He didn’t have to be alone. He didn’t have to leave some part of himself stuck out there, still on that sea. Maybe he didn’t have to fear himself any longer.
It seemed a foreign concept, odder than anything he’d ever experienced. And still he didn’t know what to say in response. In place of speech, he kissed her hand. When she didn’t draw away, he drew her down next to him and put his arms around her. Even the touch of his lips to hers seemed like an importunity; and besides, he would have to draw back from her to do it. He would have to pull his head from where it rested against her shoulder, and if he did that, she might see there was something suspiciously like moisture in his eyes. She could no doubt tell that his breath was already ragged.
But maybe she knew. And maybe she held him so closely, stroking his shoulder, because he didn’t have to be alone any longer, not even in this final discovery of her. When his breath stopped racking his body, when he let out one last shaky exhale against her collarbone, he realized she’d been right. He was stronger for having her, not weaker. They lay next to each other, exchanging careful caresses. The comfort overwhelmed him.
“Do you know what it means, to help me?” He finally spoke against the edge of her collar. He was drifting off to sleep; his eyes would not stay open.
“Of course I do.” She sounded amused. And then she leaned forward. He could feel the bed shift under her weight, the heat of her against his face. Then she kissed his eyelids slowly. “It means I love you.”
“Oh.”
So that’s what love looked like—not some stifling, too-careful creature, who wanted to cut his meat into digestible pieces for him. It was something bigger, more robust. He ought to say something in return, he knew, but she was still running her hands across him, and for the first time in longer than he knew, he felt safe. Not alone.
He drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, she was still with him, a solid, warm presence. Overnight, all of the nonsense, all of his fears, the sheer impossibility of their situation seemed to have become manageable. He knew precisely what they needed to do about Harcroft, and now he finally knew how to do it.
For a long while, he watched her, afraid to disturb her rest. When her eyes finally fluttered open and met his, a slow smile spread across her face. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Some things were even harder than walking a handful of miles on a broken leg. But then, Ned had gotten quite good at doing things he didn’t want to do. He looked his wife in the eye.
“Kate,” he said softly. He took a deep breath and held her hand, for courage. “I am going to need your help.”
LONDON SOCIETY often constructed rumors out of nothing but glances, and gossip from little more than a few wrinkles on a gown. So it was no surprise when Ned discovered that everyone had taken an avaricious interest in the matter between Harcroft and his wife. Everyone knew that Louisa was staying with the Carharts—and speculation as to the reason ran rampant.
The most likely possibility listed in the betting books, was the one Louisa had announced in the courtroom—she was angry with her husband for putting her dearest friend in jeopardy of life and limb. But there were other theories.
Kate sorted the gossip papers into little stacks on the breakfast table. “Feminine pique,” she murmured. “Feminine pique. Masculine bravado. Feminine pique.” She looked up at him. “That makes three for feminine pique.”
“And nobody,” Ned said dryly, “has noticed there are double petitions filed in Chancery, on the subject of madness?”
Kate shook her head. “These things are kept quiet, you know. And besides, the petitions weren’t posted in a ballroom or penned in a betting book. The ton is substantially less likely to notice them.”
Ned smiled and felt a grim sense of satisfaction. Everyone knew there were only three ways to end a marriage. Divorce—but Harcroft would retain all rights to his son, and so the result was unacceptable. Annulment—but it would be impossible to prove nonconsummation, particularly given aforementioned son. And there was death, but nobody had the stomach to kill the man.
And with Harcroft’s suit pending in Chancery—a suit that claimed Louisa was mentally incompetent—her ability to testify even in divorce proceedings might be cast into doubt. If he had her declared a lunatic, his victory over her would be complete. He would not only be her husband, but her guardian, the trustee of all her care.
For the first time in days, Ned smiled.
Everyone knew there were only three ways for a marriage to come to an end.
Everyone was wrong. And tonight, Harcroft was going to discover it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
KATE WAS NOT ENTIRELY SURE of their ability to succeed when they arrived at the musicale. Her role for the evening had been set out and discussed, time and again. She was to keep Harcroft away from Louisa for as long as she could, and make him as angry as possible in the process.
This objective turned into a dance—one in which the steps were constantly thwarted by the other members of the ton, who hoped that Lord and Lady Harcroft would strike public sparks. Kate led Louisa from one room on a pretext; minutes later, Harcroft followed. On one of their stops, Kate caught a glimpse of the Lord Chancellor, decked out in his full regalia. The gold-embroidered stripes on the sleeves of his robes glittered in the shining lights.
He turned when he saw Kate and Louisa enter the room, but it wasn’t yet time for Kate to make their introductions. Besides, the Chancellor was Ned’s bailiwick. She ushered Louisa from that room quickly.
It was only when Harcroft began to show signs of distress—a tight line drawn across his forehead, and his hands clenching in his gloves—that Kate brought Louisa to the last refuge.
With everyone in the music hall and the adjoining rooms, the ballroom was dark and deserted. In the corner, a screen had been set up; behind it, a door led to the servants’ quarters. The two women hurried across the room. Kate left Louisa behind the screen and turned to face the entry.
She heard the door open behind her.
It took Harcroft a few seconds to find her shape in the darkness. She saw his silhouette in the doorway
. He stared at her and shook his head. Finally, he started toward her, footsteps slapping in percussive rhythm across the floor.
“And what have we here?” Harcroft sounded tired. “Why, it’s Kathleen Carhart. Are you proud of yourself? Do you wake every morning, delighting in the knowledge that you bested me? Your success won’t last long.”
“What sort of nonsense is this, Harcroft?” Kate did not let her voice drop. She could hear her response echoing throughout the hall, around the parquet dance floor. She hoped their words carried far enough. “Bested you?” The door to the servants’ quarters was behind that screen, she reminded herself. He couldn’t see behind it—and Kate still had not heard that door close behind Louisa. She would just have to trust that this would all work out.
“So you’re playing the innocent.” He stepped forward again. “You’ve made a mockery of my marriage, and all in the name of…shopping. You made the sacred frivolous. You’ve stolen from me.”
He advanced on her. Slowly she backed away from him. Her back hit the ballroom wall distressingly quickly.
“Harcroft, I think you might need to sit down. Rest a bit.”
He grabbed for her wrist and twisted it.
“Don’t do that.” Kate spoke calmly, although she could feel her pulse beat threadily in his grip. Nobody could see her; at best, she had to hope that someone would hear what was happening. “Harcroft. Let go of my wrist. You don’t need to resort to violence. Not again. We can resolve this rationally.”
“I don’t believe I hit you hard enough last time.”
He raised his fist; Kate ducked. She pulled her wrist from his grasp, and his hand hit the wall behind her.
“Be careful—you might hurt yourself,” she suggested, and the glint in her eyes made the suggestion less kind than her solicitous tone suggested. “Harcroft…”
He whirled around swiftly. “Goddamn you,” he spat out. Before she could react, he set his hands against her shoulders and shoved, pushing her off balance at an odd angle. The hard wood floor smacked against her backside with bruising force; her head missed the wall by inches. He dropped to his knees and leaned over her, pinning her shoulder to the floor.