"Happy?" She blinked furiously against the onslaught of her tears. "How could I be happy wondering if my husband just came from another woman's bed?"
"I have broken it off with my mistress," he replied with a growl. "I did that two weeks ago, directly after you left Broadwell. I do not want a paramour, Kit; I want you. How many times do I have to say it?"
"How can I be happy wondering if every kiss, every tender touch did not have some secret design behind it?"
His jaw tightened. "Is that all you think me capable of?"
"You came to Bath for the purpose of courting me, did you not?" she countered.
He blinked. "Well… yes."
"Ordinarily, my lord, when a gentleman courts a lady he sends her flowers or billets-doux. He does not hound her every step and seek to subvert her disdain for him with kisses and seductive banter."
The marquess scowled. "You used to find my kisses and seductive banter appealing."
"So would any woman, my lord. But the fact that you use them indiscriminately tells me that I am nothing special to you."
His shoulders slumped. "Where does that leave us?" he asked quietly.
How tired he looked. More than tired… exhausted. Lines of weariness pulled at his mouth; shadows smudged the skin beneath his dark eyes. Kit resisted the urge to reach up and smooth away the lock of black hair that had fallen over his forehead.
"I do not know." She turned away. "Go back to London, my lord. Find a lady who does not love you and marry her instead."
"If I do, both of us will be miserable," he stated. "Kit, how can I prove that you can trust me?"
She nibbled at her lower lip. "I cannot say."
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 surreptitious 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 assure 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?"
"Touché, 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 Assembly 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 casement, her cheeks scarlet.
Knees shaking, she made her way back to the claw-footed chair and collapsed into it. She rubbed her temples. Good God, 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 blustering 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 prickle every time she ventured into their combined presence.