The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

She turned slowly and walked back into the hall. Her spirits plummeted. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Probably not. She was a provincial dowd, nothing more, as unsophisticated as the trout she’d pulled enthusiastically from his lake with his fishing pole. He was simply amusing himself. Ah, but she did want to see him again.

* * *

That very afternoon, as she sat disconsolately at her piano doing great injustice to a Mozart sonata, Sir Oliver unceremoniously interrupted her. He stood over her, his hot breath fanning on her face, his voice filled with cold suspicion

“I am informed, daughter, that the earl of March is calling.” He pursed his thin lips, and his rather close-set eyes drew closer together. “He calls ostensibly to visit with me, a fact I have difficulty crediting. Would you be so kind as to tell me where you have made his lordship’s acquaintance? And be quick about it. Men of his rank do not like to be kept waiting. Tell me the truth, girl, all of it, for I do not like to play the ignorant fool.”

Though Kate trembled inwardly, she was long used to her father’s peremptory attacks, and her expression never changed. Her mind worked furiously. She could certainly not tell him the truth, for his retribution would be swift and unpleasant. She calculated rapidly that there was at least a slim chance to come through this unscathed, and if her attempt failed, the result would be the same in any case.

She looked at her father, who looked about as pleased with her as the worms on her fishing hook, and said calmly, “Last week Harry and I were riding through the village. His lordship, as it happened, was visiting his agent, Mr. Stokeworthy. It would have been unforgivably rude of us not to introduce ourselves, given the circumstances. His lordship mentioned that he might call, as he had never made your acquaintance, sir,” she added, embroidering the lie because it would perhaps serve her. Sir Oliver was vain; he believed himself stalwart and upright. He saw himself as a model of rectitude. Even the Regent himself, were he to ride by, would surely stop.

As her eyes didn’t waver and her improvised story sounded plausible to Sir Oliver, he merely grunted and said sharply, “Well, then, girl, you might as well come along with me and perform the proper introductions. I only hope that the present earl is not the dissolute arrogant sinner that his grandfather was. Probably a disdainful nobleman like his hypocritical father.”

He strode out of the room, Kate following on his heels, her mouth suddenly gone quite dry. She did not have time to ponder the earl’s intentions for visiting Brandon Hall. She ran her tongue nervously over her lips and, in an unconscious gesture, pulled on her gown to make it longer. Not only did she look provincial, she looked quite outmoded.

At the door of the drawing room, her father had the good manners to allow her to enter the room first.

The earl stood by the fireplace, elegantly dressed in riding clothes and gleaming Hessians, looking quite at his ease.

Kate forced her leaden feet to move forward. She extended her hand and said as calmly as she could, “How very kind of you to call, my lord. It’s very nice to see you again, and unexpectedly, even though you said you would perhaps call, for you are so very busy and have so little time for other matters.”

Julien clasped her slender fingers in his hand. Before he could make a suitable response, she added quickly, “I have been telling my father how Harry and I met you at Mr. Stokeworthy’s house in the village. I told him,” she hurried on, not meeting his eyes, “that you expressed a wish to pay us a visit. It is delightful that you have come.”

Julien gave only an infinitesimal start at her story. She looked up at him then, and he saw the fear in her eyes. No, surely not fear, that made no sense, but nonetheless, he gave her hand a slight squeeze before releasing it, and turning to greet Sir Oliver.