Wed at Leisure(The Taming Series)

CHAPTER TWO



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1819





Peter Colburn, the Duke of Orland, wasn’t entirely certain how he’d ended up in Brighton, standing on the side of the assembly room at Castle Tavern after having passed an uncomfortable night on the sofa in his friend Trumbull’s already crowded rented rooms. He certainly hadn’t intended to stop in the seaside town before heading home to his family’s country estate. First of all, it was the wrong direction. Second of all, if he had intended such a jaunt, he would have arranged for his own rooms months ago. He hadn’t stayed in such cramped accommodations since his days in the army. In three years, it was possible he’d gotten a bit soft. Or perhaps, he simply had raised his standards.


Nonetheless, here he was, nursing the sort of headache that came from reuniting with old friends, resulting in the need to recapture one’s younger and more inebriated days. After a too-long London Season, in which he’d dutifully accompanied his aunt Winifred to events at which she attempted to match him to any young girl who possessed most of her teeth and a modicum of intelligence. Despite the complaints of his more marriage-minded friends, London’s ballrooms were populated with a fair number of personable, clever young women. Yet they were all utterly unexceptionable. Blending in to one another. All but one.

Kate.

Another touchstone from his youth.

It seemed she was everywhere, lighting up the ballrooms with her laugh and her sharp wit. Not to mention her beauty. He’d read about eyes flashing in bad poetry and Minerva Press novels (the officers had needed some amusement during the war), but Kate’s eyes did. Everything about her was intense.

Now, she flitted about the dance floor on Lindley’s arms, and for one brief moment she looked his way, and Peter caught the flash of recognition. A brightening that narrowed quickly to contempt.

That brief contact, as it increasingly had over the last few months, spurred him to be at her side when she exited the dance. To be where she was forced to acknowledge him. After all, for a woman of no title and only a respectable dowry, ignoring a duke, one who was considered a war hero no less, though Peter privately thought the epithet too easily given to a man who had done nothing any other man wouldn’t do, would hardly endear her to society.

“Your Grace, fine night, is it not?” Lindley said. His smile was affable and open, and his hold on Kate’s arm, proprietary. Interesting. Especially considering the man’s attentions to the Hightower girl earlier that evening.

“Your Grace,” Kate acknowledged with a nod of her head, but the curve of her lips and the tone of her voice were mocking.

“Miss Mansfield,” he returned, equally sardonic. “Lindley. I thought I’d steal Miss Mansfield away for a set.”

Her eyes widened and then narrowed. He didn’t know what continually possessed him to needle her, but this had been the way between them ever since that day by the river. Kate was a brat. And he had little doubt she was about to claim some prior commitment, whether it existed or not. She was popular enough for each dance to be already claimed.

“I do believe this dance is free,” Kate said, tilting her head in silent challenge. “But I am a bit out of breath. Would you settle for a stroll about the room?”

“Your wish is my command.” He steered Kate away from Lindley, oddly happy to have disentangled the two of them.

“I confess, I am astonished to see you in Brighton. I understood you to be a man of habit and these last two years you have decamped home at the end of the London Season.”

“I am flattered that you have noticed my comings and goings.”

Her eyes narrowed and a surge of anticipation filled him at what she would next say.

“It is rather hard not to notice,” she said, pointedly perusing his form. Yes, her favorite form of insult, that of his tailor. Or more his valet, as it was not his tailor’s fault that these two patterns had been matched together. The more Kate noticed, the more determined Peter was to allow his valet his questionable taste. “Such a relief when your sartorial mishaps no longer offend my eyes.”

“Never fear, Miss Mansfield. I am only here for a week at most. I shall have to make the most of these few moments we have together.”

“Don’t make too much of them.”

“You wound me.”

She laughed. “The one thing I never have to worry about from you, Peter, is that anything I say could hurt you. You exist simply to torture me.”

Perhaps it was the use of his Christian name, so rarely said, but for one instant he was reminded clearly of why he was drawn to her again and again, acrimony aside. She was a part of his youth, a part of the green earth and the rolling hills. Yes, she had acquired that town bronze, but she was still the Kate he’d longed to kiss for more years than he could remember.

The thought startled him. But not so surprising really. She was a pretty young woman and he was a normal man who reacted to such beauty with the desire to possess it. Bodily.

“So silent, Your Grace.”

If she knew his thoughts, perhaps she’d be silenced, too.

She stopped walking, and accommodatingly, he stopped, as well. “And how do you do?” she was saying. He looked about. There was nothing there but a column, holding up the ceiling.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, there you are, Your Grace. I mistook this handsome and oh so silent piece of marble for you for a moment.”

