Kit shook her head. "No, it's not that. If you could have seen the anger on his face, the disgust…" She squeezed her eyes shut as another tear slipped out from beneath her lashes. "He is right. We both are. We may love each other, but without trust we have nothing. And the misunderstanding last night only made things worse between us."
"What do you think made him so angry?" the dowager inquired softly.
"I-I… Well… I am not sure," Kit stammered. She flung up her hands in exasperation. "No, that is not true."
Ramesh arrived with the tea tray; the dowager waved him away and poured tea for them both. She handed a cup to Kit.
Kit's hands trembled. The cup rattled on its saucer. Alarmed, she set down her tea before she dropped it entirely.
"Take your time, my dear," advised the dowager.
Kit nodded. "At first I thought it was jealousy, because he rang the most dreadful peal over my head for allowing Lord Langley to propose to me in the middle of the street. And I suppose I deserved that. But it goes deeper than jealousy; I know that now. I hurt him, Your Grace. I was wrong to have suspected that he started that awful rumor. I knew, truly knew, that he was never involved, but I think part of me wanted him to be."
"Why?" The dowager duchess was nothing if not blunt.
"Because…" Kit worried her lower lip between her teeth. "Because it was safer."
"Safer? Come now, child-you're talking nonsense."
Kit flushed to the tips of her ears. "What I mean is… If I had some excuse to break it off with him, I would never risk being hurt again."
The dowager smiled, and a suspicious glint of moisture shone in her dark eyes. "My darling girl, that is what love is all about. If you risk nothing, you gain nothing. But if you risk your heart, you have everything to gain in return."
A fresh wave of tears spilled down Kit's cheeks. "Or everything to lose."
The dowager pried the kerchief from Kit's fingers and presented it to her anew. "This will do you no good clutched in your hand like a rag." She lifted one corner and examined the embroidered "B" sewn there. "Do you believe he still loves you?"
"I… I don't know."
"He gave you this."
Kit shrugged. "That is of no consequence. I am certain he has dozens of them."
"What gammon!" exclaimed the dowager. Then, more gently, she added, "Do you love him, Kit?"
"Yes, Your Grace," she whispered. "More than I ever thought possible."
"And would being with him make you happy?"
"Well… yes."
"Then why are you sitting here and moping?"
Kit blinked more tears away. "He does not want me."
The elderly woman sighed. "Oh, enough of this missish dibble dabble. Do you love him, or do you not?"
"I do."
"And are you willing to fight for that love? Or are you just going to fritter it away so you can hie yourself off to a convent?"
Kit straightened. "No! I mean, yes. That is-"
The dowager set down her cup with a clatter, then rose and assumed a businesslike air. "Good! That is something, at least. Come now, my dear, we must move quickly."
"Your Grace?"
The elderly woman looked down at Kit, one cosmetically darkened brow raised in an arrogant arch. "God has given you a chance at happiness, child, and He has put me here to see that you do not bungle it. Now, here. Dry your eyes, and go upstairs and change into traveling clothes. I shall help your maid pack your things."
"Where are we going, Your Grace?"
The dowager rolled her eyes. "Oh, how love can addle the wits of even the most rational female," she muttered. "We are going to London, my dear. And we have no time to waste."
Lord Bainbridge stalked to the sideboard, sloshed the last of the very excellent, very smuggled French brandy from the decanter into his glass, and bellowed for his butler to bring him another bottle. Then, with a snort of disgust, he folded himself once more into the plush wing chair by the hearth and propped one booted foot atop the nearby table. He swirled the liquid around in the glass, watching the play of the candlelight in its amber depths.
He would forget her. He must. Or he would run mad. Run mad, and bankrupt himself on smuggled French brandy in the process. Three, five, ten bottles-what did it matter? He sighed and slouched farther into the chair's thick padding.
How had it come to this? He had finally found a woman he loved-loved and wanted to marry, no less-and he had walked away from her. Walked away and not looked back. Had he made the right decision? Or should he have brushed aside her protests and used all the seductive skills at his command to overpower the last of her resistance?
No. He knew that was not the answer; she would never have forgiven him if he had done that. Bloody hell, she had barely forgiven him for the first fateful bargain.
Now Kit was in Bath, and he in London. Was she as miserable as he was? He grimaced and downed a mouthful of the fiery liquor. No doubt Lord Langley had shown up to comfort her. Would that rogue try to kiss her? Whisper in her ear that she was well rid of the reprobate marquess? Would he propose to her again? A red haze misted his vision at the thought. He banged one fist against the arm of the chair. God's teeth, he wasn't supposed to care about what happened to her!
He leaned forward and set aside his glass, then shoved both hands through his already rumpled hair. Lud, he was a mess. No waistcoat, no cravat, his shirt open at the throat. He fingered his stubbled chin. Ah, and unshaven, to boot. How his acquaintances at White's would laugh-the infamous Marquess of Bainbridge, rake and Corinthian sans pareil, brought low by a woman.
By love.
He vaulted out of the chair. Damnation! How much more of this was he supposed to take? He began to pace the length of the Turkey carpet. And where the hell was Fulton with his brandy?
Then he heard the butler's voice from the hallway. He cocked his head. His butler's raised voice. He frowned. Fulton was as stuffily proper as anyone could ask, and he never raised his voice.
Until now.
"But you cannot simply barge in there, Your Grace!" Fulton protested.
"If you do not get out of my way, you fribble, I shall not hesitate to take that bottle from your hands and smack you over the head with it. Go on, child. I can handle this upstart."
A lopsided grin slid over his face. Aunt Jo was in fine form this evening. But what was she doing here? His brow furrowed.
The study door creaked open. A familiar golden head appeared in the breach, followed by a heart-stopping pair of green eyes.
His grin faded. Was he dreaming?
"Kit?" The name came out as more of a croak.
"Nicholas?" The vision edged into the room until she stood in the middle of the carpet, her fingers laced tightly in front of her, her eyes huge. A bonnet dangled down her back. Tawny gold curls tumbled about her face.
A dream. That must be it. He must be dreaming. There could be no other explanation. "Are you real?"
The vision smiled. "Yes." She came toward him, and he caught the dizzying scent of her exotic perfume.
No vision, this. His pulse began to hammer in his chest.
"You came," he breathed. He extended a hand to her.
She gazed at him through lowered lashes. "I had to."
"Why?"
She hesitated, then reached out and took his hand. "Because I love you, Nicholas."
With a groan he pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair. God, she smelled so good. He enveloped her in a tight embrace. "I did not think you would come."
Her fingers flexed against his chest; he heard her indrawn hiss of breath. "I did not think you wanted me to."
"Want you?" Bainbridge pulled back a bit and stared down at her, incredulous, his throat raw with unspoken emotion. "Kit, how could I have ever given you the impression that I did not want you?"
She ducked her head. "In the carriage, coming home from the Assembly Rooms. It seems like a lifetime ago."