"You can't leave like this," he maintained.

"Can I not? With the exception of the dowager, I see no reason why I should stay."

His hands fell to his sides. "You will not remain, even for her sake?"

"No. She will understand."

His face closed over. "I see. So what do you intend to do now?"

She gulped back her tears and replied, "I am going to return home, my lord. And I am going to forget you."

His body numb, the marquess watched her as she fastened her cloak, gathered her reticule, and marched from the room. She did not look back.

He put out one arm and steadied himself against the back of a chair. Dear G.o.d. What had he done? All his good intentions had come crashing down around his ears, but he had not expected it to leave him with such a tremendous sense of guilt, pain, and loss.

Go after her, you dolt!

His lips twisted in a sneer. Yes, go after her . . . and then what? Have her reject him yet again? What good would that do? She had made up her mind; that much was obvious. If Katherine Mallory had her way, she would never see him again, and thank G.o.d for it.

"Ah, there you are, Bainbridge. Gone, has she?"

The marquess raised his head to see his cousin standing in the doorway, a small, almost smug smile on his narrow face. He stiffened. "Why, Wexcombe?"

"Because it had to be done. I've seen you fascinated by women before, but never like this."

"What you did was reprehensible. You hurt her. Deliberately."

"You managed to do that much on your own, Cousin," the duke replied with a casual shrug. "I simply made her aware of the circ.u.mstances."

Bainbridge scowled. "d.a.m.n you, I didn't mean for it to end like this. I would have broken it off, with her none the wiser. She didn't have to know. She was innocent."

"Well, she had no designs on Grandmama's money, if that's what you mean. But as for innocent . . . I told you earlier that she was playing for higher stakes."

"You never bothered to talk to her," snapped the marquess, "so how would you know?"

"Because anyone with eyes in his head could see what was going on between the two of you. I do not think you would have broken it off."

Bainbridge grimaced. "I should have done it days ago. It was selfish of me not to."

"You see? So what I did was for your own good."

"My own good?" Bainbridge stalked toward his cousin. "And what would you know of that?"

The duke examined his manicured nails. "If you had not ended it with her, what would you have done?" He paused and peered intently at the marquess. "My G.o.d. You weren't actually considering making her an offer of marriage, were you?"

A slow smile stole over Bainbridge's lips as his cousin's words registered in his stunned mind. Marriage . . . to Kit? Only this morning he had thought the notion absurd. But the more he thought about it, the more he recognized the strange sense of longing that gripped him. Kit-his wife. Raising children together, telling stories to them. Having picnics on warm summer days, sharing bowlfuls of strawberries. Having her in his bed night after night for a lifetime. A thrill coursed through him.

"Why not?" he replied.

The duke gaped at him. "Why? . . . Because the woman is a Cit's widow, for G.o.d's sake, and the daughter of a social pariah. Suitable as a mistress, perhaps, but as a wife? Preposterous. I swear I don't know what has come over you."

Mistresses . . . He'd had his fill of them. He had spent years pursuing one new lover after another, but none of them had captured his attention for long; all he could remember was a string of faceless bodies. A shallow way of life, in retrospect. Was that all he wanted? The thought of returning to Angelique's vapid blond embrace made him shudder with revulsion. Such an existence may have satisfied him in the past, but now he found he craved something more.

Realization struck him like a thunderbolt. All his life he had derided love for the pain it could bring, never recognizing how much joy he had denied himself in the process. Time for him to follow his own advice: no more running away. Yes; he would do it. At this point, he had nothing to lose.

"What's come over me?" he said softly. "I'll tell you, Cousin. I love her."

The duke snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You're simply infatuated with her because she's different from ladies of the ton. You will forget about her soon enough."

Bainbridge shook his head, grinning. "You do not understand, do you Wexcombe? This goes beyond infatuation. I think I've finally discovered what I want."

The duke's gaze was cold enough to extinguish burning coals. "No. I will not allow it. You are a marquess, and you have a duty to your family."

"Allow?" Bainbridge scoffed. "I would like to see you try to stop me, Cousin."

"What are you going to do?" the duke demanded.

Bainbridge tugged at his jacket. "Somehow, some way, I am going to win her back. And then I will marry her."

The duke made a dismissive gesture. "I doubt that. She'll never let you near her. Not after all that has happened."

"Perhaps. But I can try."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, man, don't be a fool," snapped the duke.

