Wed at Leisure(The Taming Series)

CHAPTER FOUR



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The next day, she woke early, despite a yearlong regimen of late evenings and late mornings. The scent of the country air changed her back into the girl who had loved to escape the house and wander the grounds, to find the most magical places, where solitude amongst nature would let her imagination take flight.

She followed her favorite path, down to the bend of the stream where the big oak trees and the sound of the rushing water had often hidden her. Often, but not always. When she was a little girl, she had on occasion taken Bianca here and then, later, while it had only been twice, those accidental meetings with Peter Colburn had been monumental.

Monumentally insignificant. That was better.

She stepped onto the damp, grassy embankment, looked to the left and the right. And then looked to the right again. To the figure perched on the lowest limb of his tree.

He was leaning back against the trunk, one knee up, foot flat on the branch, and one leg hanging down. This was not the man she had last scene in Brighton, stately and ducal despite his mismatched garments and unfortunate sense of humor.

One that seemed to depend on aggravating her.

Here he was relaxed, and simply dressed. Simply enough that there was nothing to offend.

“Your Grace,” Kate said, somehow unsurprised to see him. It was almost inevitable that they would meet here. As if fate conspired again and again for them to see each other in the most embarrassing of circumstances.

“I’d heard you’d returned. I’d planned to call upon you this afternoon.” That news, however, was a surprise.

“How kind of you?”

“What? Never say you don’t care for my company, Kate.”

That mocking tone that he’d so perfected irritated her. What had she ever admired about him?

“I don’t.”

“But I received this charming invitation—”

“From Henrietta. Because you and Lord Reginald are our neighbors and we would never think of being unneighborly.”

But he had. He had been very unneighborly. Or perhaps a little too neighborly. She couldn’t quite say, just as she had never been able to fully make sense of the incident from four years earlier other than to ascribe it to the fact that spirits made a man ridiculous. She’d very carefully turned down the marriage offers of three men whom she knew to be more often in their cups than not.

Of course, that was half the men of the ton. They all seemed to carry their flasks with them and drink liquor like they were trying to coat a second skin. At balls, sometimes the men smelled of perspiration, cologne, whisky, or port. As much as she adored the crush of a well-attended event, she’d had to escape to the gardens to catch a breath more than a few times when those scent mixtures threatened a faint.

He stood, brushed the leaves and other bits of plant off of his clothes.

“Come, Kate, let us call a truce.”

She stared at him in disbelief. It was the first time he had ever referred to the antagonism between them. They had settled into covering the real source of displeasure up with witty insults, some subtle and some not as much. But a truce . . .

“A truce?”

“You know, when men lay down their arms, agree to a cease-fire, attempt to live peacefully amongst each other,” he said rather sardonically.

She raised an eyebrow. “I know what a truce is. But apparently, you do not know how to broker one.”

He leaned slightly toward her, his full lips lifting up to one side, a wavy lock of hair falling down over his forehead somewhat rakishly.

“Show me.”

Kate sucked in her breath.

She had heard stories about Peter in London. Before his father’s death, when he’d still been simply the Earl of Bonhill. Apparently he’d cut quite a swath through the town, developed a reputation for being anything but the honorable, earnest man who had earned his honors as a war hero. Then he’d inherited the duchy and for the most part, that reputation had been put to bed. But before her now, he seemed like the man who would place a bet on White’s books simply for the sake of betting.

“Why?”

His lips curved up more and he moved infinitesimally away, but just enough that she could breathe normally again.

“Because this antagonism is pointless. Amusing, in its way, but it achieves nothing.”

“No one forces you to follow me about.”

“I hardly—”

“You most certainly do. Take Brighton, for example.”

“Yes, well.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled. “Then forgive me.”

She studied him for a long moment but she couldn’t discern the expression on his face.

“You are . . . apologizing . . . for everything?”

“I most abjectly regret anything I have done to cause you misery.”

Ooh. There he went, being a sneaky wordsmith. But to what purpose? Was he merely bored? Spent so much time in London that he’d developed ennui?

“I’ll shan’t forgive you, Your Grace,” she said. “But I’ll accept a truce.”

“Excellent!” he said, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of forgiveness. He took her arm and slid it over his. She was too surprised to object and when he started walking, she tripped along beside him. “Now then, let us discuss the terms.”




When she’d stepped out onto the bank of the stream, Peter had felt the strongest sense of déjà vu. He hadn’t expected for her to be present, though he had thought of her as he’d walked there. But the memory of that day ten years earlier when she’d broken through the thicket and let out her primal cry still haunted him. Of course, he didn’t remember every detail anymore. Mostly he remembered how she looked kneeling on the ground, tear-stained face skyward, agonized. He also remembered that she’d had a sharp tongue, though what she had said exactly now eluded him.

