Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

“You don’t need trust to consummate a marriage, Ned.” She shook her head. “I am nothing if not practical.” But her heart was beating in impractical little thumps.

“Would you tell me why Harcroft made you so uneasy today? I know he can sometimes be a bit exacting, a bit too perfect. But I’ve known him since the two of us were in short pants. He means well. He was—is a friend of mine, you know.”

Everyone thought Harcroft meant well. It was the hell of the situation, that anyone she told would run to Harcroft, seeking confirmation of her tale. The man seemed reasonable. Nobody would give credence to a week-old collection of bruises, not when Harcroft explained them away so capably. And besides, she’d promised Louisa to keep silent.

As for Kate’s own wants and desires—the substance of her marriage, the yearning of her flesh for his—set on the scale opposite Louisa’s life, they balanced to nothing.

Ned thought Harcroft meant well. They had been not only friends, but best friends. When Ned had asked, Harcroft had welcomed Lady Blakely into society despite her lack of provenance. His support had made the difference between a grudging acceptance and a complete denial. He had smoothed over a situation that might otherwise have proven difficult. They all owed Harcroft. Nobody even asked whether Louisa might have been prudent to run away.

She backed away, but the post prevented her retreat. “No. You’re right. I don’t trust you, yet. If you had left your new wife to the depredations of the ton, exposed her to jokes and uncouth wagers, would you trust yourself?”

“Kate, I—”

She set her hands against his chest and shoved. She had hoped he would stagger away; instead, he moved back, gracefully, as if her push had been nothing more than a gentle reminder.

He scrubbed one hand through his drying hair, which had fallen into his eyes again. “I left England to prove something to myself. I suppose…I suppose I still have a great deal to prove to you.” He said it in a tone of surprise, as if he were somehow just discovering he had a wife and responsibilities.

Hardly reassuring. He hadn’t needed a reminder of what he owed Harcroft.

CHAPTER SIX

NED’S DAY HAD NOT improved. Supper conversation had been blighted; nobody had wanted to act as if this were a typical house party, where the men would consume a quantity of port before meeting the women for a companionable game of charades. Bare civility, it seemed, was charade enough.

Instead, after the evening meal, Ned’s houseguests had disappeared, and Ned had made his own way to the library. He’d gone there because the room seemed safe—an empty cavern of bookshelves and shadowed furniture, lit only by a lamp on a low table and the orange light of a fire.

But as he stepped inside, he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Carhart.”

Ned heard the deep voice before he made out the dark silhouette slouching in a chair before the fire. The boughs had burned almost to coal; only a dim glow came from the grate. A glass of port, filled knuckle-high, sat on a little table beside Harcroft. Knowing the man, he’d likely scarcely touched it.

“Come,” Harcroft said. “Join me in a glass.”

Not a chance. His lip curled in awkward distaste.

Even though Ned hadn’t said a word, Harcroft must have caught his meaning. The man swiveled in his chair to look Ned in the eyes. The look they exchanged was rooted in a years-old memory, dredged from their respective youths. They’d both been at Cambridge. One evening they’d shared one too many bottles of claret. It had been during one of Ned’s bad periods—just before he was sent down for sheer listlessness. The spirits he’d imbibed that night hadn’t cured whatever it was that ailed him. Instead, on that evening, he and Harcroft had ended up getting bloody drunk.

After what Ned was sure was only the fourth bottle of wine, and Harcroft insisted was the sixth, they’d engaged in an activity that no self-respecting men would ever admit to—they had talked about their feelings. At length.

Ned still got the shivers just thinking about that night.

“A very tiny glass,” he said, holding up his fingers. “Just to hold.”

“Just so.” Harcroft’s lip quirked in understanding—and possibly in memory. He stood and walked to the decanter on the sideboard and poured Ned the barest slug of tawny liquid.

Ned took the glass and seated himself in the chair opposite Harcroft. They stared into the fire.