Tolerate. Something in Kate’s chest clenched miserably.
“But would you be happy?”
“Happy?” The word sounded bitter in James’s mouth. He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Would Kate?”
“She’d be mistress of Elvy Park. She’d have a title and a husband who respected her.”
“Respect,” Harry said. He shook his head. “Respect is all very well, but—”
“But?”
“But . . .” Harry shifted in the armchair. Leather creaked. When he spoke, he sounded uncomfortable, embarrassed even: “Shouldn’t a happy marriage have an element of . . . of passion?”
James’s mouth tightened. “Many women would prefer a passionless marriage.”
Not I. Spinsterhood would be preferable to such a fate.
Harry stiffened in his chair. “You don’t believe the marriage bed should be pleasurable for both parties?”
James clenched his jaw. “Damn it, Harry, don’t lecture me!” His grip tightened on the brandy glass, becoming white-knuckled, and then his anger appeared to ebb. His face became devoid of expression. His voice, when he spoke, was flatly neutral: “You think I can’t give a woman pleasure, even if I feel no desire for her?”
Harry put down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve no doubt you can. But would you be happy doing so?”
James lowered his gaze to the brandy. A muscle worked in his jaw. “One woman is like another in the dark,” he said.
“You really believe that?” Harry’s voice was disappointed.
James looked up. His eyebrows drew together in a savage frown. “Damn it, Harry,” he said fiercely. “What do you want me to say? I have to believe it!”
Harry was silent.
Weariness replaced the scowling anger on James’s face. “If I could marry for love, I would,” he said. “But my time’s run out, Harry, don’t you see? I have no other choice. I’ve thought about this seriously. I don’t love Kate, or desire her, but I like her. If she married me I’d see that she was happy; you know I would.”
Harry sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Ask her. I don’t know what her answer will be.”
James looked momentarily startled. “You think she’ll refuse me?”
Harry shrugged. “She’s refused several offers.”
“Really?” James’s eyebrows rose. Kate was stung by his surprise. Resentment stirred in her breast. He needn’t be so astonished. He wasn’t the only man to see some use in her as a wife. “Such as?”
“Reginald Pruden proposed when she first came out.”
“Pruden?” James laughed, but there was little amusement in the sound. “Dear God, no wonder she refused! The man’s a pompous ass.” He drank a mouthful of brandy and then shook his head. “Pruden.” His upper lip curled with scorn.
“And . . . oh, there was Sir Thomas Granger, five years ago.”
“Granger? Don’t know the man.”
“You haven’t missed anything,” Harry said. “He’s a local baronet. Resembles a peahen.”
The description should have made Kate smile—for Sir Thomas Granger did resemble a peahen—but instead she shuddered with memory of that proposal: Sir Thomas clasping her fingers with a plump, damp hand and leaning earnestly towards her, and then, when she refused him, flushing with rage and calling her a bran-faced dowd who set herself too high.
James laughed again, a humorless sound. His voice held pity: “Poor Kate.” He looked at Harry and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Do you class me with Pruden and your baronet?”
Harry shook his head. “Of course not.”
“So why should Kate refuse me?”
Why indeed? James Hargrave, Earl of Arden, was a prize on the marriage mart. His wealth and title made him one of the most eligible men in Britain. And he was handsome. He could have his pick of ladies. His offer was extraordinary.
I should be flattered. Why, then, did she feel so wretched?
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just saying, she might. Kate has a mind of her own. You know that. She’s not some milk-and-water miss.”
“She would have jumped at the offer eleven years ago,” James said, raising his glass to his mouth.
Kate flinched at this comment. Hot humiliation rose in her cheeks. The memory of that girlish infatuation was hideous. It made her cringe to think of it.
“Do you think she’s still partial to you?” Harry sounded surprised.
“No.” James shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “She treats me the same as she does you—thank God! Having Kate making sheep’s eyes at me all the time would be dashed uncomfortable.”
Harry grunted agreement. His tone, when he spoke, was unexpectedly glum: “When will you ask her?”
“Tomorrow,” said James, looking as if the brandy had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Unless you have an objection?”
“No.” Harry was silent for a moment. “I suppose I should wish you luck.”
“Thank you,” said James. “But I doubt I’ll need it. Kate’s been on the shelf for years. Of course she’ll accept my offer.” His voice was even, toneless almost, and his face was without expression. He looked trapped, Kate thought. As trapped as she was in the dark priest’s hole.
WHEN THE MEN had gone, Kate fumbled for the tinderbox and lit the candle again. In the flickering light she stood the goose feather quill in its holder and tried to blot the spattered ink. It had dried. The page was ruined. Not that it mattered; no one but herself would ever see it.
Kate gathered the diaries together. There were eleven of them, one for each year she’d been using the priest’s hole. She picked up the earliest one and opened it at random. Her handwriting was young and unformed, the entry hastily written. He’s coming again. I am determined to treat him as if he is nothing more to me than an acquaintance. No one must know of my feelings for him.
She closed the diary. She’d been seventeen when she’d written those words, seventeen and desperate not to make a fool of herself again. Her pretense had worked. James didn’t know, and neither did Harry.
Kate made a pile of the diaries and
