A Reckless Bargain Part 12

"I think it best that she be with family," the d.u.c.h.ess replied, her mouth set in prim lines.

"Please, Your Grace-just until the physician arrives."

Angry words resounded from the corridor, punctuated by Lady Elizabeth's sobs.

The d.u.c.h.ess glanced toward the doorway and hesitated.

"Please," Kit repeated. "She is dearer to me than anyone else in the world."

The d.u.c.h.ess hesitated. Another burst of hysterical sobbing from the hallway made her cringe. "Oh . . . very well. I must see to my sister." She departed in a swish of taffeta and closed the door behind her. Instantly, the voices in the hall dwindled to muted murmurs.

Kit drew a chair to the dowager's bedside and took the lady's hand in hers. Oh, G.o.d-her skin felt cool and clammy, and how starkly her veins stood out beneath her wrinkled skin. Ugly bruises marred her jaw and temple. She looked so very frail lying there, dwarfed by the mountain of pillows on which she rested. Tears began to overflow Kit's lashes; she wiped them away with impatient fingers. She must be strong, for the dowager's sake.

Her lower lip trembled. "Please wake up, Your Grace," she murmured. The elderly woman did not move. Another tear slipped down Kit's cheek. "I could not bear it if . . . Oh, G.o.d . . . Please do not leave me."

The noises from the hallway ceased, though Kit barely noticed. Her anxious, watery gaze remained focused on the dowager d.u.c.h.ess, on the slight rise and fall of the lady's chest, and on her colorless, wizened visage.

She did not know how long she had been sitting there when the door opened again. She heard the shuffle of footsteps across the Aubusson carpet; then a strong pair of hands gently grasped her shoulders.

"Kit, the physician is here," Bainbridge murmured in her ear. "Let him see to Aunt Josephine. Come away."

She shook her head. "No. I want to stay with her."

"Just for a while, Kit. I promise. Come away with me."

The marquess pulled her up from her chair; her limbs felt as weak and wobbly as a foal's. With a last glance over her shoulder at the dowager, Kit allowed him to lead her from the room. Behind them, a middle-aged, portly man, his wig and spectacles askew, scurried into the room, the duke following in his wake.

Bainbridge put a supporting arm around Kit's waist and led her downstairs to the drawing room; she did not protest when he settled her on the camel-back sofa by the hearth, or when he pressed a gla.s.s into her hand. She stared numbly down at the amber liquid in the cut-crystal tumbler, then took a sip. Cognac seared a fiery trail down her throat. She coughed, spluttered, then finally swallowed. She made a face.

The marquess took the gla.s.s from her and set it aside, then sat down next to her on the sofa. "Better now?"

"A little."

"Good. Because I need to explain something to you."

"About Lady Elizabeth?" She kept her dull gaze focused on the floor.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well . . . yes."

"Then you need explain nothing, my lord," she replied wearily. "You are a rake. Women fall prey to your charms at the drop of a hat. I suppose I should learn to expect things like this."

"No. What happened between Lady Elizabeth and me is not what you think."

"It does not matter."

"It does," he snapped, then sat back and took a deep breath. He shoved a hand through his hair. "Please let me explain."

She gave a listless shrug. "As you wish. I do not have the energy to stop you."

"All right, then." He s.h.i.+fted on the sofa and turned to face her. "When Lady Elizabeth made her debut, Wexcombe asked me to dance with her; he is my cousin, and I never thought to refuse."

"You flirted with her," Kit said flatly.

The marquess spread his hands. "She was a young girl just out of the schoolroom, full of nervous jitters. I tried to put her more at ease. But I never thought about the potential consequences until today. Lady Elizabeth took those attentions seriously. She has had four Seasons, and turned down quite a number of offers. I now know the reason: she fancies herself in love with me."

Kit's heart knifed sideways in her chest. "I see."

"No, you do not. Just because she imagines herself in love with me does not mean I return her feelings."

"Of course," Kit replied with a humorless smile. "Love is an unnecessary complication, is it not?"

Swift relief crossed his face. "Exactly. I am glad that you understand."

"I do not understand everything, my lord," she countered. "Such as what prompted the dowager to confront Lady Elizabeth in the first place."

Bainbridge's gaze slid to the fireplace. His mouth tensed. "This morning, after I spoke with the duke, Lady Elizabeth accosted me in the hallway. She threw her arms around me and said she had waited in silence long enough, that she loved me and wanted to be my wife."

