The Magnificent Masquerade (29 page)

Kitty's shining happiness had evaporated with
his first angry word, and she'd grown colder and paler as his diatribe
proceeded. Now, almost numb with shock and pain, she gazed up at him with a
face from which every ounce of color had been drained. "Please,
Greg," she whispered, agonized, holding up a hand as if to protect herself
from a blow, "don't go on. Don't!"

Her stricken look pierced through him. He felt
like a beast, like the monster he'd told Emily Pratt he could never be.
Something strong and demanding within his breast wanted to take her in his
arms, soothe her, and tell her he'd never hurt her again. But his mind would
not permit it. His mind warned him that he needed the protection of his anger
to keep himself safe from her.

Perhaps the best course at the moment was a
compromise between the two. "Very well," he said, expelling a deep
breath, "I suppose that's quite enough anger for now. I'm much too tired
to remember the dozens of other reasons you've given me for wrath." He
walked slowly to the taproom door. "I'll have plenty to say tomorrow, when
I'm refreshed enough to remember how furious with you I am, but for tonight I'm
saying nothing more than good night."

She remained seated, motionless, at the table
in the now deserted room. "Good night, my lord," she said.

"I trust you'll be ready to depart by
seven. It will be slow going, even if the snow has stopped, and I want to be
home before dark."

"Yes, my lord," she said dully.
"Seven."

Suddenly he wheeled about. "But I warn
you, you vixen, that if you have any intention of running off again-and causing
further consternation for your parents and turmoil for everyone else-it will
not be I who comes after you. From this moment on, if you play the slightest
prank or devise the simplest scheme, I'll wash my hands of you!"

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kitty did not attempt
to run away again. She was ready at seven on the dot, waiting meekly for Lord
Edgerton in the private parlor of the Fiddle and Bow. The snow had stopped
falling and a hint of sunshine was beginning to be seen through the thinning
clouds, but traveling would still be difficult.

She was stirring her
spoon, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, in a bowl of porridge (which Mrs.
Watson insisted on serving her so that "somethin' warm and fillip' will
stick't' yer ribs") when Edgerton came in. He gave her a grunt as a
greeting and, after determining that she was no more eager to finish her
breakfast that he was to start his, hurried her out to the inn yard and into
the closed, four-horse coach he'd hired from Mrs. Watson. (Three of the four
horses were his own. He left only the curricle and Kitty's "borrowed"
carriage in the innkeeper's care.) The hired coachman climbed up on the box and
they were off.

It was slow going, and
the silence in the coach made the trip seem interminable. At first Kitty made a
few feeble attempts to initiate a conversation, but when she received only
monosyllables in response, she ceased trying. An hour went by, during which he
stared glumly out of his window and she stared resolutely out of hers.

Finally she shattered
the silence with a question that shook him out of his lethargy with a start.
"Do gentlemen ever offer cartes blanches to well-born ladies, or must the
offers be restricted to opera dancers and fancy pieces?" she asked without
preamble.

"What a deuced,
improper question that is, especially from a young lady who has presumably been
gently reared," he said with quenching disapproval.

"You didn't seem
to mind that sort of question when you thought I was a housemaid," she
accused.

"I knew who you
were almost from the first, so that part of your accusation is patently false.
And you have no way of knowing if I minded those questions or not." He
crossed his legs and leaned back in his comer at an angle so that he could observe
her more closely. "Is this the only subject you are interested in
discussing, Miss Jessup?"

"It is the only
subject, of several I've tried, that prompted a reaction from you, my lord. So
there! But I shall be happy to discuss any subject you like, after you answer
my question."

"The answer is
that there are no rules about that sort of thing. A gentleman may offer a carte
blanche to any woman he pleases. It is to be hoped, however, that a real lady
would reject that sort of offer out of hand."

She threw him a look of
scorn. "That was phrased with admirable, fatherly tact, my lord. Thank
you. But if I read correctly between the lines, I might take it, might I not,
that there have been ladies here and there who have accepted such offers?"

