Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

Harcroft turned to look at the man. “I suppose this proceeding is over, Your Worship.” His eyes fell on Kate. “But it’s not over. Not until I’ve delivered the apology my wife deserves.”


AFTER THE MAGISTRATE BANGED his gavel and pronounced the court in recess again, pandemonium broke out. Ned barely managed to remain standing, buffeted as he was on all sides by the intrepid young men from the gossip rags. They dashed pell-mell through the door, nearly tripping over Ned’s feet in their haste to deliver the story.

Harcroft took one long look at Louisa, and then marched down the aisle toward her. Louisa didn’t cringe, even though he stalked up to her stiff-legged. She didn’t look away. They’d practiced that in the carriage—although, under the circumstances, Ned hadn’t managed to project even a tiny portion of the menace that Harcroft had. Oddly enough, it hadn’t been the pain that had posed the greatest difficulty. He’d gone somewhere beyond hurt, to a world where pain no longer had any meaning. It was the problem of keeping himself firmly in the present that had proved a challenge.

And he had to be in the present now. Harcroft reached for his wife. Ned wasn’t sure what the earl intended, but Ned had promised Louisa her husband wouldn’t touch her. Before he could grab her arm, Ned interposed his own body between them in a graceless, lurching motion. He intercepted Harcroft’s outstretched arm with a handshake.

“Get out of my way, Carhart,” Harcroft said through the gritted teeth of his false smile.

“Your wife has a pistol in her reticule,” Ned responded quietly. “If you touch her, she’ll shoot you.”

Harcroft glanced behind Ned. “Death threats,” he finally said. “How quaint.” He cast his wife another, more vicious look. “Enjoy your freedom,” he hissed. “I hear there are excellent sanitariums in Switzerland.”

At those words, Ned felt an inappropriate cheer. So he had guessed correctly—Harcroft had filed a petition in lunacy in the courts of Chancery. Not really a cause for rejoicing, but at least they’d been correct about that much. Good thing they’d managed to confuse that suit, at least. But cheer was a mistake. With happiness came feeling; with feeling came the urge to beat his head against a wall until he passed out and could feel pain no more. Harcroft simply glared one last time, and then stalked out of the room.

The real reason Ned had made it all this way—the real reason he’d suffered these past hours—was coming slowly down the aisle. Kate looked wonderful—small and delicate, and yet strong and indomitable. The sort of woman who might take on magistrates and madmen alike, and never blink in surprise when they crumpled at her feet.

She approached, and he wanted to fold her into an embrace. He would have, were it not for the certainty that if he let go of the back of the bench he was clutching, he would fall forward onto his face.

She stopped before him, smiling shyly. He could appreciate the beauty of that smile, even through the gray haze of pain that enveloped him.

“You,” she said, “look both wonderful and awful at the same time.”

“Do you like the attire? I have always dreamed of setting a new fashion in road-weary gentlemen’s attire. I call this particular knot in my cravat ‘The Incompetent.’”

She shook her head in puzzlement. “What cravat?”

“Precisely.”

She laughed. Good to know he could still make her do that, even under these circumstances. “Turn for me,” she suggested, “and let me get the full sense of the fashion.”

“Oh, no. I’m already spinning,” he informed her solemnly. And he was. The room inscribed a lazy orbit around him. He could track the path of her face, trekking across the sky like a moon on a cloudless night.

Louisa took Ned’s elbow. “Kate, there is something you need to know.”

Kate glanced at Ned again, and a hint of worry flashed across her brow. “You look as if you’re about to fall down.”

No. Not that. He’d proven…he’d proven…he’d proven something fairly clever and intelligent, and as soon as the room stopped whirling about, he would let her know what it was.

“Here,” Kate was saying. She took his other elbow, and then she and Louisa were guiding him toward a chair. He landed in a heavy thud that jarred his leg.

“You’ve been up all night,” Kate was saying. “You’re tired. And your trousers are ripped. Did you take a spill on the road?”

“I think he must have sprained his ankle,” Louisa said. “He limps.”

They were talking about him as if he were not there. In another world, another place, that would have bothered him. But Ned felt curiously as if he were not quite present. It was quite clever of them to sense that.

Kate sat down next to him.

“Sprained your ankle?” she was saying. “What on earth were you doing standing on it just now? Was this some attempt to prove some idiotic masculine point?” Her fingers against his neck were far more gentle than her words.