"Foolish girl," Kit murmured. His explanation had done little to a.s.suage the strange, hollow ache beneath her breastbone. In fact, the more he told her, the more the pain increased.

"I told her that was impossible, of course, but she refused to listen. Burst into tears and had a grand fit of hysterics. I fear that Her Grace must have witnessed the debacle and followed Elizabeth when she fled."

"The dowager d.u.c.h.ess can be a trifle overbearing at times, but why would she have taken such offense over what should have been a private matter between you and Lady Elizabeth?"

"I do not know," Bainbridge confessed. "Ordinarily she does not take it upon herself to chase overly forward females away from me. Whatever her reason, we shall not learn the truth of it until she awakens."

"If she awakens," Kit murmured. Her thoughts returned to the frail figure in the bed upstairs. "How could Lady Elizabeth have done such a thing?"

"I do not know. The girl can be vicious when provoked, but this . . ." Bainbridge shook his head. "Wexcombe sent her back to her parents in disgrace. She will never again be welcome in his home."

"At the moment, my lord, that is little cause for sympathy," Kit said between clenched teeth. "She goes home to her parents, while the d.u.c.h.ess might not recover. . . ." She bit her lip, fighting against the fresh battery of tears that began to spill over her lashes.

Bainbridge reached into his jacket and handed her his kerchief. "Here-dry your eyes. The dowager will be all right."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Dr. Knowles is the duke's own physician; I've never known a better or more competent man. Take heart, dearest Kit. Aunt Josephine has a very hard head."

Kit took the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. "You do not understand. She looks so pale and still. Just like my mother, right before she . . . she . . ." A soft sob erupted from deep within her.

"Shhh. It will be all right, Kitten," Bainbridge murmured, and pulled her against him. "Aunt Josephine will recover. She will be right as rain in a few days."

Kit curled against the warm, muscled strength of his chest. "I pray you are right. I could not bear to lose her."

"You will not. None of us will."

His arms tightened around her, enfolded her. She pressed her face into his cravat, inhaled deeply of his masculine scent. The steady beat of his heart resonated beneath her ear. She felt safe. Secure.

Loved.

She squeezed her eyes shut against another round of tears. He did not love her; he had all but declared himself unwilling, or even incapable, of loving a woman. This feeling might be only an illusion, but there was no harm in enjoying it while it lasted, was there?

Bainbridge gazed down at the golden head nestled on his chest, felt Kit's slender shoulders shake as he held her. There was nothing l.u.s.tful or even pa.s.sionate about this embrace, and yet he found it oddly appealing. Women's tears had never affected him; then again, he had most often been treated to the crocodile variety. Angelique in particular had tried to use this method on numerous occasions, and it had only served to cause him great irritation. But Kit . . . Her grief was genuine, and it moved him as nothing else had.

The marquess brushed his lips over her thick, disarrayed golden curls. Why could he not remember the last time he had comforted a woman like this? Held her, stroked her hair, allowed her to wilt his cravat with a flood of tears? A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, then faded as quickly as it had come.

He couldn't remember the last time, because he had never done it before. In fact, he could recall several instances when he'd dismissed a woman's anguish out of hand . . . including that of his own mother. She had pleaded with him to accompany her, and all he'd done was stand there like a statue, numb with anger and disbelief, indifferent to her tears. She had been distraught about leaving, truly distraught, and he had turned his back on her. The thought appalled him.

Bainbridge gave himself a mental shake. He'd done more introspection in the past week than he had in the past thirty years, all due to the woman he now held in his arms. She needed him, and he rather liked being needed. Lucifer's beard. Was she a witch? Had she cast some sort of spell on him? That must be the case, for these tender feelings unnerved him more than he wanted to admit.

The mantel clock ticked away the minutes, and the afternoon sun slanted ever lower in the sky, but Kit showed no sign of wanting to move. Her sobs had dwindled, and now she lay curled against his chest, one hand still grasping the handkerchief he had given her, her breathing rough and uneven. Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes red from weeping.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Bainbridge flashed his best c.o.c.ksure grin. "My dear madam, 'twould have been ungallant of me to turn away a lady in distress. The rather sad state of my cravat will bring the wrath of my valet down upon my head, but I'd say it was well worth the risk."

She attempted a smile as she plucked at the now-limp folds of his neckcloth. "You are quite the gentleman when you want to be, Nicholas."