"Here and there.
But why do you ask such a thing?"

"Well, you see,
I've been sitting here wondering if perhaps you rejected my suggestion that you
offer me a carte blanche because you knew I wasn't really an abigail. I
wondered if perhaps, knowing I was Kitty Jessup, you thought I would only
accept an offer of marriage."

"I certainly did.
That's why I wanted Toby to offer you marriage. There are certain women to whom
one offers marriage and other women with whom one makes liaisons. You, my dear,
are one of the former."

"But if some
ladies accept cartes blanches, how can you be sure I'm not that sort?"

The look of amusement
that she'd so often seen in his eyes came back again. "Because, my little
innocent, you are a little innocent. That's how I'm sure."

"But I shan't always
be an innocent, shall I? In a few years I shall be very sophisticated. Can I
then be one of the 'other' women?"

"No. I'm afraid
not, for by then you will be a happy wife surrounded by several chubby
babies."

"Dash it all, Greg
Wishart, you are making this very difficult for me! What if I never marry? What
if I remain single and grow to be very beautiful and worldly ... would you
offer me a carte blanche then?"

His expression changed
abruptly, his mouth hardening and his eyes darkening with anger. "Is this
what you've been leading up to?" he demanded, leaning forward and grasping
her by the shoulders as if he intended to give her a sound shaking. "I
thought I'd made it plain that this notion of yours to become my mistress was
to be put out of your mind! I make things difficult for you, do I? Well, you,
you benighted, provoking, tormenting wretch, are making things impossible for
me! Have you no sense of propriety at all? No iota of self restraint? Can't
you, just once, behave as you ought?"

Her cheeks flamed in
shame, her throat tightened, and tears filled her eyes. "What g-good is
b-behaving as I ought," she stammered, "if it keeps me from ... from
..."

"From what?"

"N-never mind. You
would only get m-more angry if I t-told you."

"I wouldn't doubt
it. But behaving properly is something one does simply because it should be
done. It's not done to bring rewards but for its own sake. Like virtue."

"I don't want to
be proper!" she said, thrusting his hands away and turning her back on
him. She drew herself up, dashed the tears from her cheeks, and stared,
unseeing, out the coach window.

"Or virtuous
either, for that matter. If you wanted somebody virtuous and proper you would
have married your Miss Inglesham."

"Well, that's a
facer," he admitted reluctantly, feeling uncomfortably aware that he'd
sounded like a pompous ass. "I didn't mean that you needed to be virtuous
and proper to the point of dullness."

She lowered her head
until her forehead rested on the icy window glass. "Just how proper and
virtuous would I have to be," she asked in a small voice, "for you to
wish to marry me?"

"Marry you?"
He gave a snorting laugh. "Are you now going to suggest marriage? What
brought about this change? Did you think I would be more amenable to this new
suggestion because it would be more proper?"

"The suggestion
has nothing to do with propriety. If it did,

I could never have made
it. If one is being proper, the gentleman has to make the offer."

"Does he
indeed?" his lordship said drily. "I didn't think you had enough
sense of propriety to realize that."

"That's just
what's wrong with propriety. If I'd been proper, we'd never be speaking of
marriage at all. Sometimes a lady has to be improper. You certainly had no
intentions of making me an offer." She peeped over her shoulder at him.
"Had you?"

"Certainly not.
I'm much too old to be making offers to chits of eighteen. Even proper
ones."

"What has your age
to do with it?"

"A great deal. I'm
middle-aged and you're a child."

"I don't know why it
pleases you so much to keep repeating that I'm a child, but the repetition
doesn't make it true. I am of age. And you needn't try to make yourself sound
like a doddering old codger. You can't be more than ... say ... forty."

"I'm
thirty-five," he blurted out, stung. She chortled in triumph. Greg
reddened and gave an embarrassed laugh.

"All right, you
minx. You've made another point."

She turned around and
faced him. "Then, if the age objection has been dispensed with, what else
keeps you from making an offer?"

"Good God, what a
persistent wench you are! Why are you bringing up the subject of marriage at
all? I thought you found wedlock to be worse than death."

