aware of the circumstances.'
Bainbridge scowled. 'Damn you, I didn't mean for it to end like this. I would have broken it off, with her none the wiser. She didn't have to know. She was innocent.'
'Well, she had no designs on Grandmama's money, if that's what you mean. But as for innocent… I told you earlier that she was playing for higher stakes.'
'You never bothered to talk to her,' snapped the marquess, 'so how would you know?'
'Because anyone with eyes in his head could see what was going on between the two of you. I do not think you would have broken it off.'
Bainbridge grimaced. 'I should have done it days ago. It was selfish of me not to.'
'You see? So what I did was for your own good.'
'My own good?' Bainbridge stalked toward his cousin. 'And what would you know of that?'
The duke examined his manicured nails. 'If you had not ended it with her, what would you have done?' He paused and peered intently at the marquess. 'My God. You weren't actually considering making her an offer of marriage, were you?'
A slow smile stole over Bainbridge's lips as his cousin's words registered in his stunned mind. Marriage… to Kit? Only this morning he had thought the notion absurd. But the more he thought about it, the more he recognized the strange sense of longing that gripped him. Kit-his wife. Raising children together, telling stories to them. Having picnics on warm summer days, sharing bowlfuls of strawberries. Having her in his bed night after night for a lifetime. A thrill coursed through him.
'Why not?' he replied.
The duke gaped at him. 'Why?… Because the woman is a Cit's widow, for God's sake, and the daughter of a social pariah. Suitable as a mistress, perhaps, but as a wife? Preposterous. I swear I don't know what has come over you.'
Mistresses… He'd had his fill of them. He had spent years pursuing one new lover after another, but none of them had captured his attention for long; all he could remember was a string of faceless bodies. A shallow way of life, in retrospect. Was that all he wanted? The thought of returning to Angelique's vapid blond embrace made him shudder with revulsion. Such an existence may have satisfied him in the past, but now he found he craved something more.
Realization struck him like a thunderbolt. All his life he had derided love for the pain it could bring, never recognizing how much joy he had denied himself in the process. Time for him to follow his own advice: no more running away. Yes; he would do it. At this point, he had nothing to lose.
'What's come over me?' he said softly. 'I'll tell you, Cousin. I love her.'
The duke snorted. 'Don't be ridiculous. You're simply infatuated with her because she's different from ladies of the ton. You will forget about her soon enough.'
Bainbridge shook his head, grinning. 'You do not understand, do you Wexcombe? This goes beyond infatuation. I think I've finally discovered what I want.'
The duke's gaze was cold enough to extinguish burning coals. 'No. I will not allow it. You are a marquess, and you have a duty to your family.'
'Allow?' Bainbridge scoffed. 'I would like to see you try to stop me, Cousin.'
'What are you going to do?' the duke demanded.
Bainbridge tugged at his jacket. 'Somehow, some way, I am going to win her back. And then I will marry her.'
The duke made a dismissive gesture. 'I doubt that. She'll never let you near her. Not after all that has happened.'
'Perhaps. But I can try.'
'Oh, for God's sake, man, don't be a fool,' snapped the duke.
The marquess inclined his head in a mocking bow. 'Strange that you should say that, Cousin. I've been too great a fool already.'
Chapter Ten
Kit glanced over the rim of her teacup down to the portion of Camden Place visible from the drawing room window. Compared to Calcutta, Bath was a placid, sedate sort of town. No garish colors, no horned cattle meandering down the middle of the road, no vendors hawking their wares with singsong cries, no street performers with cobras or trained monkeys. Here, on an ordinary day, one could see only carriages, pedestrians, and the occasional rider.
But today the streets were more quiet than usual, due to the steady curtain of rain that had fallen since early morning. Raindrops pattered in an even rhythm against the glass, forming a counterpoint to the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Kit sighed and took another sip of hot chai, allowing the familiar combination of cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom to dispel the damp chill that had taken hold of her.
After the debacle at Broadwell Manor, part of her had been tempted to bolt pell-mell back to India, but she knew the notion was pure fantasy. Besides, she did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her run. Moreover, in the past fortnight she had discovered that Bath had a quiet charm of its own, which at the moment she found particularly appealing. This was her home, and she refused to be driven away.
Fortunately, it had not come to that; the marquess had not followed her to Bath. Oh, not that she wanted him to, of course, or even expected it. In fact, she hoped never to see his roguish countenance ever again. Two weeks had blunted the worst of her pain, but every time she thought about it, she knew, despite her defiant words, that forgetting Lord Bainbridge would take much, much longer.
With a shake of her head, Kit set down her cup and picked up the latest letter from the dowager duchess. When the missive arrived this morning, just as she was preparing to go out, she had broken the seal and scanned the contents immediately. But once she had assured herself that the elderly woman's health had not taken a turn for the worse, she had set it aside so that she might savor it later. Now she unfolded the letter, smoothed the creased parchment sheets, and retraced the words written in the dowager's familiar, spiky lettering.
The dowager continued to recover well, it seemed, and was driving everyone at Broadwell Manor, especially the duke, to distraction with her demands. A smile quirked the corners of Kit's mouth. The dowager, as ever, was in fine form. Ah, but here was something-
tI have also heard reports from several of my acquaintances that you have been cutting quite a dash at the new Assembly Rooms. Good for you, child! 'Tis high time you put aside your nunnish ways. At any rate, I should hate to think my letters of introduction had gone to waste.
Kit grinned. She had only been to two balls, but apparently her appearance had caused enough of a stir for the dowager's friends to remark upon it. At this time of year, most of the ton were either at their country estates or in Brighton; the population of Bath, it seemed, was comprised mostly of dowagers, widows, half-pay officers, young girls wishing to live down a recent scandal, and fortune hunters down on their luck. In such company, Kit supposed, she could not help but stand out. But there was more…
Lady Arbogast went so far as to relate that a certain group of gentlemen-and she was not too particular about the term-have taken to calling you 'The Maharani of Bath.' You must write to me at once, child, and tell me what you have done to merit such a tantalizing epithet. Oh, how vexed I am to think that I am missing all of this!
Kit made a moue. 'The Maharani of Bath,' indeed. That made it sound like she was parading about the city on the back of an elephant, or in a palanquin at the very least, festooned with pearls and rubies and diamonds and accompanied by dozens of handmaidens wielding gigantic peacock-feather fans. She snorted. What a ridiculous notion!
In truth, all she had done was have her mantua-maker create a new wardrobe from several silk saris she had collected during her years in India. Well, come to think of it, she had also unpacked several pieces of elaborate,
