The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Harry grasped her shoulders and in a sudden protective gesture pulled her against him. She was alarmingly stiff. He thought back to his mother’s funeral and felt a stab of pain. He had been at Eton that year and had been home rarely, savoring his freedom and his image of himself as being quite grown-up. It was after the funeral that he had sensed a change in his father.

Kate relaxed against him but didn’t speak. It had been many years since Harry had held her, and he became aware that he was holding not just his little sister, but a woman. Maybe that is the reason, he thought. Maybe Sir Oliver finds it painful to be with Kate because she so closely resembles our mother.

Kate drew back from the circle of Harry’s arms and looked out over the poorly kept lawn. She despised herself for her weakness, such damnable weakness. If she lost her pride, she would have nothing else.

“It’s that damned religion of his,” Harry said between clenched teeth. “I wish I could burn all those ridiculous musty books. They’ve rotted his brain and turned him into a monster, at least where you’re concerned.”

To his surprise, Kate turned back to him and gave a mirthless laugh. “Do not curse his religion, Harry, for I, in truth, find it many times my salvation. You know, he is scarce aware of my existence, at least during the day. Even Filber dares not disturb him in his theological studies.”

Harry’s lips tightened in disdain as the memory of the stern lecture he had received from Sir Oliver only an hour earlier came back to him.

“Damnation, the only thing he can think about is his infernal wages of sin. And adjuring me to be a son worthy of his father’s honor, whatever the devil that means. What claim does he have to any honor?”

Kate’s eyes brightened for a moment in tender amusement. “What, dear brother, do you mean that you don’t intend to become a Methodist?”

Kate was rewarded, for Harry gave her a twisted grin, the frown fading from his forehead.

“Hold a moment, Marcham,” he called out, seeing his valet emerge from the stable with their horses.

At that moment Kate felt immeasurably older than Harry. She looked at his blond curls, brushed and pomaded into what he had stiffly informed her was the latest style. His breeches and waistcoat were of severe, somber color, but she knew that before he arrived at Oxford he would change into the florid yellow patterned waistcoat he had shown her one evening after Sir Oliver had retired.

“My dear, poor Marcham is sadly weighted down. Are you certain that you intend to be gone only four months?” Her voice was sweet and light as she tugged on his sleeve.

Harry replied to her jest with a perfunctory smile. Despite his best intentions, he was impatient to be gone, and in truth, he didn’t know what to say to her, nor what he could do about her future. He knew that Sir Oliver was encouraging the suit of that provincial oaf, Squire Bleddoes. It was altogether ridiculous, for Kate was far too well born for such a marriage, and besides, she had told him she would have nothing to do with that “miserable, boring windbag.” This he had understood, but when she had blithely informed him that remaining her own mistress did not seem at all a bad thing, he was frankly shaken. She knew very well that his fondest wish was to join a crack cavalry regiment; she must also realize, he thought despairingly, that it would be impossible for her to accompany him.

Lord, what a mull. What a miserable situation. Perhaps when he returned for the holiday at Christmas, he and Kate would think of something.

Harry drew on his gloves and leaned over to kiss Kate lightly on the cheek. It occurred to him that there might be danger from another quarter.

“Kate,” he said earnestly, his blue eyes narrowing, “don’t forget the earl of March. You can’t be sure that he won’t tell Father of our escapade. Most probably he’s prouder than Wellington himself and thinks very highly of himself. Lord, we can’t tell what he might do.”