There had been a time, shortly after Richard’s death, that she was quite certain she’d never loved anyone before him and would certainly love no one after him. The young men with whom she had flirted and shared an occasional kiss before Richard were sweet memories, but she never felt the same sort of deep esteem for them that she had for her husband.
She regretted never telling him about the kiss she shared with Darien. It had been a colossal mistake, and she’d been so fearful of what he might do or think, of losing his respect. In hindsight, however, with time and grief having dulled her girlish feelings, she believed he might have understood and forgiven her.
Would he forgive her now? For being so wanton as to sleep with a man out of wedlock? For wanting to feel love again? And she did so want to feel love again, to know, with all certainty, the strength of a man’s love for her, to feel his arms around her, protecting her, holding her. She had convinced herself she’d not know such love again, that she’d spend the rest of her days doing charitable works and looking after her father.
And she’d be quite content with it, really, for hers was a good existence. As a widow, she was not as restricted as the unmarried girls about town. In truth, she was free to come and go as she pleased, to speak freely with gentlemen at church, to live her life as she wanted, and not the way a man might dictate.
There were, of course, drawbacks to her carefree life. Her current spate of callers for example—Kate had not heard anything in particular about herself, but she was beginning to have the uneasy feeling that something untoward had been said about her, something that was being passed around as truth. She knew that certain widow’s were rather free with their affections. Had that been said of her?
As to the matter of her physical being, she had not realized how, having known a man’s love, she might yearn for it again. Oh, she yearned for it, all right. Yearned for it so hard that sometimes she lay awake at night, felt the ache of it deep in her marrow, making it impossible to sleep. And now, to have experienced that most elemental, primitive pleasure again, the ache had spread to her heart and head.
Kate rolled over, balled the pillow up beneath her head. Did she love him? Or did she merely enjoy the attention? And did he love her? Or was he really the sum of his reputation? A man who, by most accounts, was a roué, a rake, pursuing physical pleasure and careless with the hearts of the ladies—and widows—he knew?
It was hard to believe it of him. Since the first day he had appeared quite unexpectedly to walk with her as she made her calls to the elderly, and every day he appeared after that, she had never sensed anything but the most genuine of affection and esteem from him. Certainly today he had shown her his esteem—he was a powerful yet gentle lover, more concerned with her pleasure than his own. And he spoke so poetically, spilling words of passion and adoration for her that made her swoon.
Yet she could never shake the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, his was the language of practiced courtiers, that he spoke those poetic words to other ladies as well. But he’d seemed so terribly sincere when he had spoken them to her! Only you, Kate, it has been only you these last few years. . . .
Kate sighed dreamily. Whatever the truth, it had been a most exquisite afternoon.
Downstairs, the clock struck a quarter past one, and Kate sighed and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep and a dream of what their children might look like. Strong and handsome children, with laughing eyes, just like their father.
Darien did not appear Wednesday when Kate and her father took their rounds. At the outset, Kate thought nothing of it, in spite of her father’s wondering aloud what had happened to her constant escort. She had every faith he would call when he could and rather imagined he might appear a bit later on their route. If not, she would assume some order of business had cropped up and kept him away.
It was Mrs. Biddlesly who wedged the first sliver of doubt into her opinion.
Kate had arrived with a basket of fresh fruit, just as she did every Wednesday. “Fruit!” Mrs. Biddlesly had cried with great disgust. “Would that you’d bring an old woman something other than fruit!”
“What would you like, Mrs. Biddlesly? I shall endeavor to bring it to you,” Kate asked patiently.
“A spot of good brandy, that’s what! And a girl like you ought to know where to put her hands on it!” she said, flicking her wrist at Kate.
“A girl like me?” Kate asked airily, as she handed the basket to the footman, quite accustomed to the old woman’s ranting, and just as accustomed to ignoring it altogether.
“Yes, of course a girl like you,” Mrs. Biddlesly said, but with a venom that startled Kate. She turned to look at the old widow.
“I’ve a mind to tell the vicar not to send your sort round anymore! I don’t care for your reputation! You mock your good husband’s memory!”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Biddlesly! What of my reputation?” Kate demanded hotly. “What could you possibly mean?”
Mrs. Biddlesly folded her bony arms over her sagging bosom and glared at Kate. “As if you don’t know! Cavorting about with men, appearing in places of ill repute! Having a time of it, aren’t you, Mrs. Becket, now that you’re out of your widow’s weeds? And after all the dear late vicar did for you! Bringing you out of the country to a grand house and a grand existence!”
Fury and confusion erupted in Kate; she glared at the old bag. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Biddlesly, have you quite lost your mind, or have you any idea what vile things you are implying?”
“I may be old, but I’m not a fool!”
“You’ve no cause to make such appalling accusations!”
“Don’t I, indeed? It’s quite common knowledge, you strumpet! It’s said all about town!”
Kate’s stomach dropped. Said all about town . . . Her fear was borne out—something horribly unkind had been said about her, something to make men believe they might have their way with her, and, if one were silver-tongued, then he might possibly—
No! She whirled away from the old woman, reached for the door. “You’ll do well to ask the vicar for another caller, Mrs. Biddlesly,” Kate said hoarsely, “for I shall never bother with you again!” She yanked open the door, stepped outside, and slammed it soundly behind her.
On the street, her father looked up in shock as she came running down the steps. “Kate! What’s happened?”
“Nothing, Papa. Nothing but the ranting of an impossible old woman!” she cried, and grabbed up the next basket, then marched forward, ahead of her father, so that he would not see the tears of fury glistening in her eyes.
Whatever the old woman thought she knew, Kate could not believe Montgomery would have talked about them. He’d said such beautiful things, had given her his word he’d protect her virtue. He’d promised! Her heart refused to believe it, but with every step, her doubt weighed heavier. She didn’t want to believe that he’d used her so shamelessly. She didn’t want to believe it. . . .