The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Kate looked at him and smiled, saying in a reassuring voice as if talking to a child, “I’ll be careful, Harry. Don’t worry yourself about it. I don’t think his lordship would ever stoop to such paltry and petty behavior.”

Harry was a bit put out by her calm assumptions about the earl of March. It was at times like this that Harry wished Kate were more docile, more accepting of her older brother’s advice and counsel. He had the nagging doubt, grown stronger in the past several years, that he was no match for her quick tongue, that it was she who had the stronger will.

Harry shook himself free of this not-altogether-pleasing image of himself. After all, it was rather stupid of him to regard his sister, a mere girl, as a possible superior to him. Was he not to be Sir Harry Brandon of Brandon Hall someday? And if Kate had not yet married upon the demise of Sir Oliver, it would be he, Sir Harry, who would arrange her life and give her direction.

Seeing the rather benign smile on her brother’s boyish face, Kate thought that she had succeeded in keeping their leave-taking as unemotional as possible. She said, “I think the horses grow impatient, my dear. You may rest assured that I shall avoid Sir Oliver assiduously, as well as that alarmingly persistent suitor of mine.”

Harry was immeasurably relieved. Kate was acting her usual self again. He quieted his conscience with the thought that before too many more months passed, he would find a solution to her problem.

She added, green eyes twinkling up at him, “Do read at least one book this time, and not, I pray, one of those young gentlemen’s turf books.”

“Well, don’t you kill anyone with your dueling pistol.”

There was a sudden sound behind them, and Kate whirled about. It was only Filber, the Brandon butler, come to wave good-bye to Harry. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Sir Oliver would openly condemn brother and sister spending too much time together. It was strange, she thought suddenly. It was as if their father thought her a bad influence on Harry.

“You did say good-bye to Father?” she asked nervously, still expecting to see his tall, gaunt frame appear at any minute in the open doorway.

“Oh, yes, not to worry, m’dear. Now, I must be off. Do keep out of trouble, old girl.”

She watched Harry swing himself onto his horse and signal Marcham to do the same. He kissed his fingers to her and whipped his horse about. He turned and waved once again before disappearing from sight.

Kate raised her own hand in silent reply. She had certainly succeeded in cheering him, and she supposed now that she should feel quite noble. After all, it was not his fault that he was a male and therefore free to go and do as he pleased. But it seemed a cruel twist of fate.

She turned away, feeling sorry for herself.

7

She stood unmoving, striving to control such uncharitable thoughts. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair. Unaccountably, she found that her thoughts turned to the earl of March and the delightful morning she had spent fishing with him and Lord Launston at St. Clair lake.

Her depression unaccountably eased. In an unconscious gesture she pulled at her outmoded gown. His lordship had shown himself to be witty and entertaining, his descriptions of the sights and activities of London stirred her imagination. She had jokingly told Lord Launston that the earl might as well be telling her of the Taj Mahal, for London, to her, was just as remote.

The corners of her mouth lifted. She remembered his laughter when she spoke whatever was on her mind. He was a delightful companion, willing to cross verbal swords with her. Perhaps she had found a friend. But for how long? The earl of March never stayed at St. Clair for any extended period of time. She knew from Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw that this was his first visit in five months. As a matter of fact, even now he might have already returned with his friends to London.