A strange expression crossed Lord Bainbridge's face. "Would you marry me if I could?"

She regarded him with open skepticism. "Yes, but how can one quantify such a thing as trust?"

He walked slowly over to her, took her hands in his, and held them. No teasing, no surrept.i.tious brushing of his fingers over her wrist. Just his strong hands enveloping her smaller ones. "Let me make you a bargain, then."

Kit's eyes widened, and the floor seemed to drop away beneath her. "Oh, no." She tried to pull away. "Not another one. I am not as jingle-brained as all that!"

He did not release her. "Hear me out. Please."

Kit swallowed around her suddenly dry tongue. "What . . . what sort of bargain?"

"A very simple one, actually." He gazed down at her, his eyes like pools of chocolate. "Give me until the end of the week to prove myself worthy of your trust. If I succeed, you consent to be my wife. If not, I shall return to London and never darken your door again."

She stared at him. "Can you possibly be serious about this?"

"I a.s.sure you I am in earnest," he replied. "You will have nothing to lose except a week of your time. So . . . what say you?"

"Only that this is utterly ridiculous!" she exclaimed.

"Is it? Remember, you will be the final judge on the matter, since it is your trust I must win. We have a chance to be happy, Kit. Are you willing to take that risk?"

A large, heavy knot gathered in the depths of her stomach. So much of her wanted to hide away from the anguish, from the hurt this could bring. He said she had nothing to lose except her time, but potentially she could lose much, much more. Like her heart. Again.

Her lips compressed. No. She would not run from this. If she denied herself this chance, she may as well lock herself away in a cloister.

"One week?" she asked, hesitant.

He nodded. "One week."

She took a deep, shuddery breath. "Very well, my lord. I agree."

A tired smile crossed his features; he gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "Then I shall ensure that you do not regret it."

"When do we begin?" she asked.

"Seeing that I have only a week, I should make the most of my time." He pondered a moment. "Would you care to take a stroll with me this afternoon?"

Kit started. "A stroll?"

"That is an acceptable form of diversion, I hope?" he inquired, not entirely facetiously.

She blushed. "It is, my lord, but I am engaged to drive with Viscount Langley this afternoon."

"Langley." He frowned. "Be careful with that one, Kit. He is reputed to be an irredeemable gamester."

"Just as you are reputed to be an irredeemable rake?"

"Touche, madam," he replied with a growl.

Her blush felt like it extended all the way up to her hairline as she hastened to add, "There is, however, a concert of Italian music to be given this evening at the a.s.sembly Rooms. If you would care to accompany me, of course."

He arched an elegant eyebrow. "I would indeed, Mrs. Mallory. I shall call for you at six."

"I shall be ready, sir," she replied somewhat breathlessly.

"Until tonight, then." The marquess took her hand and bowed over it. She halfway expected him to flout convention yet again and kiss her fingers, but he kept a very polite distance between her fingertips and his lips. In a way, she was almost disappointed.

He then took his leave; Kit watched from the drawing room window as he sauntered down the townhouse stairs, his hat perched atop his head at a jaunty angle. At the bottom of the stairs he turned, noticed her in the window, and tipped his hat to her. She backed away from the cas.e.m.e.nt, her cheeks scarlet.

Knees shaking, she made her way back to the claw-footed chair and collapsed into it. She rubbed her temples. Good G.o.d, she had just done the unbelievable-made another very reckless bargain with the Marquess of Bainbridge. Last time, she had bargained her body. This time the stakes were much higher; this time she stood to lose her heart.

Could she trust him?

Dare she?

Bainbridge ordered his coachman to take the carriage back to the mews at the White Hart; he would walk back to the inn. The stroll would give him the opportunity to stretch his legs and think. Especially to think.

He knew how to charm women. How to sweep them off their feet and make them fall hopelessly in love with him. How to seduce them.

But to make them trust him?

A burgeoning ache throbbed at the base of his skull. How on earth was he going to do this? He supposed he could try to court Kit and maintain a chaste, respectable relationship with her, but that alone wasn't going to secure her trust. She loved him; she had admitted as much, and that would- He stopped abruptly. A rotund squire plowed into him from behind. In a daze, Bainbridge tipped his hat to the bl.u.s.tering fellow, then continued down Milsom Street. The edges of his vision blurred.

She loved him.

Joy sent his heart into his throat.

Realization turned it around and sent it crashing into the pit of his stomach.

Yes, Kit loved him. But, as he had suspected, her reason held sway over her heart. He must win the trust of both if he was to succeed.