The way she said his name made his heart constrict with longing. He brushed a stray lock of tawny hair from her cheek. "Kit, I . . ."

Heavy footsteps rang out from the vestibule. Movement caught Bainbridge's attention, and he turned his head as the duke marched into the room. His arms went slack; Kit pushed herself upright, her face suffused with a familiar rosy glow.

The duke stared at them for a moment, his eyes like chips of ice. "She's awake," he said flatly. "Awake, and asking for you, Mrs. Mallory."

Kit spared Bainbridge an apologetic glance. "I must go to her."

"Go, then," he advised gently. "And keep the handkerchief, just in case you have further need of it."

The cambric square clutched in one hand, Kit bobbed a shallow curtsy to the duke, then dashed from the room. Bainbridge watched her depart, then with a sigh slumped against the padded back of the sofa.

"Quite a cozy picture," sneered the duke. "I would never have thought it of you."

"She was overwrought, Wexcombe," Bainbridge replied, a thread of irritation running through his voice. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Are you mad?" his cousin hissed at him. "This chit has you all but wrapped around her little finger."

"I fail to see why that has you so concerned."

"Concerned? You are supposed to get her away from my grandmother, not get tangled up with her in the process."

"I know what I'm doing," the marquess shot back.

"Do you? Another moment and you would have played right into her hands."

Bainbridge scowled. "Don't be absurd."

"No? Do you actually believe that a widow of five-and-twenty is that sheltered and innocent? That desperate for solace? Bah. You may be fooled by those immense green eyes of hers, but I know what she's about."

"And what would that be?"

The duke snorted. "Surely you have dealt with enough devious women to recognize her type. Why should she settle for the dowager's money when she can snare herself a handsome fortune and an even handsomer t.i.tle to go along with it?"

"How do you think she will do that?" scoffed the marquess. "I am an unrepentant rake, remember? Wild horses could not drag me to the altar."

"It's obvious, you dolt. She's making you fall in love with her."

Bainbridge stared at his cousin as though the man had grown three heads.

Love?

He blinked. Ridiculous.

But how else would he explain it? He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Admiration-yes.

Affection, or at least a moderate amount of fondness-yes.

l.u.s.t-yes. Oh, most definitely yes.

But love?

Balderdash.

He sat back and waggled a finger at his cousin. "You forget, Wexcombe. I refuse to fall in love, so if that is her goal, then her plan will fall sadly flat. I prefer a much more cold-blooded approach to matrimony: find myself a chit of excellent breeding, make sure she suffers from no romantic delusions of any sort, then wed her, bed her, and get her with an heir as quickly as possible. Rather like you did, old fellow."

The duke ignored the barb. "You're getting defensive, Bainbridge, which means you know deep down that I am right."

"I do not wish to discuss it. Besides, you have no reason to worry, Cousin." Bainbridge levered himself to his feet. "She is not the schemer you think she is, nor are my actions guided solely by, shall we say, my 'baser instincts.' Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to go upstairs and check on my great-aunt."

The duke shrugged. "As you will. But never say I did not warn you."

Bainbridge strode from the room, his jaw clenched, his annoyance tempered by nagging suspicion. Had this lovely widow outmaneuvered him? His first response was an unequivocal no, but his cousin's words taunted him. He climbed the marble stairs slowly, as if his boots weighed as heavily upon him as his thoughts. Had Kit deliberately positioned herself as an antidote to his jaded tastes? Her modesty, her intelligence, her refres.h.i.+ng candor, her sheltered innocence-all of it combined into a strikingly attractive package, something he had never encountered before. Had she used his fascination to entrap him?

Perhaps. But if this was a trap, why did he not feel a greater urge to escape?

Kit rapped anxiously on the dowager's door and was ushered into the darkened bedchamber by the lady's equally anxious maid. The heavy velvet curtains remained drawn over every window, and the only light shone from a low fire on the hearth and a branch of candles by the dowager's bedside.

Dr. Knowles, who had just finished packing up his black leather bag, nodded to her as she approached.

"How is she?" Kit asked in an anxious whisper.

The portly man adjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose. "Her Grace was most fortunate. She suffered a concussive blow to the head, and her b.u.mps and bruises are only minor. No bones were broken."

Kit exhaled slowly. Her shoulders slumped. "Thank G.o.d."

"But as I told the duke, head injuries of this nature can be tricky," he continued.