The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“Yes.”

“As a gentleman, you must know that I cannot divulge the reasons. To do so would be a great injustice to your sister.”

“Is it because of her miscarriage?”

“Perhaps, in part.” Julien turned the subject. “I’ve already said my good-byes to your sister. I will await you in the curricle. I believe Timmens has packed your bags and Mannering has seen them brought down.”

Harry wasn’t much relieved, but he felt that to persist would make him appear boorishly forward. He rose slowly and laid his napkin down beside his half-empty plate. He was taken aback by the hard glint in his brother-in-law’s eyes.

He turned nervously and walked to the door. “Yes,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ll say good-bye to Kate.” He wondered as he slowly mounted the stairs if he appeared mealymouthed to the earl. He knitted his brow a little over this, but by the time he lightly tapped on Kate’s door, he’d managed to reassure himself. Julien was her husband, after all. It was in a heartening voice that he called, “It’s I. May I come in?”

“Of course, my dear.” As he walked into the room, she rose, shook out her skirts, and stretched out her hands to him. Harry pulled her rather gruffly into his arms and said in a low voice, “If you prefer that I stayed with you—”

“Don’t be silly. You know very well that you would pine away within the week for want of your laughing, gay companions.”

“But the earl— Julien, Kate. He’s offered me a place in his curricle to London. It doesn’t seem the thing to leave you alone.” He ground to a halt, seeing in her eyes the same hard look he’d so shortly before witnessed in his brother-in-law’s.

“Oh, damnation, Kate. I didn’t want to see you unhappy. God, to see you this way after all those years with Sir Oliver. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“This isn’t a Greek tragedy, Harry. You just don’t understand about people who are married, that’s all. The earl merely journeys to London on business matters. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Your husband’s name is Julien, Kate, not the earl. Don’t take me for a fool.” He would have said more, but he checked himself at the sight of her drawn face.

She looked up at him, the merest hint of a smile on her pale lips. “Never a fool, my dear, never. Now, I know you must be off. Pray don’t concern yourself further about my stupid affairs.”

He eyed her dubiously for a moment, and to her profound relief, said nothing.

“Take care, Harry, and don’t wallow in too much mischief.” She dropped a light kiss on his cheek, hugged him briefly, and drew back.

“You will write to me if there is anything you—”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She felt quite calm at the moment and didn’t want to risk any faltering on either of their parts. Some moments later, from her vantage point at the window, Kate watched the footman strap the luggage onto the boot of the curricle. Julien and Harry, scarves knotted securely about their throats against the light flakes of falling snow, climbed into their seats. The groom handed Julien the reins, and Kate fancied she could hear the crunch of hardened snow beneath the wheels of the curricle. She maintained her vigil at the window long after new snow filled in the wheel tracks on the drive.

Although the household staff were astounded at the earl’s abrupt departure without the countess, no word reached Kate’s ears. To the casual observer there was no sign of disruption in the daily activities at St. Clair. Privately, of course, there was endless speculation, even by the second footman and the Tweenie, a circumstance that Mannering heartily deplored but was unable to curtail. That the countess roamed through the various rooms, silent and aloof, was obvious to everyone, even those of little to no sensitivity.

Never sure how long the countess would wish to remain in any one room, footmen scurried to lay fires against the chill, only to discover not many minutes after their efforts that the room was empty again.