Could she make him love her? He might be in love with her, but how would she ever know if he could never bring himself to admit it? Could she make him admit it?

A challenge, that.

Kit’s brows rose. Maybe that was how she should approach this marriage-as a challenge. One to be grasped and made into what she wanted it to be. And before she’d finished, she’d make sure she heard him say he loved her.

The gentle breeze had turned cool, wafting the last of the perfume from the roses. Kit stared at the full blooms as they merged with the dusk. It was nearly time for dinner-time to go in and face her future.

A smile twisted Kit’s lips. Undoubtedly, running in Jack’s harness was going to try her temper to the limit. But there’d be compensations-she was determined to claim them.

“I might have guessed.”

Startled, Kit swung about. Jack lounged in the doorway of the gazebo, his shoulders propped against the frame. With the last of the light behind him, she couldn’t be sure of his expression.

“Elmina said Thrushborne told you to stay inside the house.”

Kit’s natural instinct was to ask who dared question her. But Jack’s tone was not aggressive-was, in fact, close to tentative, as if he didn’t know how she’d respond. Kit held her own features to impassivity as she rapidly considered her options. If she was to live with this man for the rest of her life, she’d do well to start practicing a little tact. According to Lady Gresham, a little of that commodity could go a long way in domestic affairs.

“I was miles away,” she said, and watched his jaw harden in an effort to stifle his demand to be told what she’d been thinking of. Kit bowed her head to hide her smile. “It’s getting rather chilly. I was about to go in.”

She made to rise, and, instantly, he was there, by her side. Kit was glad to let him take her hand. She made no demur when his other arm slipped supportively about her waist. It was, she decided, quite pleasant to be treated like porcelain-at least, by Jack. As they walked through the darkened garden, whiffs of sandalwood mixed with the floral fragrance. That was something she should have picked up. An aroma of sandalwood had clung to Captain Jack, yet it was a rich man’s scent. But the fragrance was so familiar, it hadn’t registered as odd.

The warmth of the large body so close to hers was both comforting and distracting. Even in her weakened state, she could still feel the excitement his presence generated, s etting her pulse beating in double time. She felt his gaze, still worried, scan her face. His arm tightened, almost imperceptibly. Kit knew that if she glanced up, he would pull her to him and kiss her.

She kept her gaze level. She wasn’t ready for that yet. When he kissed her, she lost her wits. She became his, and he could do anything with her he wished. She needed time to adjust to the fact that in three weeks, that would be her permanent state.

As she went up the steps on Jack’s arm, Kit wondered if she would be strong enough to be Lady Hendon-and still be herself.

Chapter 24

The wedding of Jonathon, Lord Hendon, and Miss Kathryn Cranmer was the highlight of the year in that part of Norfolk. Women from miles about crowded the yard of the tiny church in Docking that had served the Cranmers and Hendons for centuries. Maids from the surrounding houses jostled with farmers’ wives, vying for vantage points from which to Ooh and Aah. All agreed that the bridegroom could not have been more handsome, in his bottle green coat and ivory inexpressibles, his brown hair, tied back in a black riband, glinting in the sunlight. He arrived commendably early and disappeared into the church, accompanied by his friend, Mr. George Smeaton of Smeaton Hall.

The subsequent interval was easily filled with satisfying gossip. The groom, with his military career as well as his natural heritage as a Hendon, provided much of the fare. The only stories known of Miss Kathryn dated from schoolroom days. While these were wild enough to satisfy the most avid gossip, all agreed the lady must have left such scandalous doings behind her. When she was handed down from the Cranmer coach, a slender figure in a cloud of ivory lace, beaded with pearls, the breath caught in every throat, only to be let out, a moment later, in the most satisfied of communal sighs.

The murmur which rose from the congregation behind him told Jack that Kit had arrived. He turned, slowly, and looked down the aisle. She’d paused just inside the church while a teary Elmina resettled her long train. As he watched, Kit started her walk toward him, her hand steady on Spencer’s arm. Behind her veil, she was smiling serenely, her chin tilted at that particular angle he knew so well. As she neared the end of her walk to his side, Jack met her gaze. His lips curved in a slow smile, quite impossible to deny. She looked superb. There were pearls about her throat, others dangled from her ears. Pearl rosettes held the heavy train on her shoulders. Even the headdress that held her delicate veil in place was composed of pearls. None, in his eyes, could vie with the pearl the dress contained.

