Page 3 of A Rogue to Resist
Katherine drew in a deep breath, fighting against the sudden surge of irritation. After five years of marriage to Edmund—controlling, calculating Edmund—she had promised herself never again to be at the mercy of a man’s whims. Now, less than a year after his death, his successor was already making demands on her time.
“I could refuse,” she said, though they both knew she wouldn’t.
“You could,” Rosabel agreed mildly. “But then he might seek you out elsewhere, perhaps at a less favourable moment. At least at Wexford House, you’ll have James and me as allies.”
Katherine nodded reluctantly.
Her brother and Rosabel had been her steadfast supporters through the difficult years of her marriage, not that she’d ever told them more than the half of it. When Edmund had died suddenly of an apoplexy—brought on, no doubt, by one of his infamous rages—they had helped her navigate the complex transition to widowhood with dignity and discretion.
“What do you know of him?” Katherine asked finally. “This new Lord Greythorne.”
Rosabel pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Surprisingly little, considering his apparent reputation. His name is Drake Halston. He’s the grandson of Edmund’s great-uncle, I believe. The connection is distant enough that no one expected him to inherit.”
“Halston,” Katherine murmured. “How perfectly strange to share a name with a total stranger.”
“Quite, but perhaps you’ll become fast friends,” Rosabel countered with a small smile. “Though that would make for an interesting twist, wouldn’t it?”
“This situation hardly needs more twists,” Katherine replied dryly. “What else?”
“He’s been abroad for several years. America, I believe, though there are whispers of time spent in France and Italy as well. He returned to England only upon learning of his inheritance.”
“How convenient.”
“Indeed. He’s unmarried, naturally, and by all accounts...” Rosabel hesitated.
“A rake? A libertine? A scoundrel?” Katherine supplied. “Thetondoes love its colourful descriptions. Not that we have any true reason to believe any of the tales.”
“All of the above, if Lady Swansea is to be believed,” Rosabel said with a slight roll of her eyes. “Though, like you, I’m inclined to reserve judgment until we meet the man. Gossip has a way of exaggerating the truth.”
“Nevertheless, his reputation appears to precede him.” Katherine smoothed her pale grey silk skirts, a shade that indicated her position between deep mourning and half-mourning. “A man who consorts with actresses and gamblers is hardly likely to have a nuanced understanding of estate management.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Katherine,” Rosabel warned gently. “Men like that often cultivate certain reputations to mask their true capabilities.”
“You sound like James,” Katherine replied, smiling despite herself.
Her practical brother had always cautioned her against making hasty judgments.
“A high compliment indeed.” Rosabel glanced over Katherine’s shoulder, her expression shifting subtly. “Speaking of judgment, Lady Pemberton is looking this way. We should circulate before she decides we’re being antisocial.”
Katherine nodded, gathering her composure. “Of course.”
As they rejoined the crowded room, Katherine found her thoughts stubbornly fixed on the impending meeting. What could this Drake Halston, this unexpected heir, possibly want that required her personal attention?
Her settlement had been meticulously arranged, the terms clear and binding. There should be nothing to discuss.
Unless...
A cold tendril of unease wound through her at the thought that her freedom might not be as secure as she’d believed. She had paid dearly for it, after all—five years of a cold, loveless marriage to a man who had shown her nothing but disdain and disappointment.
“Lady Katherine, you’re looking quite well,” came a voice to her left, pulling her from her thoughts. “Black never did suit you. This softer grey brings out the blue in your eyes.”
Katherine turned to find Lady Beauford, an elderly but sharp-eyed widow who had been one of the few to show her genuine kindness during Edmund’s lifetime.
“Thank you, Lady Beauford,” she replied, offering a genuine smile. “It’s a relief to move beyond the deepest mourning.”
The older woman harrumphed softly. “I should think so. Six months of black for that man was five months and three weeks too many, in my estimation.”
“Lady Beauford,” Rosabel chided gently, though her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth.