He shook his head even as he laughed. “I’ll tell you, Kate. I was thinking of your mouth . . . and how you use it in the most infuriating ways.”



“You should be nicer to Orland.” It wasn’t the first time her stepmother had said such a thing, but as always, Kate ignored the hissed words. Henrietta had been a Mansfield for nine years now, married barely a year after Kate’s mother died of influenza. At first, Kate had resented the young, beautiful stepmother, but soon, they were best friends. Still, as close as they were, Henrietta couldn’t possibly understand. “After all, he’s a war hero and hardly difficult to look at. And he’s the one duke with whom we have a familial acquaintance. If you truly would never consider him, then surely something could be made of the connection.”

Never consider Peter? She had once upon a time. Girlishly, she had imagined marrying every eligible man in Waterford on Lew, and the future duke, as he had been at the time, above all others. Towering above her, he had always been kind and charming. Even that day by the river.

That had been the last day it was so.

Now they couldn’t stand each other. Peter, because he knew how horrid she truly was, and Kate, because she knew he knew.

Even if Kate were interested in the duchy . . . in Peter, he was certainly not interested in her.

There had been the year that he returned from Waterloo that had proven that. He’d acted as if they were strangers, as if they hadn’t shared two shockingly emotional moments over the years.

“He has terrible taste,” Kate said with a mocking laugh. “Imagine a grown man pairing that waistcoat with those trousers? Say what you will about him, a good valet can change all that. The very fact that he doesn’t object himself is appalling.”

“That is ridiculous.” But Henrietta said nothing else on the subject.

“Perhaps,” Kate agreed, though it was an admission she made only out of deep respect and love for her stepmother. “Nonetheless, I could never consider a man without the least sense of taste.”

“Remember, dearest, how hard you worked to overcome your reputation. Walk softly here.”

At that moment, she spotted Lord Lindley across the assembly rooms. Unlike Peter, Lindley was the epitome of sartorial elegance. The Viscount was charming, handsome, and a perfect dance partner. He was actively seeking a bride and, about to enter her third Season, Kate was finally ready to consider a match.

Despite a handful of proposals over the last two years, one or two brilliant enough to satisfy her competitive spirit, she had never been tempted.

But Lindley did tempt her, because best of all, he seemed to show a preference for Kate.

And, unfortunately, for Camilla Hightower, whom he was leading out to the dance floor.


Kate refused to let her internal grimace reflect on her face. Camilla was everything Kate was not. Tall, blond, voluptuous. Known for her “sweet” disposition. In fact, she uncomfortably reminded Kate of her sister, Bianca. The perfect English beauty. Her mother would have approved.

Just as she had disapproved of Kate, who had inherited from her mother’s side and looked much like the feminine version of her dissolute uncle, the one nobody ever talked about except in hushed tones.

“Miss Hightower looks lovely tonight,” Henrietta observed. “Not as lovely as you, but it is best to be certain there is no comparison. That is, if you want Lord Lindley.”

Her stepmother was always astute, nearly more of a friend than a mother as only seven years separated them in age.

Did she want Lord Lindley? He was a handsome man. Not overly tall, which made them well matched on the dance floor. He had reddish-brown hair, warm brown eyes, and was solidly built. She had heard other girls speak of racing hearts and trembling skin at the mere nearness of a man and while Lindley had no such effect on her, he was charming and amusing. Time spent with him was always merry.

“I’m not certain. I do want him more than any other man I’ve met.”

Kate caught the sidelong glance Henrietta shot at Peter. Why would she not let that one go? Of course, it grated that she had a single duke as a neighbor and two eligible young girls in her care.

“Mansfield looks its best in August. Plenty of hunting, beautiful weather. I think a house party would be the ideal venue for you to get to know Lord Lindley better.”

“With no Miss Hightower.”

“Naturally.”

It was an inspired idea, but it had one not-so-welcome drawback. A house party required a return to home. Or rather, a return to Hopford Manor, repository of the past, of unwanted memories and consequences she’d rather not face.

At the Hall, she was not the Catherine Mansfield who had charmed London, but instead was the childish Kate, forever caught in the patterns set during the earliest years. With distance, she’d understood this. Yet each time she returned home, the emotions and anger made it impossible to think. Impossible to be any other way. Which was why she came home rarely. Indulged her desire for a sisterly relationship through regular correspondence. After all, with distance she could pretend it was perfect. In person, she was confronted again.

And yet, she could not forestall Bianca’s entrée into society forever, and Kate refused to stand in competition with her blond, beloved sister for society’s affection.

“Will you write to Father?” Kate said finally, adding a bright smile. There was no need to dwell on the negative and forcing a smile always seemed to change her mood, as well.