“You are an intriguing woman, Lady Katherine.” He cocked a brow. “But having rejected my insincere and clumsy attempts at flirtation, don’t you think I have sense enough not to subject you to them again?”
She mirrored his expression.
“I would not,” he said. “Not until you had sense enough to welcome them. My only aim is to know you… For now.”
She expelled a breath. “I cannot take your measure, Lord Bromton.”
“Please do not try,” he said. “It’s terribly bothersome to live up to expectations, once fixed.”
“And if I have already determined you a lost cause?”
Bat-like darkness flitted behind his eyes. “No expectation is the hardest expectation to fulfill.”
She turned away. “If I am your aim, you will leave Southford disappointed, my lord.”
“Already impossible.”
She glanced sideways. “Thwarted, then.”
“Perhaps.”
He turned her shoulders so they faced one another. The heat in his palms seeped through her dress. His full, masculine attention beguiled. Wanting emanated from his body like sweat off skin but by St. George she—a disgraced, thrice-discarded spinster—could not possibly be his object.
Think, Katherine. What is he really after?
He wanted—she observed him with care—something. Something he was desperate to obtain. Frustrated wanting, she suspected, was a new experience for the marquess. And frustrated wanting had made what had once been merely dangerous, now lethal.
Inexplicably chilled, she removed his hands from her shoulders. “You are Markham’s guest, and for that reason I will see to your comfort. But,” her voice cracked, “there is nothing where you or I are concerned, and there never will be.”
For a long moment, he studied her face. Then he bowed, as if conceding defeat. “I understand your wishes.” He held out his arm. “Shall we go down? Markham is likely waiting.”
She hesitated before placing her hand on his elbow. As they descended together, he behaved with perfect propriety. Not until she was in her bedchamber removing her ridiculous cap did she realize Lord Bromton had only said he understood her wishes.
He had not agreed to abide by them.
Immediately, she rang for her maid. The plan would proceed. The meat hooks would be emptied under the guise that the meat was unfit for their illustrious guest. The butler would decline dinner on behalf of Julia and Katherine, the former not being out and the latter owning nothing grand enough to wear to dinner with such a high-ranking peer. And tonight, the marquess would be attended withexceptionalcare.
She studied her reflection in the mirror with only the slightest nudge of guilt.
Markham and Bromton would not starve. Plenty of food graced the pantry—root vegetables, butter, and grain enough to bake fifty loaves—the men would merely be denied fresh meat. And she knew enough of men to know that a meal without meat was no meal at all.
She expected Markham—and his lofty friend—would find such lack intolerable.
Intolerable enough, she hoped, to go away.
Far, far away.
Chapter Three
As dusk deepened the next evening, the gloom made indigo ghosts of the corridor windows. Katherine lingered in the shadows, close enough to hear voices wafting from the billiards room, yet unable to see anything beyond the open-arch entry.
She’d distributed the meat and eggs to the parish poor, keeping Bromton hungry. She’d refused Markham’s request to dine on behalf of herself and Julia, thwarting his primary aim. She’d sent an army of footmen to inquire after Bromton’s comfort, every hour, on the hour. All. Night. Long. But had her painstaking efforts set them back on the road? No.
Instead, the marquess had joined her brother in a successful hunt, and he’d ridden with an agility that made it seem as if he’d never spent a more restful night. Now—adding insult to injury—he and Markham were enjoying a game of billiards.
Billiards!
Markham stepped into view, leaned over the billiard table, and lined up a shot.Whack. Ivory balls scattered.
