'You flirted with her,' Kit said flatly.
The marquess spread his hands. 'She was a young girl just out of the schoolroom, full of nervous jitters. I tried to put her more at ease. But I never thought about the potential consequences until today. Lady Elizabeth took those attentions seriously. She has had four Seasons, and turned down quite a number of offers. I now know the reason: she fancies herself in love with me.'
Kit's heart knifed sideways in her chest. 'I see.'
'No, you do not. Just because she imagines herself in love with me does not mean I return her feelings.'
'Of course,' Kit replied with a humorless smile. 'Love is an unnecessary complication, is it not?'
Swift relief crossed his face. 'Exactly. I am glad that you understand.'
'I do not understand everything, my lord,' she countered. 'Such as what prompted the dowager to confront Lady Elizabeth in the first place.'
Bainbridge's gaze slid to the fireplace. His mouth tensed. 'This morning, after I spoke with the duke, Lady Elizabeth accosted me in the hallway. She threw her arms around me and said she had waited in silence long enough, that she loved me and wanted to be my wife.'
'Foolish girl,' Kit murmured. His explanation had done little to assuage the strange, hollow ache beneath her breastbone. In fact, the more he told her, the more the pain increased.
'I told her that was impossible, of course, but she refused to listen. Burst into tears and had a grand fit of hysterics. I fear that Her Grace must have witnessed the debacle and followed Elizabeth when she fled.'
'The dowager duchess can be a trifle overbearing at times, but why would she have taken such offense over what should have been a private matter between you and Lady Elizabeth?'
'I do not know,' Bainbridge confessed. 'Ordinarily she does not take it upon herself to chase overly forward females away from me. Whatever her reason, we shall not learn the truth of it until she awakens.'
'If she awakens,' Kit murmured. Her thoughts returned to the frail figure in the bed upstairs. 'How could Lady Elizabeth have done such a thing?'
'I do not know. The girl can be vicious when provoked, but this…' Bainbridge shook his head. 'Wexcombe sent her back to her parents in disgrace. She will never again be welcome in his home.'
'At the moment, my lord, that is little cause for sympathy,' Kit said between clenched teeth. 'She goes home to her parents, while the duchess might not recover…' She bit her lip, fighting against the fresh battery of tears that began to spill over her lashes.
Bainbridge reached into his jacket and handed her his kerchief. 'Here-dry your eyes. The dowager will be all right.'
'How can you be so certain?'
'Dr. Knowles is the duke's own physician; I've never known a better or more competent man. Take heart, dearest Kit. Aunt Josephine has a very hard head.'
Kit took the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. 'You do not understand. She looks so pale and still. Just like my mother, right before she… she…' A soft sob erupted from deep within her.
'Shhh. It will be all right, Kitten,' Bainbridge murmured, and pulled her against him. 'Aunt Josephine will recover. She will be right as rain in a few days.'
Kit curled against the warm, muscled strength of his chest. 'I pray you are right. I could not bear to lose her.'
'You will not. None of us will.'
His arms tightened around her, enfolded her. She pressed her face into his cravat, inhaled deeply of his masculine scent. The steady beat of his heart resonated beneath her ear. She felt safe. Secure.
Loved.
She squeezed her eyes shut against another round of tears. He did not love her; he had all but declared himself unwilling, or even incapable, of loving a woman. This feeling might be only an illusion, but there was no harm in enjoying it while it lasted, was there?
Bainbridge gazed down at the golden head nestled on his chest, felt Kit's slender shoulders shake as he held her. There was nothing lustful or even passionate about this embrace, and yet he found it oddly appealing. Women's tears had never affected him; then again, he had most often been treated to the crocodile variety. Angelique in particular had tried to use this method on numerous occasions, and it had only served to cause him great irritation. But Kit… Her grief was genuine, and it moved him as nothing else had.
The marquess brushed his lips over her thick, disarrayed golden curls. Why could he not remember the last time he had comforted a woman like this? Held her, stroked her hair, allowed her to wilt his cravat with a flood of tears? A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, then faded as quickly as it had come.
He couldn't remember the last time, because he had never done it before. In fact, he could recall several instances when he'd dismissed a woman's anguish out of hand… including that of his own mother. She had pleaded with him to accompany her, and all he'd done was stand there like a statue, numb with anger and disbelief, indifferent to her tears. She had been distraught about leaving, truly distraught, and he had turned his back on her. The thought appalled him.
Bainbridge gave himself a mental shake. He'd done more introspection in the past week than he had in the past thirty years, all due to the woman he now held in his arms. She needed him, and he rather liked being needed. Lucifer's beard. Was she a witch? Had she cast some sort of spell on him? That must be the case, for these tender feelings unnerved him more than he wanted to admit.
The mantel clock ticked away the minutes, and the afternoon sun slanted ever lower in the sky, but Kit showed no sign of wanting to move. Her sobs had dwindled, and now she lay curled against his chest, one hand still grasping the handkerchief he had given her, her breathing rough and uneven. Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes red from weeping.
'Thank you,' she whispered.
Bainbridge flashed his best cocksure grin. 'My dear madam, 'twould have been ungallant of me to turn away a lady in distress. The rather sad state of my cravat will bring the wrath of my valet down upon my head, but I'd say it was well worth the risk.'
She attempted a smile as she plucked at the now-limp folds of his neckcloth. 'You are quite the gentleman when you want to be, Nicholas.'
The way she said his name made his heart constrict with longing. He brushed a stray lock of tawny hair from her cheek. 'Kit, I…'
Heavy footsteps rang out from the vestibule. Movement caught Bainbridge's attention, and he turned his head as the duke marched into the room. His arms went slack; Kit pushed herself upright, her face suffused with a familiar rosy glow.
The duke stared at them for a moment, his eyes like chips of ice. 'She's awake,' he said flatly. 'Awake, and asking for you, Mrs. Mallory.'
Kit spared Bainbridge an apologetic glance. 'I must go to her.'
'Go, then,' he advised gently. 'And keep the handkerchief, just in case you have further need of it.'
The cambric square clutched in one hand, Kit bobbed a shallow curtsy to the duke, then dashed from the room. Bainbridge watched her depart, then with a sigh slumped against the padded back of the sofa.
'Quite a cozy picture,' sneered the duke. 'I would never have thought it of you.'
'She was overwrought, Wexcombe,' Bainbridge replied, a thread of irritation running through his voice. 'What else was I supposed to do?'
'Are you mad?' his cousin hissed at him. 'This chit has you all but wrapped around her little finger.'
'I fail to see why that has you so concerned.'
'Concerned? You are supposed to get her away from my grandmother, not get tangled up with her in the process.'
'I know what I'm doing,' the marquess shot back.
'Do you? Another moment and you would have played right into her hands.'
Bainbridge scowled. 'Don't be absurd.'
'No? Do you actually believe that a widow of five-and-twenty is that sheltered and innocent? That desperate for solace? Bah. You may be fooled by those immense green eyes of hers, but I know what she's about.'
'And what would that be?'
The duke snorted. 'Surely you have dealt with enough devious women to recognize her type. Why should she
