"What would you have done if at the end of the week I had told you that I was wrong to put a price on my assistance, and that we should go our separate ways, with no regrets or obligation?"
"A very easy thing for you to say now, given that the cat is already out of the bag." God, every word he spoke seemed to shred her heart into tiny pieces. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let him see her cry.
His flush intensified. "Kit, not everything was a lie. After the dowager's fall, when you turned to me for comfort… that was real."
"Was it?" A sad smile touched her lips, and she reached for her traveling cloak. "Where you are concerned, my lord, I fear I can no longer discern what is real and what is yet another deception."
With a growl, he lunged forward and seized her arms just above the elbow. "Blast it all, Kit! Do not tell me you are indifferent to the passion that lies between us. You have felt it. I know you have. Just this morning you responded to my kisses with a desire that equaled my own."
Kit swallowed around the lump in her throat. "Is passion all you have to offer, my lord?"
"I… I do not know. At the moment-yes."
His words snuffed out the last tiny flame of hope. She pulled away. "Then let me go."
He released her, his face set in haggard lines. "Kit, give me another chance. Allow me to make amends."
She shook her head. "No, Lord Bainbridge. You have seduced me, lied to me, and used me in the most abominable fashion. I have had enough."
"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 God. 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 God 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 circumstances."
Bainbridge scowled. "Damn 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 God. 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 God'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 God'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 glass, 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.