In trying to run away from all the nightmares he associated 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 bastard, 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 assured 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 assure 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 Assembly 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 Assembly 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 anticipation. 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 assembled 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 pricked 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 multitude. 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 God, 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 roué 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.
"Hello, 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.
"Lord Bainbridge," she replied, her voice high and breathy. "What brings you to Bath?"
He inclined his head to her, a slight smile on his lips. "I think you know."
"Bainbridge!" exclaimed Lord Langley with a bit too much jovial enthusiasm. "How odd that we should see you here. I thought Bath would be too dull for your taste."
"That only proves how little you know me," Bainbridge murmured in reply.
From the alcove above, the musicians started up with an allemande. The marquess turned to her. "May I have this dance, Mrs. Mallory?"
Kit's heart leaped into her throat, but before she could reply Lord Langley reached out and took her gloved hand.
"You must get in line, Bainbridge," the viscount stated. "The lady has promised this dance to me."
Bainbridge looked to her. "Kit?"
Though her pulse pounded in her ears, she managed to lift her chin and stare haughtily back at him. How dare he march in here and expect her to jump at his command! She favored the viscount with a cool smile. "You are quite right, Lord Langley. This is indeed your dance."
The satisfaction of watching the marquess's face darken with anger dissipated as soon as the viscount guided her out onto the dance floor.
"Are you well, Mrs. Mallory?" Langley asked in low tones.
"Yes, my lord. Fit as a fiddle. Why do you ask?"
He raised one golden brown brow. "Because, dear lady, you have gone quite pale."
Kit raised a gloved hand to her cheek. "I have?"
"If you prefer to sit out this dance, I would gladly fetch you a glass of lemonade."
She flashed him a grateful look. "No, my lord, but I do appreciate your offer."
Langley glanced over his shoulder. "If I may hazard a guess without being thought impertinent, might I conclude that Lord Bainbridge is the source of your distress?"
Her jaw tightened. "You might."
"Should I call him out?"
Kit stared at him, only to notice the teasing glint in his slate blue eyes. "No violence on my behalf, my lord, I beg you."
"Ah." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Very well, Mrs. Mallory. But I shall do my best to see that he does not distress you again this evening."
Kit did not have a chance to reply, for the dance had begun, and soon she and the viscount were too caught up in the figures to hold much of a conversation. Although Lord Langley proved to be a diverting dance partner, she could not shake the feeling that Bainbridge's eyes lingered on her wherever she went.