Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage

CHAPTER 16

Kate closed her bed chamber door behind her, leaned back against it, and sighed. The gold ball gown shimmered in the dark of her room, and she took a moment to twirl in a circle. Her skirts billowed around her, and she smiled to herself. What a night. The waltzing, the champagne, the … kissing. It was amazing. All of it. But what about the kissing? Certainly James had only been responding to her taunt that he would never be ungentlemanly. Hadn’t he? Or perhaps he only wanted to make her feel desired. Either way, he’d seemed to regret it afterward. Feeling as if he’d taken advantage of her, perhaps? But he had made her feel eighteen again. And alive. And that was a gift for which she could never repay him.

If only circumstances were different. If only she were eighteen again. If only she were not … herself. A woman accused of murder. A social outcast.

James was a man with his life completely in order. A seat in Parliament, a thriving business, plenty of money, a perfectly run household, and a score of other properties. He didn’t need her making a mess of his affairs. And that’s exactly what she was … a mess.

And he … he was wonderful. She had to admit that much. He’d acted the perfect gentleman as soon as Louisa had arrived. The maid had tentatively stepped through the ballroom door. She was wearing a simple cotton gown and looked so nervous that Kate’s heart went out to her. She was obviously afraid her employer wouldn’t take kindly to her intruding upon their ball. But James had happily danced with Louisa. He’d treated her like a true lady, like a princess even. He’d bowed to her and offered his arm and in the end he had called in Locke to make it a foursome so they could dance a few country dances all together. It had been one of the most wonderful, magical nights Kate had ever experienced. Better even than the other official ball she’d attended, for that one hadn’t ended in a kiss from a handsome gentleman.

Oh, she knew she was being positively insane. Imagine how outraged the ton would be if they discovered the murderess Duchess of Markingham was hidden away in a Mayfair town house kissing Lord Perfect. They’d come burn her themselves. She shuddered. She should be mourning her husband not kissing a viscount. She knew that. Knew it well. But she just couldn’t follow the rules of a Society that was about to sentence her to death.

Oh, how would she ever explain all of this in her pamphlet? It would never sound right. Never come out the way she meant it to. And she had to question how much she even wanted to finish writing the thing. As soon as she was through, James would return her to the Tower. Wouldn’t he? Oh, he’d have to. It’s not as if she could stay with him indefinitely. That would be entirely improper. His words from earlier in the evening flashed through her mind and a rush of heat passed through her body. “We’re far past improper,” he’d said, just before he— She shuddered.

She crossed over to the small writing table in the corner of her room and stared down at the first words of her pamphlet that lay scribbled on the parchment. “The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”

She sighed, tracing her finger along the quote. Seemed Milton knew exactly what he’d been talking about. The mind could make a hell, indeed. But tonight, tonight it had been a heaven.

Kate rang for Louisa to come and help her remove her gown. She expelled her breath, promising herself she’d stop her insane fantasies about James Bancroft. No good could come from being attracted to him. It was not as if a viscount could fall in love with a murderess. Even if a miracle happened and she was acquitted, there could be no future for them. His reputation would be tattered to bits by an association with her. And besides, marrying one nobleman had led to nothing but heartache and tragedy for her. She couldn’t afford to take a chance with another one. No, it would be best for both of them if Kate stopped having impossible dreams that couldn’t come true and concentrated instead on finishing her pamphlet. That was the bargain, was it not? Her pamphlet for an opportunity to enjoy herself. And with James she had enjoyed herself. A bit too much.

James slammed shut his bed chamber door behind him, the wood reverberating. He cursed savagely, resting his hands on his hips. Damn it. What in the hell had that kiss been about? Correction. Those kisses—multiple. Something about Kate’s beauty and niceness. Something about the dancing and the candlelight. No, that was no excuse. There was no excuse. He’d acted like a total cad. Fine. She was not an innocent. She wasn’t eighteen, and they hadn’t been at a come-out ball. She was a woman on trial for her life, living under his roof because he’d made a bargain with her. But it didn’t sit well with him that he’d taken advantage of her. Damn. Damn. Damn. He’d just have to make it up to her … somehow.

He tugged viciously at his cravat, unwinding the garment from his neck and flinging it into the corner of the room. He breathed heavily, letting the fabric sit there for a moment before he stalked over and yanked it up. What had he told her? Sometimes being perfect wasn’t a choice.

That was the bloody truth. Only he hadn’t been perfect tonight, had he? Far from it. Christ. Wasn’t this always the struggle he’d had? His perfect pristine exterior warring with the way he wanted to be? The perfectionistic side of him had earned him perfect marks in school, a perfect reputation, and the rebel in him made him purchase a printing press and publish scandalous pamphlets. It’s what caused him to fling his bloody cravat in the corner. And it’s what compelled him to go retrieve it.

He scrubbed his hands across his face and groaned. What the hell was Kate to think of him now? She was a widow, damn it. Albeit an unconventional one. But he bloody well knew better than to kiss a recent widow, not to mention someone who essentially was working for him, and on top of it all, just happened to be accused of murder. Bad. Bad. Form.

James yanked his shirt over his head with both hands. He closed his eyes. All right. He could admit it to himself. He was attracted to her. Insanely attracted to her. So attracted that he’d forgotten all about his self-imposed monklike celibacy and pulled her into his arms. He’d wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her, actually. He’d wanted to rip the flower from her hair and the bodice from her gown. He’d wanted to—

He clenched his jaw. Damn it. He was getting hard again just thinking about it. Thank God for Louisa. There was no telling how long that craziness with the kissing would have lasted if the maid hadn’t arrived.

James folded his shirt and placed it in the wardrobe. He wouldn’t call for his valet. He was too wound up tonight. He sat on the edge of the chair next to his bed and shucked his top boots. He stood up, unbuttoning his breeches, and pulled them off too.

He needed to sleep. A good night’s sleep always helped. If he were able to sleep tonight. Too many nights he’d lain awake thinking of the beauty who slept down the hall from him. That was it. He was going mad. He’d seen a pretty face before, even incomparably lovely faces. They hadn’t been enough to turn his head. Hell, Lily and Annie were beauties, but he had nothing more than brotherly feelings toward them both. What was it about Kate that made him toss out his gentlemanly code and forget every rule of conduct that had been burned into his brain since childhood? What was it about her that made him want to forget about his enforced celibacy and pull her into bed and make endless love to her all night long? He couldn’t possibly be more inappropriate. Kate might be a murderess, for God’s sake. She was the outcast of the ton, the entire town actually. Even if she were acquitted somehow, magically—which he highly doubted—it was not as if they could have a future together. Being with her would make him an outsider from his life, Society, everything he’d ever known. True, he’d made money by publishing scandal, but few people knew about that, and he bloody well didn’t want to be in the center of it himself.

No. He’d do well to remember why he’d met Kate Townsende in the first place. She was writing a pamphlet for him. That was all. She’d asked for his protection, and he’d asked for her story. It was a business transaction, nothing more. He bloody well wasn’t about to jeopardize his life and livelihood over it. It was true he was known for wanting to fix things, help people, and he was doing that by hiring Abernathy and the Bow Street runner. But it had to end there. Kate was merely an author whose story he wanted. He must remember that.

Even if it killed him.