The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

“I have survived, milord, although I once thought that nothing could be a worse ordeal than a Wednesday night at Almack’s,” Kate declared, reaching beyond the shame, the feelings of inferiority. That woman, the weak dependent female that Marcus had wished her to become, could never have reached this place, never have brought herself and his daughter to safety. “I have survived.”

Somehow, she had grown in the space of a few moments. Gone was every trace of the irresponsible girl, playing the tom in borrowed breeches. Her voice was soft, but there was considerable dignity in that quiet declaration, justifiable pride if the pain in her eyes was any indication. There was a terrible knowledge in those depths.

“Aye,” Duncan said, jarred by the recognition. Other than his companions in Hell, Duncan had never before encountered anyone who understood. “I too, know something of survival, and its cost.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, recalling herself to the here and now. “Endurance has its price.”

“And its limits,” Duncan added, looking pointedly at his horse. “No matter that you might show them a trick or two at Astley’s Amphitheatre, you cannot depend on luck.”

“And you have never been tempted to try the bounds of your luck?” Kate asked. To her surprise, a red flush radiated from beneath his beard. Fearing that she had roused his ire once more, she hastened to apologize, trying to tell him that she was not some untried greenling who might bring a horse to ruin.

“I should not have ridden your stallion without leave; for that, I am sorry. However, the chance that I took was not a great one. Papa was always telling me that I spent too much of my time about the stableyards. Your animal has a bit of the devil in him, true enough, but there is not a horse worth riding that does not. And he is a champion, milord, as good a piece of blood and bone as I’ve ever ridden. ‘Tis like flying, I vow, a wondrous, smooth gait.” Her lips tilted in a wry grin. “But you know that.”

“As false an apology as ever I have heard,” Duncan said gruffly, but he could not hold on to his anger. How could he in the face of that small, self-deprecating smile and her enthusiasm? “Clearly, you would do it again in a minute, ‘Mrs. Smith.’”

“I am sorry, milord,” Kate repeated lamely, her head bowing as she cursed her foolish tongue. How could she have been so stupid as to endanger everything with her fits and starts? Perhaps Marcus had been right after all. “If you wish us to leave now, I understand. I cannot blame you for taking me into contempt.”

Leave. The word hit him with the force of a blow. In less than a day, the solitude of a hermit’s existence had suddenly lost its savor. “Why would you think that you are deserving of my disgust?” he asked.

Was there any means of salvaging the situation? Kate wondered. She should have simpered, affected meek subservience, the air of helplessness that she had learned at great cost. That was what men truly wanted; she ought to have taken that lesson to heart by now. Although it was likely too late, at least she might try. She had managed well enough to dupe most of Society. The London hostesses had looked tolerantly upon her, although she never achieved the brilliance that would have satisfied Marcus.

But when Kate dared to look up, she knew that the timorous facade that had fooled others would not deceive this man. His dubious inflection upon “Mrs. Smith” had been a warning, a line drawn in the dust. There was only so much that he would leave unquestioned. That steely slate eye penetrated too far, told her with a look that there could be no more deception. Caught out at last, Kate gave a brittle laugh.

“Do you roast me, milord?” she asked, drawing at the baggy knees of her breeches and sketching out a mocking curtsey. “Do you not see that I am the epitome of genteel womanhood? La, sir, you do jest, surely. Well, I freely admit that what I do to a pianoforte could set the milk to souring, but I can shoot the pip from a card, milord, set a snare, or tickle a trout, then clean and cook what I catch. Titter at me behind your hand at the Prince’s levee when I make use of the wrong fork, but I can tell which foraged mushrooms would soon have you standing at the pearly gates and which roots could satisfy your stomach on a long march. Put me on a fine horse and I vow, I can lead you a dance, but you waltz with me at risk of your toes.”

“Would you, ‘Mrs. Smith’?” he asked, softly.

“Would I what?” she asked in confusion. Her eyes were starting to sting. She would not cry.

“Waltz, of course. Were I willing to put my feet at hazard, that is,” Duncan said, noticing the tell-tale glitter, the furious fluttering of that fan of lashes as she struggled to maintain control. Once again, she had refused to use tears as a weapon. No female in his past acquaintance had ever been restrained by that compunction.

“Why are you trifling with me?” Kate shook her head. “I am by no means a proper type of female. Heaven knows M . . . my husband told me so often enough.”

“Did he indeed?” Duncan snorted, watching as she self-consciously tucked in the trailing ends of her shirt. How small the span of her waist seemed. He was certain that his two great paws could easily encircle it. Not a proper female? Had the man been blind? Could there be anything more feminine than those delicate features, the sculpted planes of her cheeks, the generous lips that seemed made to smile or to kiss? What could be more womanly than the body that he had held all