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 duchess. 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 assured 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 Assembly 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 balls, 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 peacock-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 naïve, 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 pronounced 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 Assembly Rooms tonight-but so, apparently, was everyone else in Bath.
The carriage ground to a halt once more; the marquess heard muffled 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 congé, 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…