The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Mrs. Drummond Burrell smiled with great understanding at Miss Brandon’s distraction.

She looked up to see the earl approaching and leaned over and patted Kate’s hand. “Your betrothed approaches, my dear. Although the earl of March has been the object for many years of matchmaking mamas and indeed is a charming young man, I confess that I think him more the lucky one. You will make a fine countess, and I look forward to many more meetings with you. Your observations are most unexpected.”

Julien heard her last words and smiled with undisguised affection at Kate. The look was not lost on the two ladies, and for a brief instant they were drawn back in time, dusting off such magic moments of their own.

“I am, of course, in absolute agreement with you, ma’am. I count myself the most fortunate of men.”

Julien offered Kate his arm, and she rose and stood beside him.

Mrs. Drummond Burrell nodded her dismissal and said to Kate as she turned to go, “After you return from your wedding trip, I expect to see you, my dear.”

Kate didn’t realize it, but from that moment, her success in the ton was assured. Her intimate conversation with Mrs. Drummond Burrell was remarked by all present, and as Julien led her on the rounds of introductions, she was treated with a respect bordering upon awe. Because she was seething with anger, she responded with the most brief and clipped of phrases. Ladies and gentlemen vied to meet the seemingly proud but, of course, interesting Miss Katharine Brandon, even though she was only the daughter of a mere baronet and, rumor had it, utterly without a dowry.

When the band struck up a waltz, Julien turned in the direction of the two patronesses and arched his brow upward in a silent question. Mrs. Drummond Burrell waved her hand and nodded, a benign smile on her face.

“Come, Kate, dance with me. As you have observed, it’s mandatory for you to have the consent of the patronesses to dance the waltz. I have just secured that permission.”

He whirled her around to the fast German music and felt her body slowly relax against him as she gracefully followed his lead. He bent down, and her soft hair tickled his chin. “What, little termagant, no words of abuse this evening?”

Her head jerked up. “Damn you, my lord, this isn’t a play, I’m not so easily won as Petruchio’s Kate. Indeed, I believe her to have been an utter coward with no spine at all.”

His response was to tighten his grip about her waist. He was pleased to see a dull-red flush creep over her pale cheeks.

“You see, Kate,” he whispered close to her ear, “though you are but a girl, innocent in the ways of men and women, we both know that you are all fire and passion beneath that cold facade. Admit this to yourself, my dear. Stop fighting me. You must not be afraid, Kate, I will teach you. Never be afraid of me or the pleasure I offer you.”

Never before had he spoken to her with such ill-disguised intent. She suddenly felt very weak, and she could sense the color drain from her face. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast.

“Don’t give the world cause for comment. We are betrothed and in their eyes the happiest of couples. I’ll be gentle with you and easy and slow. You’ll be crying with pleasure before I come into you. Trust me in this. Don’t be afraid of me or what I will give you as your husband.”

“You bastard, I wish I had a whip. You shouldn’t speak to me in such a way.”

“When we’re married, I will give you that opportunity,” he said, bending his head close to hers. “Ah, a whip in your hands. How I shall enjoy wresting it from you. Will you still fight me? I shall enjoy that as well, for a while at least.”

“I hate you, Julien. Don’t think I’m such a fool, I know now that these are the St. Clair emeralds. Oh God, I hate you.”

“You must take heed, my dear, not to become repetitious in your conversation. You wouldn’t wish to bore your husband.”