Deborah Simmons - Tempting Kate

“The gent in your papa’s bed is Wroth, Lucy, and you must accept it,” Tom said, gently. “I asked around, and there is already some concern about his whereabouts. Although he’s gone off for days before on a gambling streak, some of his staff are worried that he’s sent no word after two nights, especially since he was last seen heading home from one of those fashionable balls.”

“A coincidence, nothing more!” Lucy protested. “That proves nothing.”

Tom silenced her with a look and continued. “He sent his driver on and walked, which has a few people fearing that he was attacked by footpads, but” most scoff at the idea of anyone daring to take on Wroth. Apparently the man has quite a reputation for being able to handle himself.” Tom said, pausing to eye Kate meaningfully.

She flushed. Of course Grayson was dangerous. Tom had no idea just how much. “Go on,” she said evenly.

“Then there’s the business about the gloves. A few of the servants think he actually was home, since his gloves were inside, but no one knows for sure if those were the pair he was wearing when he set out. Seems as if there’s a bit of confusion, because the staff had been let off for the night after a little celebration. It was his birthday, you see.”

His birthday. Kate wanted to squeeze her eyes shut against the news. Resolutely, she kept them open, but she refused to look at Tom. “How old is he?”

“Thirty-two,” Tom answered in a surprised tone.

Kate watched as a light drizzle began to tap on the window pane. Thirty-two. He was exactly ten years older than she, and far more experienced with titles, power, life…and kisses. But he was not aged. No, not as ancient as Lucy would claim. “Well, at least there is no trail to us.”

“No, not as I could gather,” Tom said, and Kate nodded with relief at their reprieve.

“But I don’t understand,” Lucy protested. “I tell you the man is not Wroth! Why do you persist in pretending that he is?”

Tom turned to her, his grizzled face wearing a tender expression. “I saw his portrait, Lucy. He’s Wroth, which means your fellow isn’t”

“How can that be—?” she cried. Her voice rose, loud and high, before breaking in confusion, and Kate flinched. As annoying as Lucy’s petulance sometimes was, Kate did not like to see it stripped away, leaving her sister naked and vulnerable.

“I don’t know, Lucy,” she said, her throat suddenly thick with emotion. “We can only guess at his reasoning. Whether to hide his true identity or to play at being what he was not, your gentleman lied about his name.”

“No!” Lucy stood, her hand at her throat. “No! He is rich and famous and powerful, and he is coming back for me. You’ll see! You will both see!” she promised, before rushing from the room in tears.

Kate watched her leave, then glanced at Tom, who was shaking his head sadly. Although Kate knew he expected her to go after her sister, she did not have the heart for it. And right now, she had more pressing concerns than Lucy’s disappointment. The real Wroth was gravely ill, and she must return to him.

The thought made her rise suddenly, and if Kate felt more connected to the man lying upstairs than she did to her own flesh and blood, she was reluctant to admit it.

Grayson tossed and turned for three more days, lost in the grip of a fever that Kate did not know how to ease. She neglected her duties, snapped at Lucy and Tom and rarely left the side of the bed where her victim thrashed and groaned. She forced him to drink, bathed him and soothed him as best she could, but now, as the evening set on the fifth day since she had boldly climbed through his study window, Kate felt exhausted, physically and emotionally.

It was the latter that dismayed her. Lucy was the sensitive one. She was the sister who was prone to vapors, who wore her feelings like a banner for all to see, soaring from the heights of excitement to the depths of despair so swiftly that Kate could only blink in amazement.

Kate, on the other hand, was the quiet one. Calm and capable Kate. Strong and sensible, she was the sister counted upon to think things through, to arrange and execute whatever needed to be done. The past few years had been a struggle, but she had managed—until now. Even her foolish confrontation with Grayson had seemed like a practical solution at the time. They needed money, and the father of Lucy’s child, by rights, ought to help them. Perhaps she had taken some pleasure in intimidating the man into the bargain, but she had never intended to hurt him.

For once, her carefully laid plans had gone awry. Not only had she crossed the wrong man, but she had wounded him, besides. And now, unable to help him, she felt overwhelmed with despair at the loss. It was an emotion so deep and painful as to confuse her.

Kate told herself that her grief stemmed from her own culpability. After all, if not for her, he would not be here, suffering so. Yet she knew it was more than that. Despite the briefness of their encounters and the terseness of their few conversations, she felt something for the marquis of Wroth that went beyond her responsibility and his powerful effect on her senses. She felt as if she had been waiting all her life for him to arrive.

And it scared her to death.

Even if he survived, the elegant, powerful Grayson had no place in her existence, other than to destroy it. Kate shivered, as if she might break apart from the excess of sensibilities. Overwrought. How often had she used that word to describe Lucy? And now it fitted her—a witless, helpless mass of nerves.

Kate felt a hot pressure behind her eyes and blinked angrily. She had not cried since her mother’s death so many years ago. Nothing, nothing, had made her give in since, and she was not about to start now. But when she looked at Grayson’s handsome face, pale and drawn, his vivid strength sapped, she dropped her head and wept.

Kate cried for all the times in the past that she had not, for all the hopes and plans of the Courtlands that had come to naught, and for the man before her, who was so much more than anything she had ever known. She wept silently, the tears coursing down her cheeks and clogging her throat until she turned her face and snuffled. She might have remained there, spent, but for the soft tickle of hair that was not her own.

Gad, she had laid her cheek against his chest! Kate sniffed abruptly, both horrified and comforted by her strange berth, for even after days and nights in the throes of a fever, Grayson still emanated strength and power. The sensation of safety, of protection, was so strong that Kate let herself drift in it. How long was it since she had counted upon anyone but herself? She smiled, imagining the great force of the marquis of Wroth behind her, surrounding her, keeping her close.

As if lost in a dream, Kate slowly rubbed her cheek against the fine dusting of dark hair that pressed against her. Dampened by her tears, it felt soft and slick, but did not disguise the hard muscles beneath. Drawing a deep breath, she took in his scent, underlying the smell of sweat and bed linens, and knew a heady longing such as she had never felt before.

“Is this some new torture?”

Kate jerked up her head so swiftly that her sight blurred. She blinked, not daring to move, as Grayson’s face came into focus, his eyes clear and one dark brow gently cocked in question. Or was it amusement? Kate blushed scarlet and hopped back into her seat by the bed.

“I was…uh, listening for your heartbeat. You’ve been very ill.”

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” he said dryly. And Kate wondered just how a man who had been sick for days managed to keep his aplomb. Did nothing daunt him? Did he ever doubt himself, in the long, quiet hours of the night? “But perhaps you had better check again. It seems to have accelerated alarmingly.”