The service was short and simple. Neither of the chief participants had any difficulty with their vows, uttering them in firm accents perfectly audible to the many guests squeezed into the church.

And then they were running the gamut of well-wishers, lining their route to the Hendon barouche. Jack handed Kit in, then jumped in behind her. “To the Hall, Matthew.”

To Kit’s astonishment, the coachman’s head turned to reveal Matthew’s lugubrious features. “Aye,” he chuckled. He nodded a welcome in her direction before giving the horses the office. A pair of high-stepping bays, they quickly drew the carriage free of the crowd.

Bowling along the country lanes, through shadows shot with sunlight, they had little chance to talk, too occupied with acknowledging the waves and wishes of tenants and other locals lining the way. Only when the carriage turned into the long Cranmer Hall drive did Jack get a chance to settle back and cast a knowledgeable eye over his bride’s gown.

“How did you manage that?” It occurred to him that the gown was a feat bordering on a miracle, given the short notice she’d had.

“It was my mother’s.” Kit glanced down at a lace sleeve, closed with pearl buttons. “She was particularly fond of pearls.”

Jack’s lips twitched. He hadn’t associated his Kit with anything so feminine as jewelry. He wondered how she’d look in the Hendon emeralds. They were somewhere in the Castle. He’d hunt them out and take them to London to be cleaned and reset; their present heavily ornate settings would not suit Kit’s delicate beauty.

They’d decided on a ceremony late in the day, to be followed by a banquet and ball. As the evening wore on, Jack sat at the high table and watched his wife enchant their acquaintances. There was, he reflected, nothing to complain of in Kit’s social graces. Ever since that evening when he’d found her in the gazebo, she’d behaved perfectly. Her demeanor had supported the fiction of their arranged marriage; even the most sharp-eyed observer could find no inconsistency in her manner. So successful had she been in projecting the image of a woman well pleased that Spencer now behaved as if the arrangement had always been in the wind. She was confident and serene; while her attitude held no overt maidenly modesty, neither did it suggest she was aware of her husband in any intimate way.

All of which, of course, was the most complete humbug. But only he knew that the elegant Lady Hendon stiffened slightly whenever he was near, clamping a stubborn hold over her normal responses to him. Only he was aware that she avoided meeting his eyes, using every feminine wile under the sun to accomplish that feat.

He wondered whether she knew what she was doing.

Since that night in the gazebo, he’d not so much as kissed her. She hadn’t given him a chance, and, wise enough to guess at her lack of enthusiasm for their union and the reasons behind it, he hadn’t gone out of his way to create one. Time enough, he’d reasoned, to reel her in once they were married.

Now they were married, and he was rapidly losing patience.

He hadn’t anticipated her degree of social confidence, either. He’d expected her to need help in taking up the role of Lady Hendon. Instead, the mantle had settled easily on her slim shoulders. He now understood why their story of an arranged marriage had been accepted so readily by their neighbors. Kit was the perfect candidate, one who, to all intents and purposes, could be said to have been bred for the position. Her six years in London were the icing on the cake. Aside from anything else, the fact she’d survived those years virgo intacta was the ultimate assurance she was not one of those women he mentally stigmatized as the gilded whores of the ton.

All in all, there was nothing in her manner or morals he wished to change. It was the distance she seemed intent on preserving between them that he could not abide.

Vignettes of memory, drawn from the hours they’d spent in the cottage, flashed through Jack’s mind. With a smothered curse, he stifled them. He took another sip of brandy and watched his wife go down the dance with some local squire. She must know he liked her as she was-would she try to pretend that all the wildness had gone out of her, that by marrying her he’d tamed her?

Jack’s lips twisted in a slow smile. If she thought that, she was in for a surprise. She might try to play the merely dutiful wife, but her fires ran deep. And he knew how to ignite them. Jack glanced at his watch. It was early, but not too early. And who was to gainsay him?

He raised his head and looked over the crowd to where Elmina sat by the door. She saw his nod and slipped away. Excusing himself to Amy, who was seated beside him in deep conversation with George, Jack rose and stepped from the dais.