A Bride Unveiled (28 page)

“Who is
that
?” Clarinda asked in a curious voice.

Ambrose shrugged. “Must be someone from the fencing academy.”

“Ask him.”

“Now?”

“Please, darling. He is a very fetching person.”

“We have
important
guests to greet.”

“The boys have begged to meet him, Ambrose,” Clarinda whispered. “And he is a looker, I must say.”

Someone gave a cry from the receiving line. “It’s Master Fenton!”

“God,” Ambrose said. “How inappropriate.”

“Yes,” his wife said in a dreamy voice. “I’ll bet he is.”

His face grim, Ambrose muttered an apology to the guests waiting in line on the steps and made his way down the other side onto the drive. Kit had started toward the garden, but he hesitated as Ambrose approached him.

“Viscount Charnwood,” he said, his tone deferential.

Ambrose wavered. He could sense Clarinda—in fact, he could sense nearly everyone—watching this exchange. “My good man,” he said, “you flatter yourself if you think you have ever made my acquaintance. What is your name?”

He bowed, his face impassive. “Christopher Fenton.”

“I don’t believe we have met.”

“My mistake, your lordship.” Kit turned.

“Fenton, you say?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I have never met anyone by that name.”

Kit did not reply. In fact, he gave no reaction at all. But at least Ambrose had the satisfaction of the last word, although as he watched Kit bow again and walk away as if he owned the place, he felt an irrational urge to call him back and . . . Well, he didn’t know what he would do. Kit had always been good at taking Ambrose off guard.

“V
iolet,” Ambrose said, his eyes brightening as he noticed her in the line. “I almost didn’t recognize you. I would never have made you wait if I had known it was you.”

She smiled self-consciously, as if she were surprised by his warmth. “It is good to see you. What a beautiful estate.”

“It’ll do, I suppose. Better than the old heap at Monk’s Huntley.”

“This is my . . .” He turned to introduce his wife, but Clarinda was engaged in conversation with another guest. He glanced to the silver-haired woman who stood in dignified silence behind Violet, a hat adorned with black plumes shading her face. “Lady Ashfield, I did not recognize you, either. How decent of you to come.”

“You haven’t changed at all,” she said, deigning to give him her hand. “You look just like your father, especially around the chin.”

“She’s tired, Ambrose,” Violet said, sending her aunt a frown. “Would you mind if we went upstairs to rest before we are officially arrived?”

He couldn’t stop looking at her. When had Violet become a beauty? She had grown out of her awkwardness into something altogether compelling. “Not at all,” he said, motioning to the footmen in the doorway. “There will be a moonlight supper later if you’re game. The fountains will be filled with champagne.”

“I don’t know,” she said, not anything like the girl he remembered. “We’ll have to see.”

“If not,” he said, his gaze following her retreat into the house, “I shall look forward to tomorrow, when everyone is introduced in the great room.”

She gathered her skirts, giving Clarinda a curious glance. “Until then, Ambrose.”

 

 

Violet saw her aunt to her assigned chamber, where she left her to her maid, Delphine, and walked across the hall to her room. The footman opened the door and disappeared before she could tip him. She walked slowly into the spacious room. Warm sunlight streamed through the leaded casement windows, gilding the man who stood waiting for her to notice him. As if any female could ignore such a handsome figure.

“Master Fenton.”

“Miss Knowlton.”

She took a breath and was swept up against him before she could exhale. His body felt like tempered steel, and, hoyden that she was, she surrendered without any sign of resistance. “This is a surprise,” she said, as she hooked her arms around his neck. “I didn’t think I’d—”

He kissed her.

“—see you until—”

He deepened the sensual attack.

“—tonight,” she whispered between his dizzying kisses.

“I couldn’t wait,” he said, smoothing his hands down her back, his breath flirting like a flame with her mouth. “You have the sweetest lips I have ever kissed.”

“Yours are the most sinful.”

“Compared to . . . ?”

She sighed, her eyes teasing. “No one. Never. You’re the first.”

“The only,” he corrected her. “From today to forever.”

“There’s going to be a moonlight supper in the park.”

“I don’t need moonlight,” he said, pulling her toward the chair behind them. “I have your love to lead me through the dark.”

“And champagne,” she whispered. “Ambrose is extravagantly filling the fountains with champagne.”

“I don’t need champagne,” he said, falling into the chair with her on his lap. “I’m going to get very drunk on you tonight.”

“I wondered when you’d arrive,” she said, her voice uneven. She combed her fingers through his silky hair. “Eldbert followed our carriage here to guard us on the road.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes glinting. “I trailed behind him to guard both of you.”

“How noble of you, Kit. And how noble of you to be hiding in my room like this.”

His hands stole around her waist and locked her against him. “I have a reason to be here. I have several reasons, actually. Most are pleasant. One is not.”

“The bad news first,” Violet said, laying her head upon his chest.

His tapered fingers stroked almost absently down her neck. She felt wondrous shivers in their wake. “It seems I have an enemy,” he said. “A person from the past who wishes to avenge an old offense.”

“That you committed?” she whispered.

“No. My father did,” he said, his face composed.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. “Is this person here?”

“Not as far as anyone knows. He calls himself Pierce Carroll. That is not his true name.”

“Oh,” she said, “the man who does not mind his own business.”

His eyes searched her face. “You have met him?”

“Godfrey made a remark about him at the breakfast party. It was meant to stir up trouble, as I recall.”

The hand that had been caressing her stilled. Kit’s eyes darkened with purpose. “I should have listened to my instincts then,” he said. “Even Godfrey recognized a threat.”

