For Love of the Duke(41)

Guilford blinked. “You would marry her because of Bertrand Ekstrom?” Thick incredulity underlined his question.

The truth of it was, standing alongside the frozen river, with Katherine looking up at him with wide, brown eyes, Bertrand Ekstrom had been the absolute furthest thing from his mind. Now, the thought of her with the loathsome, foul, letch unleashed a primitive beast from deep inside him that wanted to tear from Guilford’s office and hunt down Ekstrom.

“It was mutually beneficial for the both of us.” Jasper settled for a safe answer.

His friend swirled the remaining amber contents of his glass. “How very practical of the both of you.”

With her directness and bold-spirit, Katherine Adamson seemed a good deal more practical than any other ladies he’d encountered in the past, including Lydia. His wife had dedicated her attention to her wardrobe and the running of his household staff. Furthermore, he could not imagine docile, gentle-spirited Lydia thwarting her parents’ marital arrangements for her by boldly proposing to a gentleman.

Guilford set his glass down hard on the table with a loud thunk. “I would be remiss if I failed to inform you that Lady Katherine Adamson’s intentions in wedding you are not strictly practical. A young lady would not brave your stern, miserable countenance if there were not feelings on her part.”

Those words sunk into Jasper’s brain. He blinked, and then gave his head a hard shake. “Bah, you’re mad. Katherine is practical. She merely proposed a marriage of convenience.”

His friend snorted. “Ballocks. I wager you are in for a good deal of trouble if you enter into this union     believing that.”

Jasper’s jaw hardened. He’d not bother with Guilford’s foolish suppositions. With the exception of two kisses, two passionate kisses that had set his body on fire with a potent lust, and a desire to lay her down…

He shook his head so hard a strand of hair fell across his eye. Jasper brushed it back angrily. “I don’t care to discuss the matter anymore.”

Guilford’s grin widened. “May I point out that you sought out my opinion?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jasper said, harshly.

“You didn’t?”

“I didn’t,” Jasper confirmed.

“Then what—?”

“I merely came by to see if you’ll be a witness to my nuptials.” There would be no banns read in three successive Sundays. Jasper’s next visit would be with the lady’s guardian to put his formal offer to, and then they’d wed. He had little desire to be exposed to the tons scrutiny. They’d wed, retreat to Kent, and carry on their own, separate, well-ordered lives.

Guilford’s eyes moved over his face, and then a long beleaguered sigh escaped him. “I do not care for that look in your eyes. As your friend, I need to say that this is a horrendous idea. You don’t allow a lady to offer marriage and wed her on a matter of convenience. Yes, a dreadful idea. Horrible. Bloody awful. All around madness.”

Jasper gritted his teeth hard enough that they clicked together noisily. “Will you serve as a witness?”

“Of course, I will.” Guilford strode over, and slammed his hand against Jasper’s back. “Congratulations, friend. And good luck.”

As Jasper took his leave he suspected he was going to need a good deal more than luck.





~14~



Yes the realities of life so cold,

So cowardly, so ready to betray,

So stinted in the measure of their grace

As we pronounce them, doing them much wrong,

Have been to me more bountiful than hope,

Less timid than desire—but that is past…



Katherine’s gaze remained fixed on the words before her. She shifted the heavy leather volume given her by Jasper; the words dark, the message bleak.

And she’d always before preferred the poems that recognized the flaws in love and the world around one, because she knew the flaws of love and the world around her.

So why was she ruminating over six lines, despairing over their bleakness? What great shift had occurred in the universe that she instead wanted to escape into the gentle joy and optimism to be found in Byron’s sonnets?

“You have been staring at that same page for nearly an hour,” Anne called from the seat she occupied at the pianoforte.

Katherine started, and the book slipped from her fingers onto her lap. “Surely it’s not been an hour.” She snapped it closed with a decided click.

Anne continued to play the haunting strains of Dibdin’s famous “Tom Bowling”. She waggled her brows. “Oh, it most certainly has been. Why, I’ve played pieces by Handel and Corelli and Gluck—”