger tumble through the heather. As she looked closely, Kate thought he had the dog engaged in a training exercise. However, she couldn’t follow quite what he was training Badger to do, because she kept getting distracted by the flexing of his thighs whenever he crouched to praise or correct the pup.

It wasn’t only his physical firmness that drew her attention. His character was solid, too. She’d long known him to be stern and immutable, but since their engagement party, Kate was beginning to glimpse the good qualities his silence masked. Patience, confidence, steadfastness. Such traits didn’t clamor for attention. They just quietly . . . existed, waiting to be noticed.

She’d made it her hobby these past few days—noticing. And the more she noticed, the more she yearned to know more.

“Well, that’s a lovely view for a picnic,” Aunt Marmoset said, joining them. “I do enjoy gazing upon a well-carved man.”

“He’s called ‘the Long Man of Wilmington,’ Aunt Marmoset.” Lark scribbled in her journal.

“How odd. I’d been under the impression his name was Corporal Thorne.” Aunt Marmoset came and put her hand in Kate’s pocket. “My dear, hold onto that one. Tightly, and with all four limbs.”

Kate blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. We have similar tastes.”

The old lady withdrew her hand, leaving Kate’s pocket oddly heavier—full of spice drops, she assumed.

“Remember what I told you,” Aunt Marmoset whispered. “Strong. Overwhelming at first. But with a bit of work, you arrive at the sweetness.”

Kate had to laugh. “I am coming to adore you, Aunt Marmoset. Even if you’re not truly my aunt.”

Over the past few days, she had begun to sort out the web of Gramercy family relationships. She knew Harry had meant it as a joke the first night, but she secretly
had
made herself a chart. Aunt Marmoset was Evan’s mother’s sister, come to live with the family when their father took ill. Therefore, the old lady was not a Gramercy and no potential blood relationship to Kate whatsoever. But that fact didn’t seem to diminish Aunt Marmoset’s efforts to welcome her with warmth and good humor and a great many spice drops.

All the Gramercys had blended in with Spindle Cove life. Drewe had rightly pointed out that the village was a haven for unconventional ladies—and Harry, Lark, and Aunt Marmoset certainly met the standard. They’d been enjoying regular activities with the other ladies: country walks, sea-bathing, making decorations for the fair.

But today the family had decided on an outing—not only to satisfy Harry’s curiosity about the Long Man, but to give them time alone. In the village, they’d still kept the possibility of kinship a secret. Here, they could speak freely.

Kate haltingly approached Lord Drewe. As always, his aristocratic presence and sheer male splendor humbled her. His gloves alone . . . they held her rapt. They were things of seamless, caramel-colored perfection, encasing deft, elegant hands.

“Any news from your men of business?” She hated to pry, but she knew from Sally that he’d had several expresses since arriving in Spindle Cove.

“No information of value at Margate,” he said regretfully. “No information at all.”

Kate only wished she could claim surprise.

“But now they’re canvassing the area around Ambervale, looking for any servants from Simon’s time. Perhaps one of them would remember Elinor and the babe.”

“That sounds like a possibility.” If a slim one.

His gloved fingertips touched her elbow, drawing her gaze up to his face. “I know the uncertainty is difficult to bear. For us all. Lark, in particular, is growing very attached to you. But today we should simply enjoy the outing.”

“Yes, of course.”

On the flat green, two liveried servants had been working hard to erect a canvas pagoda, topped with red banners gaily striping the blue sky.

The Gramercys did nothing without a certain degree of pageantry, Kate was coming to understand. From the carriages, the footmen unloaded two large hampers stocked with a variety of savory dishes and freshly baked sweets provided by the Bull and Blossom. This might be a picnic, but it wasn’t a rustic affair.

As she and Lark helped unpack and arrange a tray of jewel-bright jam tarts, Kate realized there was one question her charts hadn’t helped her settle. “Who is this Ames that Harry’s always talking of? Another cousin? A family friend?”

“No,” Harriet called back, overhearing them. “Not a cousin and certainly no kind of friend.”

“Now, Harry,” Lark said. “Just because the two of you had a little argument . . .”

“A little argument?” Aunt Marmoset scoffed. “More like a waterless reenactment of the Battle of Trafalgar, with saucers and teacups launched in place of cannonballs.”

“Ames must have been playing Lord Nelson, then,” Harry replied. “Because she has been dead to me ever since.”

“ ‘She’?” Kate had been picturing someone male.

Lark sighed and drew her into confidence. “When my sisters and I were younger, Miss Ames was our paid companion. And now . . . now she is simply Harriet’s companion. Her life companion.”

“Oh,” Kate said. And then, more slowly, as the import sank in—
“Oh.”

“I know it’s not very usual. But nothing is in this family. Are you terribly scandalized?”

“No, not . . . terribly.” Though the revelation certainly put a few things in perspective. “But what of all those engagements? The duels Lord Drewe fought?”

“Harry tried her best during her season, and she loved the drama of suitors battling for her attention. But she could never go through with the weddings,” Lark explained. “Her heart was with Miss Ames all along. Don’t let her ranting mislead you. They’re devoted to one another. They’ve had a falling out, but they always mend it in time.”