The marquess inclined his head in a mocking bow. "Strange that you should say that, Cousin. I've been too great a fool already."

Chapter Ten.

Kit glanced over the rim of her teacup down to the portion of Camden Place visible from the drawing room window. Compared to Calcutta, Bath was a placid, sedate sort of town. No garish colors, no horned cattle meandering down the middle of the road, no vendors hawking their wares with singsong cries, no street performers with cobras or trained monkeys. Here, on an ordinary day, one could see only carriages, pedestrians, and the occasional rider.

But today the streets were more quiet than usual, due to the steady curtain of rain that had fallen since early morning. Raindrops pattered in an even rhythm against the gla.s.s, forming a counterpoint to the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Kit sighed and took another sip of hot chai, allowing the familiar combination of cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom to dispel the damp chill that had taken hold of her.

After the debacle at Broadwell Manor, part of her had been tempted to bolt pell-mell back to India, but she knew the notion was pure fantasy. Besides, she did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her run. Moreover, in the past fortnight she had discovered that Bath had a quiet charm of its own, which at the moment she found particularly appealing. This was her home, and she refused to be driven away.

Fortunately, it had not come to that; the marquess had not followed her to Bath. Oh, not that she wanted him to, of course, or even expected it. In fact, she hoped never to see his roguish countenance ever again. Two weeks had blunted the worst of her pain, but every time she thought about it, she knew, despite her defiant words, that forgetting Lord Bainbridge would take much, much longer.

With a shake of her head, Kit set down her cup and picked up the latest letter from the dowager d.u.c.h.ess. When the missive arrived this morning, just as she was preparing to go out, she had broken the seal and scanned the contents immediately. But once she had a.s.sured herself that the elderly woman's health had not taken a turn for the worse, she had set it aside so that she might savor it later. Now she unfolded the letter, smoothed the creased parchment sheets, and retraced the words written in the dowager's familiar, spiky lettering.

The dowager continued to recover well, it seemed, and was driving everyone at Broadwell Manor, especially the duke, to distraction with her demands. A smile quirked the corners of Kit's mouth. The dowager, as ever, was in fine form. Ah, but here was something-

tI have also heard reports from several of my acquaintances that you have been cutting quite a dash at the new a.s.sembly Rooms. Good for you, child! 'Tis high time you put aside your nunnish ways. At any rate, I should hate to think my letters of introduction had gone to waste.

Kit grinned. She had only been to two b.a.l.l.s, but apparently her appearance had caused enough of a stir for the dowager's friends to remark upon it. At this time of year, most of the ton were either at their country estates or in Brighton; the population of Bath, it seemed, was comprised mostly of dowagers, widows, half-pay officers, young girls wishing to live down a recent scandal, and fortune hunters down on their luck. In such company, Kit supposed, she could not help but stand out. But there was more. . . .

Lady Arbogast went so far as to relate that a certain group of gentlemen-and she was not too particular about the term-have taken to calling you "The Maharani of Bath." You must write to me at once, child, and tell me what you have done to merit such a tantalizing epithet. Oh, how vexed I am to think that I am missing all of this!

Kit made a moue. "The Maharani of Bath," indeed. That made it sound like she was parading about the city on the back of an elephant, or in a palanquin at the very least, festooned with pearls and rubies and diamonds and accompanied by dozens of handmaidens wielding gigantic peac.o.c.k-feather fans. She snorted. What a ridiculous notion!

In truth, all she had done was have her mantua-maker create a new wardrobe from several silk saris she had collected during her years in India. Well, come to think of it, she had also unpacked several pieces of elaborate, wrought-gold jewelry and her embroidered, curl-toed slippers. Hmm. She had worn these things without a second thought in India, but apparently such attire had made more of an impression on staid Bath than she had expected.

She was fairly certain she knew who had coined that ridiculous soubriquet: Viscount Langley, who during the last week had worked himself to the forefront of her admirers. Although she had met him but a few days ago, she had the impression that he was a handsome young rascal with a flair for the dramatic.

But you had best remain guarded, my dear, for such notoriety will garner you more than your share of attention, not all of it wanted.