“Godfrey left me,” she whispered, burrowing back into his firm shoulder and the folds of his Irish linen shirt.

“I know. He told me. Are you sad?” he asked, his hand slowly resuming its seductive quest.

“Do you think less of me because my mother wasn’t married when I was born?”

“Did you think less of me because my mother left me at an orphanage and I wore the same shirt for weeks at a time when we were young?”

“You never looked scruffy to me, Kit.”

“I washed my shirt in the stream and wore it back to the workhouse wet whenever I saw you. I didn’t want you to know how wretched I was. I wanted to look like a person worthy of your admiration.”

“Kit,” she whispered, raising her head to look up at him. “You’re the bravest person I have ever known.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

“Then marry me.”

“Yes,” she said. “And yes. Yes. And in case I wasn’t clear the first three times, my answer is yes. When?”

He laughed. “I’ll be damned if I’ll leave anything to chance again. Can you be ready in an hour?”

“You’ve lost your mind,” she said, struggling to break free. “We can’t have a ceremony in Ambrose’s house—and I don’t have a dress. My aunt would have to know—Kit . . .” She wriggled to her feet, staring down at him in dismay. “How can we get married at a house party? What happened to an old-fashioned courtship?”

“I think a decade of friendship counts for something. Even in medieval days I doubt they went any longer than that, and if they did, that explains all the besieged castles and stolen brides that never made much sense to me from a historical perspective; but from the point of a man desperately in love, I now understand.”

“What?”

“The wooing is over. Except for your aunt.”

“You aren’t serious. I don’t have a dress.”

“Look inside your wardrobe.”

She did, opening the heavy rosewood door to see a dress that looked as if it were made of clouds and spun sugar, with water pearls and fine embroidery on the sleeves and a low-cut bodice. It was the most beautiful bridal gown she had ever seen, but... “This is from Winifred?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t make it.”

“Do you think it will fit me?” she asked, biting her lip.

He grinned. “It should. I described your proportions to her.”

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

“She couldn’t have made it for me in such a short time. Was it hers?”

“I think so. Wish me luck facing your aunt.”

“Luck,” she whispered, lifting the gown down to admire it in the light.

Kit charged up the stairs to the long gallery, bowing and muttering, “Pardon me,” to the startled guests he bumped against. He wondered why no one so much as replied, “I should think so,” or whether Ambrose had invited an exceptionally polite crowd, or if the fact that he was one of few men present wearing a sword gave the impression that he was late to a duel.

He turned at the top of the stairs and addressed the two ladies staring up at him from the landing. “Excuse me, ladies, but I’m going to propose marriage.”

“Marriage?” The ladies giggled in delight.

“To one or both of us?” the younger inquired.

“You’ll have to choose, maestro,” the eldest said with a saucy look. “You can’t marry both of us.”

“What a pity,” he said, his eyes lowering in playful woe.

The Duke of Wynfield came running up the stairs alongside Kit. “Does either of you ladies require assistance?”

Kit cut him a droll look. “Not unless you want to marry one of them.”

Wynfield smiled uneasily. “Not today, thank you.” He started to edge away. “And thank you, Fenton, for the warning. I think I’ll use the other stairs.”

“No. Stay with me.”

Wynfield glanced up at the long gallery. “Any maidens up there in need of comfort?”

“I doubt it. Their caretakers presumably dropped the bolts when they saw us coming up the stairs.”

The duke walked up behind Kit to the portrait-hung long gallery. “I see more footmen at this party than young ladies. Where are the debutantes?”

“Sequestered in the north tower under the guard of their dragonesses,” Kit replied, studying the small figure sweeping majestically toward the staircase from the end of the gallery. A pair of servants flanked her at either side of the wings.

“Isn’t that a dragoness flying toward us?” the duke asked.

Kit put his hand to his sword. “Yes, but don’t worry.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s my dragoness, not yours, and it is my duty to confront her.”

Wynfield recoiled in shock. “But she’s an elderly woman.”

“Her advanced age is a weapon.”

The duke slowed another step. “But you cannot
fight
a lady of her years.”

“Did I give you the impression that I intended to challenge her?”

“Well, I saw your hand go to your sword when you noticed her—”

“For luck, Wynfield. I’m not about to do battle with a baroness.”

The duke glanced down the gallery. “By the look on her face, she might not feel the same way.”

“I appreciate the show of support,” Kit said stoutly.

“I’ve never acted as a second in a duel between a man and woman before.”

Kit threw out his arm to impede Wynfield’s progress. “One more encouraging remark like that and you and I are going to have it out right here.”

“What do you want me to do?” Wynfield asked distractedly, eyeing a chambermaid who had just appeared with a basket of soap balls and sachets swinging in her hand.

“It’s like walking to one’s execution,” Kit said, lowering his arm.

“That’s not a promising way to view a proposal,” the duke said, following the chambermaid with his eyes. “Where is the maidservant going?”

Kit had to laugh. “Thank you for the reminder. There’s nothing morbid about marriage, assuming I get that far. What harm can an elderly woman inflict on me that I haven’t already experienced? I’ve lived through every manner of shame. The worst thing she can do is refuse me. Or go into hysterics again.”

“Did you say something, Fenton?”

“I said a lot of things that I’m not going to repeat. But thank you for pretending to pay attention.”

Kit lifted his shoulders, mentally girding his loins for battle. The baroness had him in her sights, making him glad he had changed into his black tailed coat and formal trousers. He had performed before princes and dukes, Gypsies and greater masters than he could ever hope to be. But he had never felt as unsure of himself as he did as he approached the frail, silver-haired woman whose shrieks had haunted him for years.