Regency Debutantes (61 page)

At the same time as Kathryn was treading silently up the central staircase by the maid’s side, Lord Ravensmede was sitting at the small reading table by the window of his bedchamber in the house in Brighthelmstone. Before him, spread out upon the fine polished cherry-wood, was a drawing. The piece had been executed with a fine attention to detail, capturing every nuance of the sitter, conveying, by the skilled use of line and shade, that person’s precise character. Ravensmede studied every last pencil mark upon the paper until at last he sat back in the chair and smiled. It was clear that the artist viewed the model in a positive light. Indeed, he would go as far as to say that there was a distinct tenderness in the rendition. And that thought was a most appealing one to the Viscount, given that the artist was none other than Kathryn, and the model—himself.

Quite when she had secretly sketched his likeness he did not know. These last weeks in Brighthelmstone had only confirmed what he knew of her: that she was kind and compassionate and imbued with a freedom of imagination that allowed her to escape the mundane, the tiresome, and the downright painful. Whether it be through the pictures set down on paper or those that she wove in her head, Kathryn was an artist, and a passionate one at that.

Beneath that meek and mild exterior was hidden an ardour. But Ravensmede had seen beneath the mask, had known the essence of her from the very first night of their meeting, when he’d mistaken her for Amanda White—as if there could ever be any comparison. Mrs White was little better than a courtesan who sold herself to the highest bidder. Kathryn was quite simply the most amazing woman he had ever met. Lust or desire did not go near to explaining the compulsion he felt for her. Just to
be near her, to make her laugh, to ensure her safety, to hear her voice, and hold her within his arms…It was far and beyond anything he had ever known.

A door opened across the corridor. Female voices. One that sounded to be the maid, the other so quiet as to almost hide its owner. But he didn’t need to hear Kathryn’s voice to know that she was near. Awareness coursed through him. And he knew that he could no longer ignore his need to see her, to watch her smile, to touch his lips to hers. Sandwiching the portrait between two blank sheets of paper, he hid it carefully under some papers within a drawer. Then, waiting until he heard the maid make her way along to the servants’ stairwell, he quietly opened his door and stepped across the corridor to Kathryn’s bedchamber.

Kathryn heard the light knock at her door and scrambled up from the top of the bed. ‘I’m just coming,’ she said in a small controlled voice. Before she had taken one step further Lord Ravensmede entered, closing the door noiselessly behind him. Her hand clasped at the bedside table. She could not speak.

‘Kathryn!’ Shock widened his eyes. Whatever he had been expecting to see, it wasn’t the state of distress that he now witnessed. He reached her in two strides and without the slightest hesitation pulled her into his arms. Scanning her face, he took in the unnaturally white cheeks, and the haunted look in her eyes. ‘What in Hades has happened?’ His clasp was gentle, his hands firm and reassuring against her back.

‘Nothing at all. You need not concern yourself with me, sir.’ She struggled to release herself from his embrace, but he was having none of it. ‘Lord Ravensmede, I must insist that you unhand me. It isn’t fitting that you should be here in my bedchamber or that you have your arms around me.’ The pale lips pressed tight together as she spoke the words quietly and with as much dignity as she could muster.

‘What is this nonsense, Kathryn? I had thought us to have reached an understanding. Are we not friends?’

She lowered her face that he might not see her pain. ‘Indeed we are, sir.’

‘Then I would know what this about.’

‘I made a mistake,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘We cannot go on as before…even if we are friends. I’m your grandmother’s companion…and I’m happy with that.’

‘Have you had word from your aunt?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘No, of course not. She doesn’t even know that I’m here.’

‘Is it my grandmother?’

‘No.’ The word was determined and defiant.

‘Then why are you so upset?’

‘I’m not.’

A single dark eyebrow arched. With slow deliberation he traced a thumb down her cheek.

‘No!’ She twisted her face away. Then with more control, ‘Please do not.’

His hand stilled in mid-air, then dropped back down to her arm. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, Kathryn.’

‘I cannot.’

Silence hummed.

‘Kathryn,’ he said.

Slowly, unable to help herself, she looked round at him.

His eyes were dark as the depths of a forest where the light does not reach.