Kit's smile began to fade. Wise advice, indeed. Most of the men who had flocked to her side over the past week were fortune hunters, drawn by her silk gowns and rich jewelry-signs that marked her as a wealthy widow. Her chin came up. She must remember to tell the dowager that her concern was appreciated but entirely unnecessary; she was no longer the naive, trusting little idiot she had been a month ago. Her mouth firmed, and she continued to read.

Once you decide what you want, child, there is no going back. There are plenty of fine young men to be had for the asking; all that remains is for you to find one-or for one to find you.

Kit rolled her eyes. After what had happened at Broadwell Manor, the dowager had somehow gotten the idea into her head that Kit needed to remarry. The elderly woman would not take kindly to being contradicted, but Kit suspected she would have to do it sooner, rather than later. She shrugged and kept reading.

I hope to be able to join you in Bath very soon. Wexcombe's physician-who is not the quack for which I first mistook him-has p.r.o.nounced me in excellent health, and said that I will be fit for travel in a few days. And not before time, I shouldn't wonder. Although the children have been absolute angels, I believe everyone else here at Broadwell shall be delighted to see me leave, and I, for one, cannot wait to oblige them.

Kit read down to the signature, then set the letter aside and smiled. The duke would be more than happy to see his grandmother leave, and it served him right.

She poured herself another cup of chai and returned to the window, watching individual rivulets of water glide downward and merge with others on the pane. Since the dowager would not be able to return to Bath for a while, Kit determined to send the elderly woman another letter to tide her over. She glanced toward her rosewood escritoire, then to the mantel clock. No, she had better wait until tomorrow morning. Her smile melded with the rim of her cup as she sipped the spicy, steaming chai. She had promised Viscount Langley a dance at this evening's ball, and she was certain the dowager would not forgive her if she failed to describe, in very thorough detail, what was sure to be another very interesting evening.

Lord Bainbridge tamped down a surge of irritation as his carriage inched through traffic along Alfred Street. This was Bath, by Lucifer's beard, not Pall Mall! What the devil were all these people doing out and about at six o'clock in the evening? It had taken him most of the afternoon to learn that Kit would be at the Upper a.s.sembly Rooms tonight-but so, apparently, was everyone else in Bath.

The carriage ground to a halt once more; the marquess heard m.u.f.fled shouts of anger and the whinnying of horses from up the street. More delays. Blast it! Two weeks he'd waited. Two long weeks. He would see her. Tonight.

With a muttered oath, the marquess threw open the door, called a few instructions to his bewildered coachman, then loped off down the street, shoulders hunched against the steady rain, pulling his curly brimmed beaver farther down onto his brow.

He should not have waited so long. When Kit had left Broadwell Manor, his first instinct had been to run after her, to kiss her senseless . . . or at least until she agreed to listen to reason. Then he had determined that it was better to let her anger cool a bit before he approached her again, so he had traveled posthaste back to London and tied up his affairs there.

Or, he should say rather, affaires. Angelique had sobbed in the most brokenhearted manner when he'd given her her conge, but the diamond bracelet he had purchased for her at Rundell and Bridge had dammed the flow in a remarkably short time.

Then his most irrational move: he had ridden to Bainbridge Hall in Yorkshire. After all, if he was going to marry, he wanted to bring his bride . . . he wanted to bring Kit home.

That had proved to be his undoing.

His years as an absentee landlord had caught up with him; the house in which he had grown up showed obvious signs of neglect. Even now, pangs of guilt jabbed him just thinking about it. Some things remained untouched, like the carved stone staircase that arched up to the first floor and the ornate plasterwork on the walls, but half the chimneys now leaned at dangerous angles, window frames showed signs of rot, and the rose garden had become a veritable jungle of weeds. His mother's garden. He and Geoffrey had pretended to be King Arthur and Lancelot along those intertwined paths and around the hedges while his mother smiled and worked among the roses. Such memories . . .

In trying to run away from all the nightmares he a.s.sociated with the house, he had forgotten almost everything pleasant. Despite all that had happened, this was still home. Bainbridge cursed himself for a fool. All these years spent in pursuit of pleasure had blinded him to the needs of the house and his tenants. Wexcombe was right-he was a selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but not, he hoped, an irredeemable one.

One look at the accounts told him all he needed to know; he summarily sacked Dunning, the shifty-eyed troll who had also served as his father's estate manager, and hired a local man, Cavendish, in his place. Before he realized it he had stayed another week, working with the new steward to oversee the start of renovations. He directed Cavendish to begin with the restoration of the Queen's Chamber. After all, he couldn't ask Kit to stay in rooms with moth-eaten bed hangings and peeling wallpaper.

