The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

He’d met briefly with Percy, Hugh, and Lady Bellingham. By that evening, the announcement that he and Miss Katharine Brandon were to meet in Paris and there to be wed was being circulated to all the appropriate quarters. He himself dispatched an elegantly worded announcement to the Gazette.

As he now guided Kate down the boulevard, his steps shortened to match hers, he wondered when she would figure out how much she’d simplified his plans.

When he first arrived in Paris, he had thought to bring her to heel immediately. Upon reflection, however, he decided to give her free rein, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that when he came to her she would joyfully welcome him. Actually, he thought, she had, in her own way, welcomed him. Her eyes always betrayed her, and for a fleeting instant her pleasure and relief at seeing him were obvious. Had he truly wished to break her spirit, he would have held away from her longer. But he knew too well of her straitened circumstances, and he couldn’t allow her to be alone any longer. He smiled as he thought of her honest admission to being hungry. Lord, she was stubborn, but he didn’t want her to change. No, not that.

He guided her into a small café off the boulevard. He quickly dismissed the idea of taking her to his lodgings. She had to eat, else she would never have the strength to go through the activities he’d planned for the day and evening. He didn’t wish to chance her throwing the food at his head, and thought it less likely that she would refuse to eat in a café than in his rooms.

The owner, observing that Quality had entered his modest establishment, bustled forward to provide his best service. He assisted the lady into her chair at the choicest table and hovered as the gentleman disposed himself gracefully across from her.

Julien ordered her a very liberal breakfast and a cup of coffee for himself. Kate seemed to find the checkered tablecloth of great interest. She removed her gloves and began with the greatest concentration to trace the red checks.

“The design is most fascinating,” he said after she’d been engrossed in this activity for some time.

“Is it not? Why, I’ve always loved checks. My mother was a Scot, you know, and there were red and white and green checks in her clan’s tartan.”

The owner returned shortly, laden with covered dishes. Julien applauded his decision to bring her here, for her eyes rested longingly on the plates of eggs, toast, kidneys, and the rasher of bacon. She ate quickly at first and then more slowly as the gnawing in her stomach eased. Abruptly, she laid her fork down, sighed in obvious satisfaction, and leaned back in her chair.

“You would have an instant friend in Sir Percy Blairstock, a friend of mine who very much enjoys his food.”

“If he’s one of your friends, it’s likely he eats quite regularly, probably stuffs himself until the buttons on his waistcoat pop.”

“Actually, you’re quite right. I was merely indulging in light conversation. You’ll meet Sir Percy when we return eventually to London. I trust you will like him, for he is a good friend, with no malice.”

Her confidence had returned with each bite of food, and now she felt strong and self-assured. How could she have been such a weak fool as to cry? How could she have let herself actually lean against him? She was an idiot, three times a nitwit.

She daintily passed her napkin over her lips, took a final sip of coffee, and made to rise. “I thank you, my lord, for the excellent repast. Perhaps when you’re in Paris again, we can breakfast together.”

His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. “Do be seated, my dear.” He tightened the pressure on her arm until, finally, she had no choice but to seat herself again.

“It appears I must starve you if I wish a docile wife.”

She tried to pull away from him again, but he held her fast.

“If you try such a stunt again, little shrew, I shall apologize to our good owner, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you out. Do I make myself clear?”