The front windows of a circulating library caught his eye, and suddenly he knew exactly where he needed to begin. He lengthened his stride. He must hurry back to the White Hart; he had letters to write.

Chapter Twelve.

The next few days were perhaps the strangest of Kit's life. Lord Bainbridge's marked interest in her brought all sorts of company to her door, mostly the local tabbies who could not wait to collect the latest tidbits of gossip. But these ladies got more than they bargained for; as Kit expected, those who managed to make it past their first encounter with Ramesh nearly fainted when they entered the pagan grandeur of her drawing room.

Kit would never forget the look on Lady Peterborough's face when she told the nasty, insulting woman that the tiger skin on the floor had come from the animal that had killed her husband! It was a complete fabrication, of course, and she had felt guilty for telling such a Banbury story, but it had been worth it to watch Lady Peterborough's eyes bulge as she inadvertently inhaled her tea.

The marquess's continued presence also triggered acts of sheer desperation in her throng of admirers. The sly, reptilian Sir Henry Castleton had take to writing very bad poetry; his latest attempt was an ode to her freckles, and she had tried very hard not to laugh when the man recited it aloud. Lord Edward Mitton had swept her aside at an evening concert and proclaimed his undying devotion to her. As for Viscount Langley . . . She did not know what to do about the viscount. He was attractive, dashing, and witty, and constantly vying with Nicholas-with Lord Bainbridge-for her attention. Whenever the two men encountered each other, she fancied she was watching two tomcats growl and spit and hiss at each other. Oh, two very polite and well-bred cats, to be sure, but the underlying current of hostility made her skin p.r.i.c.kle every time she ventured into their combined presence.

Then, on Thursday morning, she received no callers. A trifle odd, given the attention she had garnered of late, but she was glad for the reprieve. Lord Bainbridge had sent her a note saying that he had gone on an urgent errand, but that he should return in time for the ball at the a.s.sembly Rooms. As she had no other obligations, and the morning was fair and sunny, Kit decided to peruse the shops along Milsom Street and perhaps pick up a new book at one of the circulating libraries.

When Lady Peterborough snubbed her in the milliner's shop, she thought nothing of it. After all, the lady held no love for her-or for her tiger-skin rug. But when two other ladies of her acquaintance cut her in the street while their gentlemen escorts ogled her in a blatantly speculative manner, Kit began to realize that something was very, very wrong. She returned home, her thoughts in turmoil, to find Viscount Langley pacing in front of her townhouse.

"Lord Langley!" Kit exclaimed as she approached. "I must say it is a relief to see a friendly face. This has been the most extraordinary morning-" She broke off when she noticed the grim lines on the viscount's face.

"May I speak with you, Mrs. Mallory?" he asked, his voice low and intent.

"Yes, of course. Won't you come in?"

As soon as they entered the drawing room, the viscount turned to her, his eyes clouded. "I take it you have heard," he said.

She frowned. "Heard what?"

"Ah." He pulled a face and shifted his booted feet.

Kit's frown increased. "Heard what, my lord?"

Lord Langley's jaw tightened. "Forgive me, Mrs. Mallory, for being the bearer of such unfortunate tidings, but a rumor of the most disconcerting nature is flying through Bath society."

"Rumor? What rumor?" But even as she asked, the hairs rose on the back of her neck. The absent callers, ladies giving her the cut direct on the street, the leering stares of the gentlemen. "What is this about?"

The viscount spread his hands. "Please do not shoot the messenger."

"Tell me, my lord, before I lose all patience!"

"Word is being bruited about that you are Lord Bainbridge's current mistress."

She gaped at him. "I beg your pardon?"

A deep flush stained his tanned face. "I did not believe it for a moment, of course, but I thought you should know before you were subjected to any impertinent remarks."

Kit blinked. "Who would say such a despicable thing?"

Lord Langley shrugged. "I do not know how it started, Mrs. Mallory, only that it has spread like the plague."

She lowered herself onto the lion-footed sofa, her eyes wide and unseeing. Her blood ran cold in her veins. Who? . . . Who felt so much malice toward her as to fabricate such a horrible untruth? Aside from their first encounter in the a.s.sembly Rooms, she had comported herself with nothing but the strictest propriety around the marquess. She could not remember anything she may have said or done to give anyone the impression that she had behaved improperly.

"This is unconscionable," she murmured. "I cannot imagine who would do such a terrible thing."