But something else had stayed with him, some sense that she might understand him, the way he suspected he understood her. It was likely a foolish fancy, but it was the one that drew him to her again and again, that made him nearly willing to agree to Reggie’s stupid plan, that made him offer a truce. Because of necessity a man, no, a duke, must be an island—people always wanted something of him, whether it be funds, political favors, or social cachet. But every once in a while, he wished to feel not quite so alone, to know that his title did not define him entirely.

In some way Kate’s antagonism made him feel . . . like just a man.

Which was why, even if he had no intention of marrying anytime soon, he wanted to delve beneath Kate’s cool exterior and discover if what he suspected was true.

Thus his ridiculous terms. And the painful disapprobation of his mother and brother as they waited for the butler to show the Mansfield women into the sitting room.

His terms. Join me for dinner this evening at Fairview.

She’d considered saying no. He’d seen the hesitation in her face and chided her for her cowardice, which naturally was exactly the sort of thing that would get her to agree.

“Mrs. Mansfield and Miss Mansfield,” the butler intoned a moment before the pair stepped into the room. He rose instantly, as did his brother.

As usual his eye was drawn immediately to Kate, to the compelling intensity about her. She was a slender thing, with quick yet graceful movements. She did nothing she did not like to do. Yet she was not painfully honest in that way that some called a virtue.

Her dark hair was swept up in one of those delightful manners that let a man admire the sway of a woman’s neck, and imagine unfastening the pins to see the locks tumble down later, in private.

Not that he was imagining that about Kate.

Not that he wasn’t.

Admittedly, he had entertained more carnal thoughts of her. He was a man and fashioned for such a thing. He had admired the better attributes of half the ladies of the ton and so had all his peers.

It meant nothing.

Nothing that truly mattered that was. He was not stupid enough to be swayed by a pretty face. He far more appreciated a woman of substance, and if there be an outer shell to match so much the better. Of course, it had taken two madcap years to learn this about himself, during which he had gained a reputation as a bit of a rake. An appellation that still made him laugh.

“My dear Duchess!” Mrs. Mansfield cried. “What a kind invitation.”

“You may thank my son,” his mother said dryly and he winced. She could at least make an effort. But the Duchess had not particularly approved of Kate’s father’s quick marriage to Henrietta Mansfield. She’d been close to Kate’s mother, and thought a longer mourning more appropriate.

“It was my own luck that I stumbled upon Miss Mansfield this morning,” he said quickly, hoping to save Mrs. Mansfield from her flushed confusion. “It had been far too long since I had the pleasure of her company.”

Kate laughed. “Was it that long?”

“An eternity.”

“It seems we only get to see the Mansfields in parts,” his mother said. “Barely a month ago, we had the pleasure of Mr. Mansfield and young Bianca.”

“Did you?” Kate asked.

“I was starved for company, having just returned from town,” Reggie said, shooting Peter an accusatory look. “And your sister is beyond charming.”

Peter held his tongue. There was no point in mentioning that Reggie might have remained in town if he wished had he put some forethought into his spending. He had already attempted the discussion of Reggie’s finances and his younger brother had rolled his eyes and complained that Peter’s wealth was wasted on him.

“Miss Bianca does take after her father,” the duchess stated. “I remember when your mother was alive, how she admired those golden curls. Time certainly has not diminished their brightness. You, Miss Mansfield, look nothing like your sister, or your father for that matter.”

“My mother always insisted that I took after my uncle,” Kate said, though she didn’t sound particularly enthused about it. Understandably. There were few secrets in a community as small as theirs and he could easily recall the whispers about her hell-raising uncle Philip Hughes.

“I never met Mr. Hughes, but you look exactly as your mother did when your father first brought her home to Hopford Manor. We were both so young then.”

“Who needs youth, when you have beauty, Mother?” Reggie said quickly and their mother smiled fondly on him.

“Said by one who is young.”

And so it went on through dinner, with his mother making pronouncements and sharing memories as if she were some elderly relic instead of the not yet fifty, spry woman who rode every morning and tended her own roses in the afternoons. But if there was one thing the Duchess of Orland liked to do, it was to manipulate others into complimenting her. She had been doing it his entire life, had been very skilled at manipulating his father, although Peter had not inherited that talent.

Reggie was more than happy to feed into his mother’s wishes, but Peter no longer wished to play that game. When he’d found the strength within him to enlist in the army, despite his father’s wishes, he’d embarked on the journey of becoming a man. His own man.

