Elizabeth Powell - A Reckless Bargain

The marquess ambled back to the mantel and retrieved his glass of sherry.

"Well?" His Grace queried. "How did you fare?"

"I thought I made some progress," the marquess replied, "but this widow is quite a slyboots. I'm not exactly sure what she's about. It may take some time to find out."

"We have only a week," the duke said with an exasperated sigh. "After that, we might never be able to pry her loose. Did you see how Grandmama has already come to depend upon her? Damnation-it curls my liver."

"Patience," counseled the marquess. "I will pierce her defenses soon enough. You may depend upon it."

"Are you so certain you can succeed?"

"Yes," Bainbridge murmured into his glass. "Just leave everything to me."

"So, what do you think of my family, child?" asked the dowager as they slowly ascended the sweeping marble staircase.

Kit pulled a face. What could she say that was not insulting? "I do not think they approve of me very much, ma'am."

"Do you require their approval?"

"No. You know I do not. "

The dowager chuckled. "Good. I thought as much. I tend to pay no attention to their hoity-toity ways. That, or I am so used to it after all these years."

"I wonder that you are able to tolerate it at all, Your Grace."

"Tolerate what? My dear girl, tonight they were on their best behavior," the dowager chortled.

Despite her best efforts, Kit could not restrain her sudden fit of giggles.

"I must say you held your own well enough against those fribbles," the elderly woman continued. "And speaking of which-what is your opinion of my great-nephew, Lord Bainbridge?"

Kit avoided the dowager's forthright stare. "Why do you ask, Your Grace?"

"Well, the two of you seemed to be having quite a coze just now."

"We… we were discussing poetry," Kit replied, hoping the shadows in the hallway would prevent the dowager from noticing the wave of embarrassed color that swept her face from jaw to hairline.

"Poetry?" Surprise tinged the dowager's tone. "I would never have thought a man like that would claim an interest in poetry. Racing and gambling, yes, but never poetry."

"A man like what?"

"Do not let his easy manner fool you, my dear. The marquess is a rake, a scoundrel who leaves nothing but broken hearts in his wake. He has quite a reputation in London, you know. You would do well to be on your guard around him."

A rake? The word reverberated in Kit's ears. Well, that would explain his calculated flirtation. Or would it? Why would such a man even bother with her? She was a drab little wren when compared with the ethereal Lady Elizabeth, and yet he had called her attractive. Was his kindness to her an act? A prelude to seduction? Perhaps, yet his concern had seemed so sincere. Kit worried her lower lip between her teeth. What was she supposed to believe?

The rational side of her intellect warned her to avoid him. The irrational side was attracted to him, and infinitely intrigued. The marquess was amiable, handsome, and witty-everything George was not. Forbidden fruit, indeed.

The dowager patted Kit's arm with one wrinkled, blue-veined hand. "My great-nephew can be quite charming, but rakes never make good husbands."

"Good husbands?" Kit echoed. Then she sighed. She really must put a stop to that.

"No, not at all. Until they've been properly tamed, that is."

Kit's brows knit together. "What are you up to, Your Grace?"

"Why, nothing, child. I only thought to give you some good advice."

"Well, you need not concern yourself overmuch, ma'am, for I have no intention of marrying the marquess, or anyone else, for that matter!"

"I am glad to hear it. Perhaps now you can tell me about what else has been troubling you."

"Troubling-?" Kit caught herself just in time.

The dowager nodded, and the ever-present ostrich plumes in her headdress nodded with her. "Quite. You've been cross as crabs ever since we left Bath."

Kit swallowed. "I have not," she lied.

"Really?" drawled the dowager duchess. "You forget how well I know you, my dear."

"It is a matter of little consequence," the young woman insisted. Her argument was with the duke, and the duke alone. Although she loved the older woman dearly, she did not want the dowager to fight her battles for her.

The duchess was not convinced. "Oh?"

Coldness washed over Kit. The dowager's perceptiveness threatened her resolve; the more she had to deceive the duchess, the less she liked it. "Nothing I cannot deal with upon our return, I assure you. And I apologize for being so out of temper."

The dowager peered intently at Kit. "I am willing to listen, child, if you wish to talk about it."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Kit replied with a wan smile, "but it's really not necessary."

When they arrived at the dowager's bedchamber, the elderly woman hesitated in the open doorway. She gave Kit's fingers a gentle squeeze. "If you need help, my dear, or assistance of any kind, you know you can always come to me."

"I appreciate your generosity, ma'am, but everything will turn up trumps," Kit answered. Then, in a whisper, she added, "I hope."

The next day dawned fair and warm, and the duchess's suggestion of a drive to Stow-on-the-Wold garnered great enthusiasm from everyone but Kit, who pleaded a megrim and asked to remain behind.

"Are you certain, child?" asked the dowager, peering intently at her.

"I shall be fine, ma'am," Kit hastened to assure her. "It will pass. I just need to rest for a while."

"You do look a trifle fagged. Perhaps Lady Elizabeth should stay behind and sit with you," the dowager suggested.

The thought of spending time alone with the duchess's spiteful sister made Kit's abused temples throb all the more. And judging from the distasteful expression on her face, Lady Elizabeth welcomed the proposal no more than she did.

" 'Tis only a megrim," she replied before the elderly woman could become too fond of the idea. "Lakshmi can look after me. I would not wish to deprive any of you of this lovely weather."

"Well, all right," the dowager agreed, obviously reluctant. "We shall not be gone long, and I shall check on you when we return."

Kit watched from the doorway as the ladies climbed into the open carriage and the gentlemen mounted their horses.

Lord Bainbridge nudged his steel gray gelding close to her; he tipped his hat and favored her with a slight smile. "I do hope you will be well enough to join us for dinner. I am counting on you to rescue me from another of Caro's attempts on the pianoforte."

In his forest green jacket and buckskin breeches that hugged every curve of his muscular legs, the sight of him robbed Kit of breath. "I shall try, my lord," she managed at length, "but I make no guarantees."

He threw a brief glance over his shoulder at the duchess, who was holding down her fancy plumed bonnet against the assault of the mischievous breeze. "Then I shall pray for your immediate recovery," he drawled, and winked at her.

Kit gaped at him, but before she could form a reply the marquess replaced his curly-brimmed beaver atop his head and took up the reins. Then, in a clatter of hooves and crunch of gravel, the group was off down the driveway, trailing dust in their wake.

She watched them depart, one hand lifted in farewell, before pulling her paisley wool shawl closer about her shoulders and going back into the house.

The young woman wandered down the main hallway, absorbed in thought. Her headache was real enough, but more than anything she wanted solitude. A walk out-of-doors would give her an opportunity to make some sense of her disordered thoughts. She headed toward the back of the house.

Her temples continued to throb with a dull, steady ache, as they had ever since she'd awakened. What a wretched night-nothing but hours spent lying awake staring at the pleated damask canopy above her bed, interspersed with short bouts of uneasy sleep. Even though she had drifted off eventually, she had not been asleep for very long before Lakshmi came to wake her.