Beneath his gaze Kathryn felt her resolve waver. For there she could see concern and kindness…and something else, something for which hope flared…then died when rational thought intruded. It seemed that she had to drag the breath into her lungs, force it back out again. Pain burst anew into a thousand piercing shards at just how much she had come to love this man.

She could not tell him. Had to preserve some scrap of pride. He desired her…as she desired him, to touch, to kiss, to hold. He liked her, of that she was sure. But he did not love her; could not love her as she loved him. Before the summer was out he would be betrothed to another woman…married even. And
Kathryn would be alone once more. She chided herself for the fool that she was. Even as he looked at her as if he could see into her very soul, she lowered her eyes.

She wanted to scream and cry and beat her hands upon the breadth of his chest. She wanted to condemn him for each kiss, for every caress of his hand, the very smile on his face, the tender light in his eyes. How dare he tempt her to love him knowing full well nothing decent could ever come of it! The pain seared across her chest, tightening her throat. Through all the storm of emotions she held herself erect, clinging to her dignity, never once yielding to the sensations that battered her. ‘Please leave now.’ Those three small words so quietly, so politely spoken were more devastating than if she had roared at the top of her voice.

‘No, not until you tell me what’s going on.’ One hand slid up the length of her arm to grip upon her shoulder.

She trembled beneath his touch. ‘Please don’t touch me.’

The green eyes widened, but her heart was so wounded she did not see his hurt.

His grip loosened until his fingers were nothing more than a featherlight touch. They lingered for a matter of seconds longer and then slowly, as if by an act of immense will-power, they were gone. And now, even though there was nothing holding her to him, she felt the warmth of his proximity, felt the urge to wrap her arms around him, bury her face against his chest. Her breath was uneven and shallow, coming in fits and starts, gasps and shudders. She forced herself to step back, to reject temptation before it caught her completely. One tiny step backwards, and then another.

He made to follow.

‘Lord Ravensmede,’ she said as coldly as she could.

Frustration boiled. ‘Damnation, Kathryn, just tell me!’

For one tiny sliver of a moment she nearly did, and then common sense came to the fore once more and she shook her head.

She composed her face, unwilling to have him witness the
full extent of her humiliation. ‘I fear I have the headache, sir. If you would be so kind as to leave me to my rest.’

Nicholas’s gaze did not falter. He made no move.

She swallowed hard. Her heart shuddered. ‘Please, Nicholas,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t make this any harder than it already is. Just go.’

He looked at her for a moment longer, then turned and walked towards the door.

Ravensmede only suffered Kathryn’s new cold formal treatment for two days before a visit from Harry Silverton forced a change in matters. The Viscount was staring moodily out of the library window, sipping his brandy when the footman arrived.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but her ladyship sent me. Mr Silverton has arrived and is refusing to leave until he’s seen Miss Marchant.’

The ejection of Mr Silverton was to prove rather more problematic than Lord Ravensmede anticipated.

‘Ravensmede, you dashed scoundrel!’ Harry Silverton bellowed upon Ravensmede’s entry to the drawing room.

‘Mr Silverton, I must urge you to refrain from shouting when my grandmother is present.’ Ravensmede looked meaningfully at the dowager perched uneasily on the edge of the sofa.

The younger man swayed a little unsteadily on his feet. ‘Where have you hidden her?’

‘If by
her
you’re referring to Miss Marchant, then I regret to inform you that she is at present not in to any visitors, nor is she likely to be so in the near future.’

‘You confounded cur!’ The young gentleman’s words had a distinctive slur to them. ‘You mean to keep her for yourself. To have her as your mistress when a decent man like me would ask for nothing but her hand in marriage!’ The stench of alcohol pervading the room intensified as Mr Silverton staggered closer.

Ravensmede’s eyes narrowed at the insult, but he had no intention of bandying insults with a young man who was quite
clearly well and truly foxed. ‘I will ask you to leave, Mr Silverton, before you make even more of a fool of yourself than you have already.’

‘Damn you, Ravensmede, but I love her, and I ain’t leaving until I’ve seen her to tell her so.’ He scrabbled about in his pocket and produced a sheet of folded paper. ‘I’ve written a poem to her beauty. I mean for her to have it.’ He tried to focus on the sheet for several minutes, but to no avail.