And when he’d inherited the duchy, it was as if in an instant the last vestiges of childhood had been shed and he’d stepped into the role easily. There were demands and responsibilities but it was no burden. Rather, it was employment as honorable as serving one’s country. Husbandry of a dozen sorts.

He suspected London had been much that way for Kate, their own caustic exchanges aside. That, he understood, or rather thought he did, stemmed from that one childhood day so long ago when she had revealed more than she felt comfortable.



Anna, Duchess of Orland, looked exactly the way a duchess should. At least in Kate’s mind, and in part that was likely due to the fact that she was the first and only duchess she had known during her first seventeen years. However, with her straight back, long nose, deep-set eyes, full lips, and reddish-blond hair, she had a certain presence. One that Peter had inherited. Reggie, too, in his own way, though his inability to ever be serious, to ever take anything seriously, undercut that.

Of course, presence and all, the Duchess of Orland had bordered on rudeness all evening. Particularly to Henrietta. It wasn’t any one thing she said, more the way she made subtle digs at the fact that Kate’s stepmother was so much younger than her father. The way she lingered on Kate’s mother.

Although that part was somewhat interesting. While she knew she took after her mother’s side of the family, her mother had been a beauty. No one before had ever compared the two of them favorably. A surface detail, yes, but what other details of her mother did she not know? All she truly knew were the criticisms and fights. Her mother’s insistence that Kate could do nothing right, that her stitches were uneven and her posture crooked. She had demanded absolute perfection and though Kate had raged, she also hurt, and she also tried desperately to be what her mother admired.


Which she would never be.

But perhaps it was something different. Perhaps it was that her mother saw in Kate what she disliked in herself?

Now, as they gathered once more in the sitting room, the conversation seemed to falter. It was clearly time to go home and yet, at the same time too early for convention. At least another quarter hour of chitchat was expected.

Her stepmother was doing admirably, going on and on about the scarves they were now knitting for the Foundling hospital. However, it was embarrassing the way she kept saying how wonderful Kate was for suggesting the idea. They were simply scarves for unfortunate orphans. It was hardly some grand charitable gesture.

No, it was far more base than that, although she could never admit to the reasons. Admit that despite having a father, and a stepmother, and a sister and half brother, she felt like an orphan, alone in the world and completely misunderstood.

Kate glanced about the room, eyed the pianoforte in the corner, a chess set in another. A table that was perfect for a game of whist. Something, anything to alleviate the awkwardness.

Then Peter sat down next to her, rather close. Close enough to suggest this evening’s invitation had been out of some romantic interest, although that idea was ridiculous considering, truce aside, there had never once been an inkling that he held her in such regard.

Well, perhaps just that once.

“You look as if you are seeking an exit,” he observed quietly.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Obvious enough. What would you rather be doing tonight? If we were in London, where would you be?”

An interesting question.

“Where would I be or where would I wish to be?”

“A fine distinction. Wish.”

“Listening to music. I so like to attend a stirring concert.”

“What did you think of Mr. Brandon and his compositions?”

“Were you at Lady Milliford when he played? I do not recall.” But it was odd to realize that she did recall. She could see Peter vividly in her mind, standing at the rear of the room with Lord Trumbull. Somehow she remembered every encounter with him over the last years. Every Sunday in church in Watersham, every ball, route, musicale, opera, play, or soiree in London. “I found him insipid, to be honest and his music . . . derivative. As if he is attempting to be Herr Beethoven.”

“Ah, you admire Beethoven, as well.”

“Do you not? He is . . . astonishing.” In fact she could still remember the first day she had ever heard anything by the Austrian composer. What had the piece been? A part of her awakened that she had not known was asleep. A yearning, a sense that there was something more. She had nearly wept and barely understood why.

She still barely understood.

“He makes one feel, does he not?” Peter agreed. “Whereas before, music made me only think.”

“Eloquently put.” And he made her wonder, too, just what he felt when he listened to such passionate music.

“Do you play?” He gestured to the pianoforte.

He was not asking her to play a Beethoven piece, she hoped. It was one thing to appreciate the music of a master when played by an equally talented pianist, but capable as she was, she was no artist.

She shook her head.

“Come, Miss Mansfield,” his mother said and Kate felt the heat in her cheeks, embarrassed that she’d nearly forgotten anyone else was in the room. “I’ve heard you play before. As long as you have not been neglecting your studies, you have a decent hand.”

“She does, Your Grace,” Henrietta assured her. “Kate, do play one of those lovely Bachs.”

“I believe they miss the point entirely,” Peter said quietly as Kate reluctantly rifled through the sheet music.

“And what point is that, Your Grace?”

“Music that requires you to feel.”