The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

He took a quick half-step forward, his hand outstretched to her. He said her name very quietly.

She seemed to snap back to attention. She backed away, shaking her head, her hands spread toward him to ward him off. “No, I don’t, I can’t . . .” She turned on her heel, grasped her riding skirt, and fled without a backward glance.

This time he didn’t attempt to follow her. He stood motionless, watching her, feeling not at all disconcerted by her abrupt, confused flight. On the contrary, he was glad that he was obviously the first man who had kissed her. He touched his fingertips to his mouth. He could still feel her, warm and soft, so very tentative. He smiled confidently. She was an innocent girl, a virgin, and her maidenly display of confusion pleased him immensely. Surely she had to care for him now, surely. He’d wooed her slowly and easily, giving her what she wanted, what she appeared to need, and it had paid off. He had her now.

He turned to see her horse lazily chewing some errant blades of grass at the side of the drive. “Well, you old relic, you know your way to the stables.” With a lighthearted laugh he flicked the animal’s rump with his riding crop and aimed the horse in the direction of Brandon Hall.

Astarte nuzzled his shoulder with her nose, as if she were jealous of his attention. He patted her nose and swung up into the saddle.

“An excellent morning’s work, Astarte. You may offer me your congratulations.”

Obligingly, she neighed and, at the light tug on her reins, broke into a canter.

He’d not ridden far when her strange behavior at the copse came again into his mind. She’d been afraid of something, yet strangely confused. What could have bothered her? But his buoyant spirits wouldn’t let him long dwell upon the unusual incident. In all truth the experience paled beside her response to him when he’d kissed her. As her husband, he would, of course, have her trust and her confidence. She would willingly tell him whatever he wished to know. She would be his wife. She would be his, all of her.

He willingly let his mind race ahead. This very afternoon he would draw up an exceedingly handsome marriage settlement, a settlement that Sir Oliver could not refuse.

Filber tapped softly on the door and entered the small, rather airless book room where Sir Oliver spent the greater part of his day. His master sat hunched over a large tome, oblivious to his presence.

Filber cleared his throat. “My lord.”

“Yes, yes, what is it, Filber? You know I don’t like to be disturbed.”

Sir Oliver wheeled around in his chair and glared at his butler, but to his surprise, Filber didn’t flinch or embark on a round of apologies. Sir Oliver’s bushy brows snapped together as he noted the rather smug, complacent look on Filber’s face.

Filber stood his ground, even under the frowning scrutiny of his master, and said, “His lordship, the earl of March, is here to see you, my lord.”

This information carried a wealth of meaning. Sir Oliver eyed Filber for a moment before replying. Filber noted with satisfaction the myriad emotions that crossed his master’s face, particularly the speculative glitter that finally narrowed Sir Oliver’s eyes. He knew that he hadn’t been mistaken about the importance of his announcement. Miss Katharine had obviously succeeded in capturing the wealthy and powerful earl of March. Undoubtedly Sir Oliver was at that moment busily calculating some vast sum of money that he would try to extract from his future son-in-law. Filber couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself, for it had been he who’d announced to Cook and Lilly, not long after the earl’s first visit to Brandon Hall, that the earl was taken with Miss Kate, as sure as Sir Oliver would yell at one of them before sunset. Not altogether surprised by this revelation, Cook and Lilly had given free rein to their condemnation of Sir Oliver, whom they thought a vicious, despicable man despite his puritan ways, and then heartily toasted Miss Kate’s good fortune from Cook’s bottle of cowslip wine.