“I heard that,” Harry said. “And you’re wrong, Lark. This time, we’re through. If we were true companions, as you say, she would have allowed me to accompany her to Herefordshire.”

Lark tilted her head. “Oh, Harry. You know Miss Ames’s family isn’t nearly so understanding as ours.”

Very few families were, Kate imagined.

“I know it well. They’re horrid to her.” Harry kicked at a tent pole with the squared toe of her boot. “Always have been, or else she wouldn’t have needed to be a paid companion in the first place. If she’d let me go along, I could have protected her.”

“I’m certain she misses you sorely,” Lark said.

Harry looked off at the horizon and released a sigh. “I’m off for a ramble. Perhaps the Long Man’s phallus is embarrassingly small and only visible on closer inspection.”

As Harry started off across the pastures, legs striding free in her divided skirt, Kate watched her with a twinge of sadness. Obviously, it pained her to be parted from someone she loved.

And what pained Harry, pained Kate. She was truly coming to care for these people. To lose them now would devastate her.

As if he knew her spirits needed a lift, Badger came shooting up from the meadow, attacking Kate’s skirts with muddy paws, sniffing around all the refreshments and smothering her in delightfully cold, tickling kisses.

Thorne approached soon after, but offered no pawing or kisses. A keen disappointment.

Aunt Marmoset tapped Kate’s shoulder and pointed. “There’s a picturesque church in that direction. I noticed it as we drove by, but I couldn’t make out the name. Be a dear, Kate, and satisfy my curiosity. Corporal Thorne,” she added, “kindly escort her.”

Kate smiled and rose to her feet, glad of the excuse to walk. She pocketed a few meat pies for Badger, and the three of them set off across the field, walking in the direction of the church.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Kate said gently, “You could try to be a little more sociable, you know.”

He made a gruff noise. “I’m never sociable.”

True enough, she supposed. “Why do you dislike the Gramercys so much?”

“I’m looking out for you.” He looked over his shoulder at the picnicking group. “There’s something not right about those people.”

“They’re unusual, I’ll grant you. But it’s only eccentricity. It’s what makes them so amusing and interesting and lovable. It’s what gives me hope that they might accept and love me. They value family bonds above scandal, disagreements, convention. Just because they’re a bit odd, I don’t see any reason for suspicion.”

“I do. I don’t trust them or their story.”

“Why not?” she said, hurt. The more agitated she became, the faster she walked. By now they were hurrying toward the church, and Badger ran to keep up. “Because you don’t think I could possibly be related to lords and ladies?”

He pulled to a halt, turned and fixed her with an intense look. “If I hadn’t spent the last year thinking of you as a lady, I promise you—things would be different between us.”

Her face heated. Other parts of her heated, too. She hadn’t regarded him this closely or directly in days, and now . . .

He was so stunning it hurt.

For a man with few manners and little grace, she now saw he was always immaculate in his attire, be it full uniform or what he wore today—crisply fitted breeches and a simple, dark coat that stretched capably across his broad shoulders. Nothing was fussy, just precise. It was as though fabric didn’t dare rumple in his presence. No button would be so bold as to fall out of line. His boots were polished to a blinding gloss.

And his face . . . Almost a week now since he’d seen her home from Hastings, and every time she looked at him, she still found his face to be that inexplicable, unbearable degree of handsome.

“Must you make this so difficult?” she asked. “You must know I’m all nerves, purely on the Gramercys’ account. They’ve been so kind. I want to be open and honest, and yet I’m afraid of letting my hopes soar too high. I don’t know my place with them, and that’s difficult enough without feeling confused about you, too. I’m pulled in too many directions.”

“I’m not pulling you anywhere. I’m staying close enough to look out for you, without interfering.”

“Of course you’re interfering. You interfere with my breathing, you teasing man. I can’t just ignore you, Thorne. I’ve never been able to ignore you, even when I disliked you. Now I’m a toy on your string, dangling on your every move and word. One minute, you’re paying me no mind at all, and the next . . . you’re staring at me the way you’re doing now. As though you’re a voracious, starving beast and I’m . . .”

His jaw tightened.

She gulped and finished in a whisper, “Edible.”

His exhalation was prolonged, measured. An impressive display of restraint.

“Well?” she prompted. “You can’t deny it. There’s something between us.”

“There isn’t nearly enough between us, and that’s the danger. Don’t you have a modest frock in your wardrobe? For God’s sake, just look at that gown.”

She cast a glance downward. She’d dressed for the outing in her best traveling frock—a handed down dove-gray silk. The hues were modest enough, and the sleeves rather long for summer. But from the direction of his gaze, she supposed he’d taken an interest in the row of ribbon bows that marched down the front of the bodice, holding two edges of gray silk together across a thin slice of white lace. It was all part of the gown’s design, of course, but the garment was cleverly stitched to create the illusion that just a few ribbon ties stood between demure modesty and a state of undress.

“You’re like a gift,” he said, his voice rough. “All wrapped up for someone else. A man can’t look at you, but think of loosing those bows, one by one.”

“They’re false bows,” she stammered. “They’re sewn together.”