The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

There was an infinitesimal pause before Julien said in a deceptively cool voice, “Thank you, Filber, for your honesty.”

Julien stopped him again as he turned to go. “You may be certain that Sir Oliver will never touch her again.”

Filber gazed at the earl with a thoughtful, arrested expression. He realized that he had been wrong about his lordship. The servants had been surprised at Miss Katharine’s refusal of the earl, but that Sir Oliver had dared to try to beat her into submission had left them all enraged. The baronet had suffered sullen looks and indifferent food prepared by Cook since that time.

Julien was closeted with Sir Oliver only briefly. He stated his business in a concise, controlled voice. Sir Oliver stammered and fussed, but naturally he agreed to the earl’s demands. They were, after all, in his own best self-interest. Julien rose as soon as they had reached an agreement. “Very well. I will expect to see Katharine installed with Lady Bellingham in London within two weeks. Not longer, mind.”

“As you say, my lord, within two weeks. But why not sooner? Surely I can have the girl off to London within days if you wish it.”

“You miserable bastard,” he said, so calm that Sir Oliver didn’t at first realize the depths of the earl’s rage. “She is in bed, doubtless in great pain. You will see that the physician attends her. I care not if he tells the world of your treatment of her. He will attend her, and he will give her laudanum for her pain. And he will see her within the next hour. Do you understand me?”

Sir Oliver nodded slowly, smart enough to keep his mouth shut. It didn’t occur to him to question how his lordship knew of the beating.

“If you dare harm her again, you can be assured that she will be an orphan before the day is through. Do you understand me a second time?”

Sir Oliver paled. He tasted real fear for the first time in his life. He nodded his head. “I quite understand you, my lord.”

“If I discover that you haven’t done exactly what I’ve told you to do, I will take my own cane to your miserable hide and leave you in a ditch for all to see.”

It was some moments before the hammering of fear lessened and Sir Oliver was able to walk slowly to a chair and sit down. He sagged against the back and closed his eyes. He could see her bloodied back, her dress shredded as she staggered away from him. Fleetingly he wondered if he had scarred her. He brightened as he realized that the earl, the autocratic, arrogant sinner, would perhaps not be so pleased with his bride. Indeed, he reflected with satisfaction, there would be much to displease the earl.

Kate chewed absently on her thumbnail as she sat gazing out her window overlooking Berkeley Square. She marveled that the peaceful scene below was yet another face of London. The Pantheon and Bond Street, where she’d shopped with Lady Bellingham, were filled with the clatter of carriages and horses, the shouts of coarse vendors in words that she barely understood, and the bustle of linkboys clearing the way for their masters and mistresses. It had been difficult to believe that so many different kinds of people contrived to make their way in one city.

There was a light knock on her door. Eliza stepped into the room and swept Kate a slight curtsy. Kate rose slowly from the window seat, mindful of the red weals on her back. They were healing, but still brought pain if she moved suddenly. She was yet unable to face her maid without embarrassment, since Eliza had attended her first bath and without a word produced an ointment and gently rubbed it into her tender skin.

“Yes, Eliza, what is it?”

“It’s Lady Bellingham, Miss. Some of your gowns have arrived, and she requests you to come to her sitting room.”

“That is good news indeed.” Her embarrassment was momentarily forgotten in her excitement. “But Eliza, good heavens, it’s only been three days. There was so very much to be done.”