The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(25)

“And . . . oh, there was Sir Thomas Granger, five years ago.”

“Granger? Don’t know the man.”

“You haven’t missed anything,” Harry said. “He’s a local baronet. Resembles a peahen.”

The description should have made Kate smile—for Sir Thomas Granger did resemble a peahen—but instead she shuddered with memory of that proposal: Sir Thomas clasping her fingers with a plump, damp hand and leaning earnestly towards her, and then, when she refused him, flushing with rage and calling her a bran-faced dowd who set herself too high.

James laughed again, a humorless sound. His voice held pity: “Poor Kate.” He looked at Harry and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Do you class me with Pruden and your baronet?”

Harry shook his head. “Of course not.”

“So why should Kate refuse me?”

Why indeed? James Hargrave, Earl of Arden, was a prize on the marriage mart. His wealth and title made him one of the most eligible men in Britain. And he was handsome. He could have his pick of ladies. His offer was extraordinary.

I should be flattered. Why, then, did she feel so wretched?

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just saying, she might. Kate has a mind of her own. You know that. She’s not some milk-and-water miss.”

“She would have jumped at the offer eleven years ago,” James said, raising his glass to his mouth.

Kate flinched at this comment. Hot humiliation rose in her cheeks. The memory of that girlish infatuation was hideous. It made her cringe to think of it.

“Do you think she’s still partial to you?” Harry sounded surprised.

“No.” James shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “She treats me the same as she does you—thank God! Having Kate making sheep’s eyes at me all the time would be dashed uncomfortable.”

Harry grunted agreement. His tone, when he spoke, was unexpectedly glum: “When will you ask her?”

“Tomorrow,” said James, looking as if the brandy had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Unless you have an objection?”

“No.” Harry was silent for a moment. “I suppose I should wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” said James. “But I doubt I’ll need it. Kate’s been on the shelf for years. Of course she’ll accept my offer.” His voice was even, toneless almost, and his face was without expression. He looked trapped, Kate thought. As trapped as she was in the dark priest’s hole.



When the men had gone, Kate fumbled for the tinderbox and lit the candle again. In the flickering light she stood the goose feather quill in its holder and tried to blot the spattered ink. It had dried. The page was ruined. Not that it mattered; no one but herself would ever see it.

Kate gathered the diaries together. There were eleven of them, one for each year she’d been using the priest’s hole. She picked up the earliest one and opened it at random. Her handwriting was young and unformed, the entry hastily written. He’s coming again. I am determined to treat him as if he is nothing more to me than an acquaintance. No one must know of my feelings for him.

She closed the diary. She’d been seventeen when she’d written those words, seventeen and desperate not to make a fool of herself again. Her pretense had worked. James didn’t know, and neither did Harry.

Kate made a pile of the diaries and sat looking at them. What was she to do? She was no longer in the throes of a foolish infatuation, stammering and stuttering whenever she spoke to James and blushing hotly if she met his eyes. That youthful passion had long since matured into something deep and lasting. She loved James, and would do so until the day she died. There was no other way it could be.

He was going to ask for her hand in marriage. What would she say? What should she say?

Kate touched her mouth lightly with a fingertip, imagining James kissing her. She wasn’t a complete innocent. She knew something of what the marriage bed entailed: kissing, and much more intimate acts. To do those things with James would be marvelous beyond anything—except that he wouldn’t really want to touch her. He’d do so because he had to, because it was his duty, not because he desired her.

And why should James desire her? She was too tall to be considered feminine, and quite plain. The natural curl in her hair might be the envy of other ladies, but the color was a garish red and was accompanied by that worst of disfigurements, freckles. Looking as she did, it was inconceivable that any man would feel passion for her.

Kate closed her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to marry James—only not like this, without his love. He’d said that one woman was like another in the dark, but he was wrong. He might be able to imagine away her hair and her freckles, but darkness couldn’t give her a voluptuous figure. He would touch her and, even if he couldn’t see her, he would know that she wasn’t the woman he wanted in his bed.

She couldn’t do that to him. Or to herself.

Kate opened her eyes. She reached out and picked up a diary. It was dated 1813. Three years ago. She flicked through the pages. James has sailed to Spain again with his regiment. I am so afraid . . .

She closed the diary. Eight years he’d served in the 10th Hussars. She touched the calfskin cover lightly with her fingertips, tracing the date and remembering the changes she’d seen in him. It had been more than the uniform. He’d become quieter, more serious, although he’d never stopped laughing. The loss of laughter had occurred in the past nine months. Perhaps it had something to do with the action he’d seen at Waterloo, which she’d heard had been bad, but she thought mostly it was because of his father and brother. Grief could stop a person laughing, and so could responsibility.