Blame It on Bath Page 0,117
the way your eyes snap when you’re irked at me. I love the way your nose wrinkles when you laugh at some nonsense I say. I love the way you ask old ladies for help finding a blackmailer. I love the way you look with your skirt up around your—Ah!”
Kate shrieked as his hand thrust through the hedge and seized her wrist. She pulled, fighting down the hysterical laughter that threatened to burst forth as Gerard peered at her through the leaves and branches, a perplexed but determined expression on his face. “There you are,” he said.
“And there you are,” she retorted, motioning to the hedge that divided them. “What did you plan to do next?”
He glanced up, and from side to side, as if measuring the hedge. Then to her astonishment, he wedged his shoulder into the tangle of branches, and pushed and shoved his way right through, never once letting go of her.
“You knocked a hole in the maze!” Kate gawked at the ragged, broken gap in the hedge.
“It will grow back.” He brushed some leaves from his hair and fixed his gaze on her. “I didn’t dare loose my grip on you again. I presume you know the way through this?”
“I—well, I think so—”
“Which way to the center?” Keeping a firm grip on her hand, he started off.
“The other way,” she said, hurrying behind him. Without a word he turned on his heel and strode through the maze, pulling her along so rapidly she could barely give directions. When they reached the small clearing in the center, he released her. Kate retreated a few steps, her eyes warily on him.
“You make it dashed hard for a fellow to apologize.” He pulled off his coat and threw it aside.
She lifted her chin, trying not to notice the hunger in his eyes as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Why must you apologize?”
“Not for thinking you beautiful.” Off came the waistcoat. “If I’m the only man in the world who realizes your true beauty, so much the better.” He started toward her like a predatory beast. “No, I must apologize for not being worthy of your love. But I do intend to atone for it as best I can.”
She dragged her gaze from his gleaming white shirtsleeves. “This isn’t the kind of love I spoke of.”
That stopped him. His expression sobered. “Do you not believe me capable of any other kind?”
“It’s not that,” she said softly. “But I cannot help but wonder . . . if you are here now, saying this, only because I left and piqued your manly pride.”
“Pride,” he repeated. “You may ask Carter how much pride I displayed, digging through Nollworth’s wretched stable in search of Ogilvie’s notebooks with all the poise of a baited bear because of the way we parted. You may ask the innkeeper how many reams of paper I burned, trying to find the right words to tell you how much I missed you. You might ask Lucien Howe to show you the bruises I put on his neck when I thought he had something to do with your disappearance, and it was not because my pride was piqued.” He spread his hands. “Pride is for the trivial things in life that make one feel important. I didn’t realize how fully you owned my heart until I returned to Bath and discovered you’d left, taking it with you. I would have realized it then even if you’d never said a word.”
She just looked at him, yearning to believe but wary.
Gerard tilted his head, studying her. “You misled me, you know. When you made your proposal, you led me to believe you were a quiet, dull mouse, uninterested in sharing my bed or my life. I was your means to avoid Lucien, you said, and you only asked me because I was in similarly desperate straits.”
Kate flushed in mortification. “I was like that—”
He shook his head slowly. “No. Your mother thought you should be, and she molded you into that creature. Howe was happy not to think about you at all and left you as you were. But you yourself . . . You want more. You like colors”—he glanced pointedly at the stylish green dress she wore—“and you look lovely in them. You like dancing at balls and visiting with Cora; even Lady Darby and Mrs. Woodforde bring you happiness. And you like being wicked and wanton in bed with me, driving me mad with wanting you.”
“Well—yes,” she whispered, sure her face would