The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

He’d been so certain that her refusal of him was because of her damnable pride, her anger at him for removing all choice from her. He saw fear now, stark and livid in her eyes, real fear so deep and urgent that he couldn’t begin to imagine what was the matter. He cudgeled his brain in an effort to figure out what to do, what to think about this situation.

“Kate, help me to understand you. I know your mother died when you were quite young. In fact, you were alone at an age when a mother’s advice and teaching are very important.” He paused a moment, studying her face, but oddly, she was simply looking at him blankly, as if she hadn’t even heard him.

“A father and a brother aren’t the same. Did your father warn you against men? Did he frighten you? Did he tell you that men would hurt you, perhaps even harm you? Did he try to make you believe that a physical love between a husband and wife was sinful?”

A fragile image of her mother rose in Kate’s mind. She was crooning gentle words to her, somehow consoling her, stroking her hair. She felt pain, then, but it was long-ago pain that no longer existed, at least in her body. It was still there, though in her mind, somewhere, somewhere. The fleeting picture brought with it inexplicable panic.

“Did he tell you that a husband would treat you badly? Did he try to convince you it was disgusting?”

“Oh no, no.” She wished she hadn’t spoken, for her words dissolved her mother’s face and with it the strange memory.

“Very well, then,” he said and straightened to his full height. “I must then assume that you’re simply thwarting me, for whatever reason I have yet to fathom. I hope you don’t choke on your pride, Kate. I am very tired of playing your adversary in a game I can’t begin to understand.” He waited a moment, sighed, then turned to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of claret.

She looked after him, perplexed, and as he didn’t turn back to her, she picked up her skirts and walked slowly from the room.

22

Julien sat alone in the private parlor the following morning, his hands curled around a warm cup of coffee, waiting for his bride of nearly a week now who wasn’t yet his wife. He wondered idly if she would honor her lost wager and appear in a gown he’d bought for her. He had not long to dwell on this question, for soon the landlord opened the door and she swept past poor old Perchon into the room, dressed in the height of fashion and wearing a militant expression. He silently applauded his taste, for the lavender muslin, secured below her bosom with rosebud lace, became her to perfection. He rose lazily from his chair and proffered her a deep bow. “How charming you are this morning, my dear.”

“I’m gratified you think so highly of your own taste.” She seated herself at the breakfast table. Secretly she was quite pleased with the picture she presented, and impressed with the style and cut of the gown. She wished only that it had been she who’d chosen it and not Julien.

“Very well. How did you know my size?”

“Would you like a cup of tea before the inquisition begins? No, I see that you want an answer now. Very well. It was a lucky guess. The top of your head comes to my chin. I held out my hands like this and decided your breasts would fill them nicely. I’ve clasped you about your waist and found it about so.” He made his hands into a nearly touching circle, to which she snorted. “As to your hips, I’m fortunate that I’ve seen you in breeches. Do you wish to know anything else?”

“I don’t believe you. Perhaps you bribed my maid for the measurements.”

His eyes twinkled. “As you will. Odd that you don’t believe the truth when you hear it.”

“It’s rubbish. I’m not a fool, Julien. It’s obvious you gained such knowledge by purchasing such garments for your mistresses.” She drew back, flushed, for she hadn’t meant to say anything of the sort and was appalled at her shrew’s voice. If she thought he’d be a gentleman and ignore her unfortunate lapse, she was sadly mistaken.