Free The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter Page B

to do the same. He kissed his fingers to her and whipped his horse about. He turned and waved once again before disappearing from sight.
    Kate raised her own hand in silent reply. She had certainly succeeded in cheering him, and she supposed now that she should feel quite noble. After all, it was not his fault that he was a male and therefore free to go and do as he pleased. But it seemed a cruel twist of fate.
    She turned away, feeling sorry for herself.

7
    S he stood unmoving, striving to control such uncharitable thoughts. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair. Unaccountably, she found that her thoughts turned to the earl of March and the delightful morning she had spent fishing with him and Lord Launston at St. Clair lake.
    Her depression unaccountably eased. In an unconscious gesture she pulled at her outmoded gown. His lordship had shown himself to be witty and entertaining, his descriptions of the sights and activities of London stirred her imagination. She had jokingly told Lord Launston that the earl might as well be telling her of the Taj Mahal, for London, to her, was just as remote.
    The corners of her mouth lifted. She remembered his laughter when she spoke whatever was on her mind. He was a delightful companion, willing to cross verbal swords with her. Perhaps she had found a friend. But for how long? The earl of March never stayed at St. Clair for any extended period of time. She knew from Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw that this was his first visit in five months. As a matter of fact, even now he might have already returned with his friends to London.
    She turned slowly and walked back into the hall. Her spirits plummeted. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Probably not. She was a provincial dowd, nothing more, as unsophisticated as the trout she’d pulled enthusiastically from his lake with his fishing pole. He was simply amusing himself. Ah, but she did want to see him again.
    * * *
    That very afternoon, as she sat disconsolately at her piano doing great injustice to a Mozart sonata, Sir Oliver unceremoniously interrupted her. He stood over her, his hot breath fanning on her face, his voice filled with cold suspicion
    “I am informed, daughter, that the earl of March is calling.” He pursed his thin lips, and his rather close-set eyes drew closer together. “He calls ostensibly to visit with me, a fact I have difficulty crediting. Would you be so kind as to tell me where you have made his lordship’s acquaintance? And be quick about it. Men of his rank do not like to be kept waiting. Tell me the truth, girl, all of it, for I do not like to play the ignorant fool.”
    Though Kate trembled inwardly, she was long used to her father’s peremptory attacks, and her expression never changed. Her mind worked furiously. She could certainly not tell him the truth, for his retribution would be swift and unpleasant. She calculated rapidly that there was at least a slim chance to come through this unscathed, and if her attempt failed, the result would be the same in any case.
    She looked at her father, who looked about as pleased with her as the worms on her fishing hook, and said calmly, “Last week Harry and I were riding through the village. His lordship, as it happened, was visiting his agent, Mr. Stokeworthy. It would have been unforgivably rude of us not to introduce ourselves, given the circumstances. His lordship mentioned that he might call, as he had never made your acquaintance, sir,” she added, embroidering the lie because it would perhaps serve her. Sir Oliver was vain; he believed himself stalwart and upright. He saw himself as a model of rectitude. Even the Regent himself, were he to ride by, would surely stop.
    As her eyes didn’t waver and her improvised story sounded plausible to Sir Oliver, he merely grunted and said sharply, “Well, then, girl, you might as well come along with me and perform the proper introductions. I only hope that the present earl is not the dissolute arrogant sinner