So much was left to be done, but his instincts clamored at him to return; he had let too much time elapse already. Once he was a.s.sured that everything was properly underway at the Hall, he had returned to London, and from there to Bath.

His prolonged travel had given him time to think, to form a plan to win Kit back. Now that she'd had ample time to cool her temper, he could apologize in earnest. Apologize, and a.s.sure her that his intentions had never been as black as Wexcombe painted them to be. Kit was one of the most rational females of his acquaintance; then again, he had hurt her deeply, and reason held little sway where wounded emotions were concerned. She might refuse him admittance to her house, but odds were she would not cut him in public. He would be better served to meet with her in the a.s.sembly Rooms first.

He allowed himself a grin as he hastened down the darkened streets of Bath, even with rain dripping from the brim of his hat, down his cape, and into his evening pumps. She had not gone to ground, as he feared she might. Her presence at the new a.s.sembly Rooms indicated that she had followed his counsel and had stopped hiding behind her books. Had she stopped hiding beneath those tentlike gowns, as well?

His grin broadened with antic.i.p.ation. He had won her over once before, and he had not even used all his charm to do it. Surely he was more than ready for this second challenge.

When the marquess reached the octagonal vestibule of the Upper Rooms, he was amazed at the crowd gathered there. He managed to divest himself of his hat and cape, then used his height to advantage as he waded through the a.s.sembled throng. Lud, every single dowager and country squire in Bath must have taken up residence here tonight. Snippets of conversation reached his ears: ". . . decked out like an Eastern princess. How vulgar."

"Hmph. Holding court like one, too, I daresay."

". . . unusual-looking chit. Not exactly pretty, is she?"

". . . admit anyone these days. A Cit's widow, 'pon rep!"

Bainbridge's ears p.r.i.c.ked up. Kit. They had to be talking about Kit. His heart accelerated a bit as he came to the doorway of the ballroom.

He had no trouble spotting her amid the mult.i.tude. Bathed in light from the five chandeliers, she glowed like a sun-kissed pearl. He made his way toward her, his heart clenched in his chest. Dear G.o.d, she was beautiful. Rather than the drab frocks she'd worn before, she was now dressed in an exquisite creation of deep peach silk shot through with gold threads. Bands of intricate, raised-gold embroidery trimmed the sleeves, hem, waist, and the temptingly rounded neckline. The cut of the gown emphasized the length of her neck and the slender span of her waist. Strands of pearl-trimmed ribbon decorated her upswept hair, and an exotic necklace of gold and pearls adorned her throat. Gold bracelets jingled on her wrists as she cooled herself with a carved sandalwood fan. He swallowed hard as a wave of heat swept over him.

But as he drew nearer, he noticed a large number of men gathered around her, and that quickly cooled his blazing desire. He recognized a few, for their reputations preceded them: Sir Henry Castleton, a dissipated roue who had buried two wives already and was apparently in the market for a third. Lord Tarlton, who was at least fifty if he was day, and who had just last month lost a fortune at White's hazard table. Lord Edward Mitton, who had squandered his inheritance by the time he was twenty and had sponged off his dwindling circle of friends ever since. Viscount Langley, an inveterate gamester who had won and lost fortunes on the flip of a card.

Some of the others did not seem so objectionable, like Lieutenant the Honorable Wilfred Oddingley-Smythe, an infantry officer who had been wounded at Salamanca, and Sir Percival Debenham, whose only failing was his youth-the boy was barely old enough to shave, much less court a widow six years his senior.

None of them should prove to be much trouble . . . except Langley, perhaps. Kit had just turned her head and laughed at something the viscount had said. Hearing that throaty laugh and knowing it was meant for someone else made Bainbridge grit his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Time to get her away from this gallery of rogues.

He elbowed his way into Kit's circle of admirers. She turned; their gazes met. Her green eyes widened.

"h.e.l.lo, Kit," said Bainbridge.

Kit's breath froze in her lungs. Oh, sweet heaven-he was here.

Here, and more devastatingly handsome than ever in his elegant black and white evening dress. A diamond twinkled at her from the intricate folds of his snowy cravat, its hard glitter matching that of the marquess's eyes. A shiver cascaded down the length of her spine.