"Who told you
that?" she asked, surprised.

"Miss Emily Pratt
told me. The real Emily Pratt." Kitty fumed. "She had no right to do
so! And if I did utter such a foolish statement, it was before I fell in love
with you."

The words sent a tremor
right through him. But he was too sensible to let his emotions take control.
"You don't love me, Kitty," he said gently. "You only think you
do. It's a girl's infatuation, that's all."

She shook her head.
"You can't know that. You don't know what I feel."

"I know enough. I
know you'll feel this way for many young men before you settle down. You'll
break many hearts. You yourself predicted it. Hundreds, wasn't that your own
estimate?"

"I suppose Emily
told you that, too. Well, that isn't true any more either. But I don't suppose
you'll believe that, any more than you believe anything else I've said to you.
Oh, well," she sighed, "none of it matters, anyway, since you don't
love me. Not that I blame you. How could you love someone as benighted,
provoking, troublesome, and childish as I?"

"I have no idea.
But I do."

Her hands flew to her
mouth, smothering her gasp. "What did you say?" she asked when she'd
recovered her breath. "You can't mean it!"

"I do mean it,
worse luck! I think I've loved you ever since you first forced yourself on me
by demanding protection from a rat that wasn't there."

"Oh, Greg!"
she breathed, a glow suffusing her entire face.

"There's no need
to grow ecstatic, girl, for I don't intend to marry you, however much it hurts
to deny myself the joy of it.

You are eighteen. You
have years ahead of you to enjoy before you settle down. You told Emily you
wanted the flirting, the dancing, the romances, the blessed freedom that you'd
dreamed of all the years of your growing up, and you have every right to-"

She leaned toward him
and put her hand over his mouth. "Why won't you believe me? None of that
means anything to me now."

He took her hand from
his mouth, kissed it gently, and laid it down in her lap. "But it will, as
soon as this infatuation of yours passes. Then I will become the first of those
hundreds whose hearts you'll break."

"But, dash it all,
I don't wish to break any hearts! Yours most of all."

"Don't concern
yourself, my dear. At my age, broken hearts are rarely fatal."

The finality of his
tone chilled her through. She turned back to the window in despair. "But
what if they are fatal at mine?" she asked sadly.

He didn't answer. And
she, her spirit wounded by his repeated rejection of every offer of love she'd
made, succumbed to defeat and stared in silent misery at the passing landscape
until the carriage arrived at Edgerton Park.

Before the carriage
came to a halt, Greg tapped her on the shoulder. "The whole household must
be aware, by this time, that you're the real Miss Jessup, so will you please,
my dear, try to behave appropriately. Your parents have been sufficiently embarrassed
by your roguery. I trust you will refrain from further mischief, at least while
you remain under my roof."

She turned from the
window and fixed him with a look of ice. "I will behave with the utmost
propriety, I assure you."

Naismith emerged from
the house to let down the steps of the carriage, and he welcomed them both with
an impassive bow. When his eyes met Kitty's, there was not a flicker of
recognition in them. He turned and led them across the terrace with his usual,
measured dignity. Kitty, now familiar with the methods used by the household
staff to keep abreast of the doings of the family, knew that their approach was
being observed by dozens of pairs of eyes, so, true to the promise she'd just
made, she paraded alongside his lordship with as dignified a step as the butler
himself.

As she and Greg
followed several paces behind the butler, Kitty realized that this might be the
very last time she'd be able to exchange a private word with him. Despite her
promise to behave herself, she could not let this final opportunity escape her.

 "If I
promise on my honor always to behave with propriety, would you
reconsider-?" she whispered urgently. Greg was as aware as she that they
were undoubtedly being watched.

"No," he
hissed between clenched teeth, staring straight ahead of him.

"If I swear I'll
never concoct another scheme or play another-"

"No!"

They were approaching
the door. "I know I'll never be able to prove to you that I'll never love
anyone else, but couldn't you take a chance on it? Isn't it worth a little risk
to-?"