he is Wroth, is he, Katie?”
“He is not Wroth! I told you last night that he does not resemble Wroth in the slightest,” a haughty voice declared.
Kate glanced over to see Lucy standing in the doorway, looking fetching in one of her best gowns. Her condition barely showed. Still, the sight of it was enough to make Kate swallow hard. How could she possibly have let the stranger kiss her, even if he was the most handsome, confident and powerful of men? Was that how Lucy had begun, melting in a warm embrace, only to end up carrying a child?
“I assure you, Miss—?”
“Don’t tell him who you are, Lucy!” Tom warned. It was the wrong thing to say to Lucy, of course. She immediately lifted her head and tossed her auburn curls in rebellion.
“And why not? I am proud of my family name! I, for one, have nothing to hide from this…this ruffian! When he finds out whom he is dealing with, he will take himself off soon enough.”
Kate eyed Lucy with some alarm, dismayed by her efforts to sustain their position. Although the stranger did not look like a gossip, what if he carried the tale of his imprisonment here back to London? Their ruination would be complete. “Lucy, be a dear, and return the tray to the kitchen, will you? I’ll take care of this,” Kate said, her casual tone belied by the look she sent her sister.
Although Lucy obviously wanted to refuse the request and remain right where she was, she contented herself with glaring at their guest. “I shall leave it to you to put him in his proper place!” she declared, before turning on her heel and regally exiting the room.
“Now, Mr. Wescott, or whoever you may be—” Tom began.
“Is that the sister you spoke of, the one with child?” the stranger asked, inclining his head toward the door through which Lucy had departed.
Kate felt her cheeks bloom again, but she held her head high. “Yes,” she answered honestly.
“Well, it seems that we have quite a coil to unravel,” he said, gazing at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. Bedroom eyes, Kate reflected, annoyed at the turn of her thoughts. He had propped one knee up, and appeared thoroughly at home in her father’s bed, his dark hair tousled, his chest bare. Suddenly, Kate wished he would cover himself, if only so her eyes would not continually drift to that beautiful, dark expanse.
“What coil? What are you talking about, man?” Tom asked.
Her mouth thinning determinedly, Kate walked to a dresser and pulled open a drawer, rummaging for one of her father’s old nightshirts. Most of his clothes had been commandeered for their own wardrobes, but such intimate wear remained intact. Grabbing one, she turned and tossed it to her guest. “’There. You can put that on,” she instructed.
“He won’t be needing your Papa’s underthings! He ain’t staying long enough.” Tom protested. “I’ll take him back to London today, whoever he is.”
“No, you won’t, Tom. He’s still shaky from loss of blood,” Kate argued, trying not to remember just how solid he had seemed a few minutes ago, when she was pressed up against his muscular form. “And what if he gets a fever?” she asked. Although it had not been her intention, she had shot this man, and being responsible for his injury, she felt obliged, to nurse him back to health—or at least until he could get up and around without bleeding anew.
“I am not going anywhere,” the man announced, in the kind of voice that demanded attention. Both she and Tom turned to stare at him. His expression was polite, but Kate sensed an indomitable will behind it. Even reclining amid the pillows, he held himself just a little aloof, as if born to command, and she felt a growing unease at the enormity of her mistake. She could no more handle this man than she could a charging beast.
“And why not?” Tom demanded angrily.
“Because I intend to find out just who has been using my name to seduce young women.”
“What? What the devil do you mean? What’s he talking about, Katie?” Tom asked.
Kate’s dismay escalated as the truth dawned.
“I have never seen your sister before in my life,” the stranger explained dryly. “And the last time I checked, I was the only marquis of Wroth.”
Grayson eyed the duo calmly, while they stared as if he had sprouted two heads. Although his name was not always a welcome one, still, he could never recall receiving quite this sort of reception before. It was interesting, to say the least.
Apparently unconvinced of his parentage, the old man, called Tom, was still inclined to argue. “Here, now, Lucy says—”
Grayson halted him with his most damning look. “I am sure that the lady, Miss Lucy, is speaking the truth as she knows it, but since I am Wroth and I have not seduced her, it stands to reason that someone has been using my name, although I am at a loss as to who would be so imprudent.”
Tom gaped, scratching his bristly chin in confusion, but the dark-haired girl, obviously more intelligent, nodded. It was easy to see that she was in charge, for both Lucy and Tom took orders from her in the manner of those of long habit. Intrigued, Grayson found himself watching her closely. She did not look old enough to run a household, but she had a serious, capable air that told him she could manage very well. As if to prove his thoughts, she proceeded to draw herself up to her full height—she stood not much above five feet—and unflinchingly apologize for shooting him.
“I must tell you that I regret very much your injury, my lord, and will do my best to remedy any inconvenience that this…mis understanding may have caused you.” Despite the pain in his shoulder, Grayson found himself admiring her pluck. He could not wait to hear exactly what she had planned for him, should he have been her sister’s seducer. A wedding ceremony at gunpoint had most likely been the plan, and he could not help but be relieved at Lucy’s imperious rejection. The auburn-haired chit with the grating voice did not appeal to him in the slightest, while this Kate…
“Naturally, you are welcome to stay here until you are sufficiently recovered,” she said, as politely as if they were discussing the weather, and not the attack upon his person and his subsequent abduction. Really, she was most intriguing.
A low growl from the corner made him glance toward Tom, who apparently took exception to the offer of such hospitality. He hitched up his trousers and glared at Grayson in a decidedly menacing fashion. “He looks to be well enough right now. I can take him back to London soon as I ready the horses.”
“Nonsense,” Kate responded in that take-charge tone of hers. “He needs food and rest. Now let us leave him to it.” Turning to Grayson, she said, “I shall send Tom up with another tray, since the other was spilled.” For the first time, her amazing composure seemed to desert her. She cast her eyes downward, and as Wroth watched the slow bloom of color in her cheeks, he felt an answering stirring in his loins.
Then, with a nod, she took her leave, dragging a reluctant Tom along with her, and Grayson felt oddly bereft at her absence. Damn, but she was an extraordinary creature! He found it difficult to reconcile all his images of her: the filthy boy; the gentle healer; the competent woman who took charge of an awkward situation without blinking an eye; and the innocent who had returned his kiss with tentative passion.
Grayson frowned grimly. He did not care to examine that small lapse in his judgment.
