The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“Believe me, ma’am, she’s been confusing me, leaving me to twist and turn in the wind since the first time I met her, when she died at my feet.”

“I beg your pardon, my boy?”

Upstairs, Eliza was in an agony. She said again, “Miss Katharine, his lordship and Lady Bellingham are awaiting you. Really, you must go downstairs.”

“Yes, Eliza, I am aware of that fact. Pray inform his lordship and Lady Bellingham that I will be down directly. Perhaps not quite directly, but it will do.”

“Yes, Miss, but do make it happen somewhat directly this time, all right?” Eliza sped toward the door, thought better of it, and turned. “Perhaps I can help?”

Kate cut her off. “No, no, I have just to fetch my gloves and cloak.”

She didn’t move from her dressing table until Eliza had closed the door behind her. Kate stared for a moment into the mirror at her pale, set face. She didn’t look at all like herself, with her hair fashionably dressed, and the blue-velvet gown plunging low over her bosom and revealing, she thought, far too much white flesh, plump white flesh that was surely too much to show.

She knew she was purposely dallying, knew it was a childish thing to do, but she wasn’t able to think of a more comprehensive revenge at the moment. She’d decided only a short time before that she would suffer the earl’s presence, for she appeared to have no other choice in the matter, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing overt distress or anger. She would face him with the coldest of dislike. She would be indifferent to him. She would ignore him. That would show him what she thought of him, and keeping him waiting was a very good beginning. She just wasn’t certain how to achieve the coldest of dislike, but it would doubtless come to her soon enough.

Damn him, he’d turned from being her friend to being now more in the nature of an enemy, and she would see him in hell at the devil’s right hand before she would give in to him.

She picked up her gloves and cloak and slowly made her way down the curving staircase. Smithers, the Bellingham butler, stood awaiting her at the door of the drawing room. Kate forced herself to halt a moment, schooled her face into an impassive expression, and waited for her heart to stop banging against her ribs.

Kate finally gave Smithers leave to open the door, and he observed that her nose rose a good three inches as she sailed past him into the drawing room.

It was with a distinct effort that Kate maintained her imperious pose, for the earl stood quite at his ease, leaning negligently against the mantelpiece. She wanted to hit him when she realized that he was amused by her.

She remarked, without wishing to, that he looked his usual elegant self, his black-satin evening clothes fitted to perfection. Damn his eyes, she thought, laughing at her even though he wasn’t doing so out loud.

Julien didn’t immediately move toward her but watched her closely as she swept into the room, the train of her velvet gown trailing behind her. How very beautiful she looked, not that he was surprised. The gown fitted her very nicely, but he wished her lovely breasts weren’t so very visible to every gentleman’s greedy eyes. Beautiful breasts, white, full, delicious. His fingers curled and his palms grew warm. He wanted very much to pull that gown to her waist and touch her and taste her. Her thick auburn hair was piled artfully on top of her head, and two long tresses lay gracefully over her bare shoulder.

“Oh, there you are, my love, at last, at very long last.” Lady Bellingham’s voice was a mixture of relief and reproach.

Kate swept what she hoped was a cold curtsy to the earl, at least she hoped it was cold and quite indifferent, then proceeded to pay him no further notice. She turned to Lady Bellingham and gave her a warm smile.

“I do hope, ma’am, that I’m not too late. Eliza had some difficulty with the buttons on my gown.” Surely that was a nice touch, she thought, standing there in the middle of the room, hoping she presented a very stiff, very proud figure.