The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“It appears to me, sir, that you are quite tight. After all, what can a few fish mean to the great earl of March?”

“No more tight than your breeches, madam.”

He should have guessed that he wouldn’t be able to discomfit her. Indeed, she replied in a confiding tone, “Quite right of you to notice. You see, I have had to wear this pair for the past two years, Harry’s breeches being now too large for me. They are, I assure you, a bit confining.”

She turned toward the water, shaded her eyes with her hand for a moment, searching intently, and then brought her gaze back to Julien’s face.

“It’s a pity you gave me such a start. You see,” she explained, “it took me quite two weeks to whittle that pole so that it was just right. Harry thinks himself far too grown-up and wouldn’t help me. Now it is gone. Well, I can only hope that you’re satisfied.”

There was nothing else outrageous that she could say. Julien shook his head. “Miss Brandon, you will, of course, allow me to make reparations. In fact, my friend over there”— he turned and waved to Hugh to come to them— “has equipped himself with several very finely whittled fishing poles. It is likely he can be convinced to part with one of them.”

“Why, that is quite handsome of you.” Those damned dimples of hers were clearly evident. He wanted to trace them with his fingertips. He contented himself with saying, “What an unaccountable girl you are, Miss Brandon. You must be quite a trial to your family.”

It was a jest, only a simple jest, but at his words she seemed to freeze. She looked away from him, and he saw her lips draw into a tight line.

What the devil had he said that upset her? He stretched his hand out in an unconscious gesture. “Miss Brandon, I did not mean to—”

He didn’t finish, which was probably just as well, for he had no idea of what he would have said. Hugh approached and stood beside him, gazing in some surprise at the breeched boy.

He raised an eyebrow at Julien.

5

With an effort, Julien turned to Hugh and said, “Hugh, I would like you to meet Miss Katharine Brandon. Her family lives somewhat west of St. Clair.”

She stretched out her hand to Hugh, who, for want of something better, extended his own hand and clasped her slender, albeit dirty, fingers.

Her green eyes twinkled, for she realized full well what he was thinking. Julien was relieved to see that whatever had made her unhappy was for the moment forgotten.

She gave Hugh a winsome smile and said simply, “Do forgive me, sir. I fear that curtsying in breeches is quite beyond my abilities.”

Calling on the great aplomb and polish that he’d acquired over the years, Hugh said easily, “Do not disturb yourself, Miss Brandon. I quite understand. Though I have, myself, never endeavored to curtsy in breeches, I do think it would be an awkward and unpleasing sight.”

Julien said now, “All that, Hugh? Good God, that speech much have taken at least four breaths. Now, unfortunately, I startled Miss Brandon, and she dropped her fishing pole in the lake. I’ve handsomely offered one of yours if one of them suits her. She’s quite a stickler, you know. I doubt she’ll accept just any offering. She tells me she’s quite the angler.”

Hugh, a gentleman to the tips of his well-manicured nails, said quickly, “It would be my pleasure, Miss Brandon. Please make your selection. I have but three poles with me, but I have been assured by Julien that they are of the finest quality.”

Kate glanced at Julien with a gleam of amusement before bending over the three poles laid out by Hugh. After careful inspection, she rose, quite enthusiastic over her choice.

“How very fine it is, and such balance. Now I shall be able to pull in every trout that takes the veriest nibble, that is, if his lordship here doesn’t kick me out.”

Julien gave a shout of laughter. “Be my guest, Miss Brandon, be my guest. I’ll do no kicking. Consider the meager contents of my lake at your disposal.”