"Forgive my impertinence, Mrs. Mallory," ventured the viscount, "but have you heard from Lord Bainbridge lately? After all, this matter involves him, as well."

"He was called away on urgent business, but he should return this evening. Why do you ask?"

Langley's gaze did not waver. "The marquess has a certain . . . reputation, of which you must be aware."

Kit scowled. "What are you implying, Lord Langley?"

"Only that his 'urgent business' seems to coincide very neatly with the onslaught of this rumor."

"Are you saying that Lord Bainbridge is responsible for this?" she inquired, her eyes narrowing.

"Well, perhaps I am being a trifle hasty in my judgment, but I would not put it past someone like the marquess to manipulate the circ.u.mstances to get what he wanted. If he destroyed your reputation, you might have no other recourse but to turn to him for a.s.sistance."

"You presume to know him quite well, Lord Langley," Kit noted with a distinct chill in her voice.

"I know only what I have observed, Mrs. Mallory. The marquess usually gets what he wants, by one method or another. How long have you known him?"

"Three weeks. A month, perhaps." Kit shook her head, her pulse drumming an urgent rhythm in her chest. Was Lord Bainbridge behind this? Impossible. He might try to seduce her into marrying him, but these cruel tactics were beyond the pale. He would never do such a thing.

Would he?

He has manipulated you before . . . and lied to you. The last bargain you made with him was a sham. How can you be certain that he did not make this second pledge with you, then take steps to ensure that you had no choice but to marry him?

She put a hand to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut to try to block out these awful thoughts. How well did she know the marquess? What was this mysterious errand that had so conveniently taken him away from Bath at this particular moment?

Could she trust him, after all?

"Mrs. Mallory, you seem unwell," said Lord Langley. "Would you like me to ring for something? Tea? Your vinaigrette, perhaps?"

A wan smile ghosted over Kit's lips. "I have never been the fainting type, my lord. But tea would be most welcome."

The viscount summoned Ramesh and ordered tea to be brought to them at once. Then he returned to Kit's side and perched on the edge of the chair next to her.

"Perhaps it would be better if you did not attend the ball at the a.s.sembly Rooms this evening," he advised. Concern shone in his slate blue eyes. "I would not wish to see you subjected to any impertinent remarks."

Kit grimaced. If the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Wexcombe were here in Bath, she would have nipped such tawdry tales in the bud. But Her Grace was not here, and Kit would not disappoint her by showing cowardice.

She raised her chin at a mulish angle. "I refuse to submit to such a slanderous accusation, Lord Langley," she declared. "Whoever began this monstrous untruth would like nothing better than for me to hang my head in shame and never show my face in public again. I will not give him-or her-the satisfaction."

The viscount bowed slightly to her, his eyes twinkling. "I salute your courage, Mrs. Mallory. I would be pleased to storm the breach with you, if you wish it."

"Thank you, my lord. I only hope you do not regret having volunteered."

"I would not call it a Forlorn Hope yet, ma'am," he drawled. " 'Tis only a rumor, after all, and you have many friends in Bath."

"And tonight we shall see just how many," Kit murmured.

Like a medieval knight donning his armor, she dressed with greater care than usual that night, selecting a gown of deep yellow silk that had been made from one of her finest saris; the color seemed to make her freckles less conspicuous. Lakshmi threaded ribbons of gold tissue through her upswept curls. Rather than wear any of her heavy Indian necklaces, Kit chose instead to wear a single teardrop pearl on a filigreed chain.

But nothing could have prepared her for what happened when she arrived at the a.s.sembly Rooms.

As she entered the vestibule with Lord Langley, heads started to turn in her direction. Then the whispers began, discreetly at first, but as they progressed into the ballroom people frowned at her, then murmured to their neighbors as she pa.s.sed. A few dowagers, like Lady Peterborough and her gossipy set, turned their backs on her. Her cheeks scarlet, Kit allowed the viscount to lead her to her usual corner.

"This is worse than I feared," murmured Lord Langley. "Allow me to seek out reinforcements-Sir Percy, perhaps, and Lieutenant Oddingley-Smythe."

Kit nodded. "Yes, and Lady Arbogast and Mrs. Raebourne, if either of them are here. Both are acquaintances of the Dowager d.u.c.h.ess of Wexcombe, who is a very dear friend of mine."

As the viscount disappeared through the crowd, she retrieved her fan from her reticule to cool her heated skin. Everywhere she looked, people stared at her, then quickly averted their eyes when she sought to meet their gaze. What was going on? And where was Nicholas? Why was he not here?