‘I shall not ask you again, sir.’ The Viscount’s voice cut sharply through the room.

‘I’ve heard all about you. Who hasn’t? The infamous Viscount of Ravensmede and his affairs with the ladies, and the gaming tables.’ The youngster sneered. ‘A rake, a libertine and more! I’ve seen the way you look at Miss Marchant and I don’t like it.’ The dramatic effect of this little speech was somewhat ruined by the enormous belch that succeeded it. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Mr Silverton.

‘You’ve said quite enough for one night, sir. And if you won’t leave of your own accord, then I will throw you out, you insolent dog!’ Lord Ravensmede moved to effect his threat.

‘Stay where you are!’ Silverton produced a pistol and waved it in the Viscount’s direction. The poem fluttered unnoticed to the floor.

Lady Maybury, who had hitherto been silent throughout the two men’s exchange, leapt to her feet. ‘How dare you threaten m’grandson, you odious toad! Put that infernal thing away this instant!’

Mr Silverton looked momentarily at the barrel of his pistol as if he were surprised to find the object in his hand. ‘I do beg your pardon, my lady. I was just trying to explain to Lord Ravensmede that I.’ he hiccuped and waved the pistol as he spoke ‘. am here to prevent him ruining Miss Marchant. I mean to have her as my wife, you see.’

‘Yes, I see only too well, sir, that you are going about courting m’companion in quite the wrong manner. Not only
are you rather the worse for drink, but I’m offended by your presence.’ Lady Maybury sniffed and cast him the haughtiest of looks.

‘I didn’t mean to insult
you,
my lady.
You
are not a rake of the worst degree.’ He gestured the muzzle in the dowager’s direction as he stressed the word
you. ‘You
do not mean to keep her from me.’ The pistol pointed directly at Lady Maybury, the young man’s finger lingering unwittingly around the trigger.

Ravensmede had seen enough. He knew exactly how dangerous a weapon could be, particularly in the hands of a man who had clearly spent the best part of the day in the consumption of brandy if the reek was anything to go by. His grandmother was at risk and that was not something he was prepared to tolerate. Moving with a speed and agility that surprised them all, Ravensmede launched himself at the golden-haired visitor, placing his own body between the pistol and the old lady at whom it was levelled. The momentum of his flight carried both men to the floor, but not before an almighty roar reverberated around the drawing room. The stench of gunpowder arose, along with a plume of blue smoke.

Lady Maybury screamed.

Ravensmede clambered up from the prostrate body.

Harry Silverton’s bright blue eyes stared up, round, unblinking.

The dowager scrabbled towards her grandson. ‘Thank God you’re safe!’

The door swung open. Pounding steps as the butler and two footmen clattered in.

‘Escort this gentleman from the house. A carriage shall be required to send him on his way.’ Ravensmede bent to retrieve the pistol from where it lay discarded upon the floor. ‘He no longer has need of this.’

A soft gasp came from the doorway.

She was by his side, hands on his sleeve, eyes wide with fear. ‘Nicholas?’ No polite and distant ‘Lord Ravensmede’ this time.

He smiled a lazy smile, and pulled her against the right-hand side of his body. ‘Mr Silverton was just leaving.’

Kathryn grabbed both of his arms and stared up into his face, all thoughts of propriety forgotten in her concern. ‘What happened?’

An unmistakable wince, and an involuntary withdrawal.

‘Nicholas?’ With an escalating dread Kathryn let her gaze travel slowly to where her right hand clutched.

The material of his coat was warm and wet beneath her fingers. She drew them back, swallowed hard and looked down at the glistening red stain. The grey eyes swivelled to meet his. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘The smallest scratch, nothing more.’

Lady Maybury stepped closer, her bony fingers clutching to her throat. ‘You’re shot,’ she whispered in disbelief.

Her words seemed to rouse Harry Silverton from his faint. The gentleman raised himself cautiously to his elbows, terror dawning upon his countenance. ‘Was an accident.’ And with that he groaned and gingerly replaced his head upon the polished wooden floorboards.

Time ceased. The moment stretched unending, until at last the dowager gave a frightened little mew. ‘So much blood.’

‘Grandmama.’ Ravensmede stepped forward to reassure the elderly lady who was tottering rather unsteadily on her feet.