“Your daughter took herself off to the Frost Fair, unchaperoned, and was rewarded for her efforts by nearly drowning in the Thames.”
Well, that was a rather methodical, emotionless recount of her day by the duke. Accurate, but unappreciated.
“Mother…” Katherine began.
Mother glared her into silence.
Katherine burrowed closer to the duke, accepting support in the unlikeliest of places.
He glanced down the bridge of his hawk-like nose at her. Katherine’s breath caught and for the first time, she truly noticed him. Several inches well beyond six feet, his broad chest and arms were thickly chorded with powerful muscles, so very different than the gentlemen of the haute ton. Not one to be considered handsome by conventional standards, the angular planes of his face would be considered too harsh, his narrow lips too hard, his…
He quirked a brow.
Katherine felt the first real warmth that day and it came in the form of the mortified heat that stained her cheeks. “Er, well…”
“Might we know the name of the gentleman who so gallantly rescued my daughter?”
His mouth tightened, and for the slightest moment Katherine thought he might ignore her mother’s request, turn on his heel, and leave.
“Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge.” That was all.
No bow. No polite discourse. Just five words, one number, and a cold, unfeeling tone.
He seemed to realize in that moment that he still held her in his arms. His body froze, and it was as though he’d turned to granite. He glanced around, as if searching for someone to relieve him of his burden.
Katherine frowned. It didn’t matter that he appeared desperately eager to be rid of her. She should want him gone posthaste from her foyer.
She should.
She did.
As if a cue had been delivered, the tall footman came rushing forward to relieve the duke of his burden.
The duke hesitated, turning his black glower on the handsome footman, Thomas, and then he turned Katherine over to the servant.
“Your Grace, allow me to extend an invitation to din—”
“No.”
Her mother blinked several times. However, as the Countess of Wakefield and not easily cowed, even by a powerful peer, Mother was undeterred. “Surely you must allow us the courtesy of—”
“Madam, the only thing you might do for me is to keep a more watchful eye upon your daughter.” He sketched a brief bow. “Good day,” he said curtly and without another word, turned on his heel, and made his way to the front door.
Ollie had the good sense to pull the door open, and the duke continued forward, his stride unbroken.
The door closed behind him with a firm click.
Mother’s brown eyes widened, giving her the appearance of an owl. “Well,” she said on a huff. It was certainly not every day the Countess of Wakefield was left speechless.
Katherine stared at the door where Jasper Waincourt, the 8th Duke of Bainbridge, just exited.
Well, indeed.
~4~
A sharp rap sounded on Jasper’s office door. He didn’t pick up his head from the ledger atop the surface of his desk. “Enter,” he barked.
The door opened. “Your Grace, the Marquess of Guilford has asked to see you.”
“I’m not receiving callers.” Jasper dipped his pen into the ink and marked several columns.
“I explained you were not receiving callers.”
“But I explained that I’m not merely a caller, but rather a friend,” Guilford drawled from the doorway.
Jasper dipped his pen and made another mark. He scanned the first three columns, and then tossed his pen aside. “What is it?” he asked, impatiently. He waved off the butler, and the older servant bowed and hurried out.
Guilford strolled into the room. He stopped beside the sideboard filled with crystal decanters. He studied several bottles and then picked up the bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass. With the patience better reserved for one of the cloth, he strolled over to Jasper’s desk, and sat in the lone chair, directly across from him.
“Really, Bainbridge,” he said, after he’d taken several sips. “You ask ‘what is it’ as though you didn’t create quite the stir with your heroic rescue of a mysterious young lady from the Thames River.”
A growl worked its way up Jasper’s throat, and he reached for his pen. He dipped it angrily into the ink well, and completed the next row of tabulations. The last thing he desired was to become gossiped about by the bloody ton. He’d imagined after three years as the Mad Duke, Society had forgotten about the Duke of Bainbridge and his now dead wife, Lady Lydia.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead and buried. Cold in the grave.
Jasper lashed at himself with the reminder of it. He accepted the stark remembrance of Lydia’s smiling visage, and then replayed her face contorting with the pain of being torn apart by their unborn child.