Kit put two and two together: the duke's surly mood and the dowager's depression. A yawning pit opened at the bottom of her stomach. Not already! She sent a fervent prayer heavenward. Oh, please, not the children. Don't let him have threatened to keep them away from her…
The dowager did not seem to hear the crunch of gravel beneath the heels of Kit's half boots, but continued to stare into the empty basin of the fountain. Kit worried her lower lip between her teeth, then pasted a bright smile on her face. "Good morning, Your Grace," she called. "How lucky we are to have such fine weather."
The dowager glanced up then, and her unhappiness vanished beneath an answering smile. She straightened. "Good morning, child. Yes, fine weather indeed. Come and sit with me."
Kit sat obediently, then began to unwrap the scone. "You seemed rather melancholy just now, Your Grace."
"Did I? Well, I shall have to stop that at once. How can I be melancholy when you are here?" she said, a twinkle in her dark eyes.
Kit placed a gentle hand on the lady's arm. "Are you feeling well, Your Grace?"
"Of course I am well, child. Never better. Why do you ask?"
"I heard that you had quarreled with the duke," Kit replied as delicately as she could, "and that you took to your bed after you returned from your outing."
"Oh, pish," snorted the dowager. "Afraid my grandson will give me apoplexy, what? You know I am not so weak and frail as all that."
"No, not at all, ma'am," Kit hastened to amend. "But I was concerned for you, especially after you took dinner in your rooms."
"You needn't be, child. I just could not stand the thought of eating while that sour-faced grandson of mine glared at me from across the table. The prospect was enough to curdle my stomach."
Kit's hand closed over her scone. "I know what you mean. I trust you are recovered this morning?"
"Quite, although I would feel a good deal better if my relations would stop meddling in my affairs," the dowager declared. "I am prodigiously displeased. I made my wishes quite clear when I told them I wanted to hear no more of their nonsense, but they have not paid any heed."
"Would you like to leave?" Kit asked quietly. "We can be back in Bath before nightfall."
"No." The dowager shook her head. "I will not turn tail and run from this bumble broth, child, and give my ninny of a grandson even the smallest sense of victory. Leaving now will only postpone the inevitable. No, we shall stay the entire week and sort out this mess once and for all. Unless, of course, you wish to leave."
Kit jerked up her head, startled. "Oh… no, Your Grace."
"I must say I am glad to hear it, my dear. We shall show them that we're made of sterner stuff, what?"
"Of course," Kit murmured. She glanced down at the napkin on her lap, the scone a rather crumbly mess in the center of it, and folded it back up and set it aside, her appetite gone. Apprehension coiled in the pit of her stomach, and remained no matter how hard she tried to dispel it. She would not be the one to suggest that they leave Broadwell Manor, even to get away from the marquess; she could not break her word, nor would she cry coward. This was about the dowager's happiness, not hers.
Lord Bainbridge's words to her yesterday in the gallery told her exactly what he wanted from her, just as his kiss had told her that he was not a man to be put off.
His kiss.
Embarrassed heat scorched her face. Why on earth had she allowed him to bait her like that? To talk of seduction-she blushed again-in such a frank and open conversation? What a great looby she had been! The marquess had planned the whole thing from start to finish; he had probably been the one to suggest to the dowager that he return to the house to "check on" her. And she had fallen neatly into his trap. But her body had betrayed her. She had luxuriated in the sensation of his lips over hers, of his strong arms enfolding her body. She twitched. No matter how much she enjoyed it, she would not let him seduce her, not until he had followed through with his part of the bargain. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the bench.
"I was right, you know," commented the dowager.
"I beg your pardon?" Kit sat up in an instant.
The elderly woman regarded her with speculation. "Woolgathering, child? That is unlike you. Is anything the matter?"
Kit's blush intensified. "No. Please go on, Your Grace."
"I was merely going to say that my suspicions are correct, that my grandson and the rest of the family are plotting against me."
"Plotting against you?" Kit repeated. She flinched. She really must stop doing that. "What makes you say that?"
"Not only did they have the gall to tell me that it is high time for me to retire to the dower house in Wiltshire," she huffed, "and to stop embarrassing them with my exploits and odd starts, but this morning my grandson actually threatened to keep the children away from me unless I accede to his wishes. Of all the cheek!"
The pit in the bottom of Kit's stomach yawned wider. Oh, God, it was as she feared. They would have to act quickly, before a compromise became impossible.
"The duke may have spoken in anger," she soothed. "After all, the two of you are quite alike in your temperaments."
"Well, I suppose so," grumped the duchess. She hesitated. "I have never embarrassed you, have I child?"
"No, Your Grace," Kit insisted. She reached out and gave the dowager's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Never. And you know I am truthful enough to tell you what is de trop."
"Dear child"-her eyes grew moist, and she cleared her throat-"I do not know what I will do if I cannot see my great-grandchildren. Perhaps… perhaps it is time for me to retire."
"Do not give up hope, Your Grace." Kit's mouth hardened. "The week is not over. Something may yet be done to make the duke see reason."
"Reason?" erupted the dowager. She fumbled for her handkerchief. "That oaf will see reason when pigs grow wings."
"The duke is uncommonly stubborn," Kit admitted. "Then again, Your Grace, so are you."
"I?" The dowager drew herself up.
Kit shrugged. "You are, ma'am, and you know it."
"Oh, well, I suppose I am. But not as stubborn as he is."
Kit struggled to hide her grin; such a gesture would only goad the duchess to further heights of indignation.
Then the duchess looked toward the house. "Ah, here comes my great-nephew-we shall ask his opinion. Good morning, Bainbridge."
Kit froze.
The marquess strode down the center path with a jaunty gait, one hand raised in greeting. He cut a handsome figure this morning in his jacket of charcoal gray superfine, buff inexpressibles, and highly polished Hessians. Kit forced her gaze to focus at the level of his snowy cravat, no higher; to look into his eyes meant ruin.
"Good morning, Your Grace. Good morning, Mrs. Mallory," he called as he drew close.
"Good morning," Kit muttered between clenched teeth. She had been relieved to avoid him at the breakfast table, and yet here he was. And, from the teasing light in his dark eyes, she could see he was quite pleased with himself for having found her.
Bainbridge made an elegant leg. "You are looking well, Mrs. Mallory," he said. "I am delighted to see that your megrim no longer troubles you."
The nerve of the man! Kit glared at him. "Thank you, my lord, but I fear another pain has come along to take its place."
He grinned.
The dowager looked askance at her. Kit raised her chin.
"I have brought some good news," he announced. "If the weather cooperates, we shall picnic on the lakeshore this afternoon."
"A picnic?" The dowager raised a doubtful eyebrow. "And whose suggestion was this?"
He cocked his head toward her. "Her Grace thought it might give us all a chance to enjoy each other's company in a more informal setting, and to allow the children to spend some time with you."