Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels

on it. She seemed to have a calm enough disposition, with no trace of the eagerness lighting the faces of her mother and aunt. “Have you been enjoying the play, Miss Underbridge?” he asked.

      He got the full brunt of that pasted-on smile, along with a moment of surprise at having been noticed. “I have, Lord Croston. It is quite entertaining.”

      He applauded her effort, but her tone told him she would prefer to be elsewhere. “Of course,” he added as an experiment, “I generally prefer a quiet fireside read to the noise of the theater.”

      “I quite agree.” Her tone lost some of its falsity. “Reading is a most enjoyable pastime.”

      Indeed. He wondered whether, unlike Lady Maude, Miss Underbridge had a sensible disposition to match her calm demeanor.

      The back of his mind teased that a reactionary demeanor and biting disposition was vastly more interesting, and a shiver slid over the back of his neck as though Katherine was watching him from her box. His senses began to churn, stirred up the way a hard rain roiled a stagnant pond. Everything in him wanted to leave his box and go to hers. Be near her. Listen to her wild, acrimonious opinions about London and its inhabitants. Find out what she thought of the gift he’d sent Anne.

      He shoved the longing away and discreetly assessed whether Miss Underbridge appeared built to give him an heir.

      “You will have to dine with us one evening,” Lady Pinsbury said to him.

      “Yes, yes,” Pinsbury said, breaking away from the conversation he’d been having with Vincroft. “We’d be delighted!”

      “As would I,” James replied. If he accepted an invitation in the next week, he could have the business arranged by the time the committee made its decision and be ready to travel to Croston without delay. He could return to London for the ceremony, then let her decide whether to remain in London or come to Croston. The idea’s simplicity was vaguely comforting.

      After assuring him that an invitation would be forthcoming, the Pinsburys and Miss Underbridge left the box. James returned to his seat, where Wenny still stared openly at Katherine. James resisted the urge to do the same. He needed to get rid of Wenny so he could talk business with Vincroft.

      But just thinking about it edged him a little closer to madness.

      “Listen here, Croston,” Wenny said the moment James sat down. “It’s good to have you back—truly it is. But you’ll understand if I get straight to the point. Lady Dunscore, old friend. What can you tell me that will give me an advantage?”

      Vincroft leaned forward and looked at him. “You’ll have to climb over me and half a dozen others first,” he said. “You’re not the only one with an eye on her.”

      Wenny snorted. “True enough. But if it’s Winston that gets her, I won’t abide it. Now tell me, Croston, will you give me an introduction? Will she think it an affront if I introduce myself?”

      “Lady Wenthurst will likely think so.” The frayed edge of James’s control wore thinner.

      Wenny snorted. “Good God, she’s a beauty.” He wasn’t talking about his wife. “I want her, Croston. Bloody hell! There’s Winston now, bold as balls.”

      James watched Winston enter Katherine’s box without so much as an escort. Another thread snapped.

      “She didn’t even curtsy,” Vincroft said. “She’s— My God, I think she’s rebuffing him. Yes—yes, she’s given him the cold shoulder!” He grinned at Wenny. “Perhaps there’s a chance for us, after all.”

      “For me perhaps,” Wenny scoffed, pinching more snuff. “There’s little doubt she’ll go to the highest bidder, and you’ve never been one for high stakes.”

      James didn’t move. Didn’t sit forward, didn’t take his eyes off the stage. “The next time I hear you imply that Lady Dunscore is for sale to anyone,” he said quietly, “you will meet me on the field, and I will kill you.” Through his rage, he heard his own words as though listening through water.

      The two men at his sides fell silent. Still he did not move.

      After a moment, Wenny stood up. “Understood, Croston,” he said. “Understood. My apologies—I didn’t realize.”

      Realize? What the devil— “The only thing to realize is that the countess of Dunscore is a lady, not a whore, and the ‘highest bidder’ is likely to find his head—both his heads—rolling on the floor.” He looked up at Wenny. “Perhaps I will offer you an advantage, after all,” he added, “and advise you that Lady Dunscore is particularly adroit with a cutlass.”

      “Good to know,” Wenny said, offering a stiff bow. “Good to know. Again, my apologies.”

      He didn’t want Wenny’s apologies. He wanted to tear Wenny apart with his bare hands. A sound like the ocean rushed in his ears for long moments after Wenny had left the box. Finding Katherine a decent husband would be impossible. The ones with financial liabilities hoped to wed her and suck Dunscore dry while they rutted between her thighs every night. The ones who didn’t need money only wanted to pass her around as their mistress.

      “For God’s sake, Croston,” Vincroft said. “You’d better have a care, calling men out. If you’ve claimed her for yourself, you’d best let it be known. Not fair to challenge a man when he’s got no idea.”

      “I’ve got no claim on her. I simply will not sit by while someone questions the honor of the person to whom I owe my life.”

      Vincroft hesitated. “Of course not. Didn’t think of it that way. But still—”

      “But nothing. They don’t have to see her as a lady, but they’d damned well better act like they do,” James shot back, and crossed Vincroft off his list of possibly acceptable husbands for Katherine. Which left exactly...no one.

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      KATHERINE WAS LOSING the battle.

      She pushed past Dobbs after the awful evening at the theater and charged toward the staircase as quickly as her enormous skirts would allow, dragging in panicked breaths, keeping her hood pulled low so no one would see her tears.

      Marriage!

      Once you’re safely wed, I hope you might consider joining me for some more interesting entertainment than the theater.

      Never mind the Duke of Winston’s disgusting proposition. He assumed she would marry. Expected her to marry.

      And what had Captain Warre been doing meanwhile? She could have sworn one or two of the visitors to her box had been in his first. He’d done no better the night before at Vauxhall, going off on a turn with some young girl...which, of course, there was no reason why he shouldn’t. No reason at all.

      She gulped for breath against fresh tears, hurrying up the stairs. Marriage. It was out of the question. Dunscore was hers, and they would not take it from her that way. When she reached the landing, that giant portrait enticed her with its promise.

      One day, Katie, you will be mistress here, and the very waves will tremble at your footsteps.

      The waves did tremble at her feet, and she hadn’t needed Dunscore to make it so. Hadn’t needed the Lords, or committees or marriage to make it so.

      Upstairs in her room, she stood impatiently while her maid unfastened her gown and stays and took down her hair. Katherine dismissed her quickly and finished the rest herself, putting on her own nightgown and sitting wearily with her brush, staring at her reflection in the glass.

      If the bill passed, Holliswell would benefit. But if she married, then one of their own would reap Dunscore’s reward. Was that their logic?

      Her throat tightened, and a trenchant longing crept out of hiding.

      When