The Fugitive Heiress (18 page)

Catheryn was not one to tilt at windmills, nor to hold a grudge. Dambroke’s final words had shown her that her cause was lost. Men could be so stubborn in matters of principle. If he had threatened Teddy earlier with exile to the country, he would believe himself committed now. Personally, she thought it a stupid way of doing things. One should always consider the ramifications of one’s decisions. That she did not always do so herself was a mere bagatelle not worth considering. Dambroke should know better. Teddy would be better off in London under his eye than up to who knew what at Dambroke Park.

At least he had not forbidden her to visit the boy. Suiting thought to deed, she hurried down to the kitchen, piled a tray with various delicacies and, with a saucy smile to the scandalized chef, carried it upstairs to a grateful Teddy before returning to her own room to prepare for the evening ahead.

T
HE COUNTESS’S BALL WAS
a success. After a magnificent dinner, the rest of the guests began to arrive, and Catheryn and Tiffany stood with the earl and the countess to receive them until the orchestra began to make tentative noises. Tiffany announced that she wanted to refresh herself before the dancing began, so Catheryn went ahead to the ballroom, escorted by Edmund. He soon left her to join Lady Prudence, and any lingering doubt Catheryn may have had about their developing relationship was put to rest by the ease of manner between Mr. Caston and Prudence’s father. The light in Edmund’s eye and the tenderness in his lady’s meant a good deal, but these signs were as nothing compared to the duke’s attitude, for the success of Edmund’s suit depended entirely upon his grace’s good will.

“Good evening, Miss Westering. A splendid dinner!”

“Indeed, Captain Varling.” She smiled at him. “Jean-Pierre excelled himself.”

“He is always to be relied upon. I only wish the same might be said of our Auguste. He is so puffed up in his own conceit that he exerts himself only for affairs like this one.”

Catheryn laughed. “If you had tasted one or two meals here this past week, you would not commend Jean-Pierre so highly. It was not lack of hospitality that kept the countess from inviting you to dine, sir.”

“Enough!” he exclaimed. “Spare me my illusions. Besides, I’ve been ungallant to mention food at all before informing you that you look prodigiously charming this evening. My sister has taught me better manners, I assure you. I like that dress.” She thanked him with a demure twinkle. “I mean it,” he insisted. “That color becomes you. Ah!”

Lady Tiffany had entered the ballroom. Her dress was white, for the simple reason that the countess had insisted upon it. But the young beauty had rebelled at wearing the stark white of the debutante, insisting that it was not necessary so near the end of the season. A compromise had been contrived in a gown of beautiful white lace over an underskirt of sapphire-blue satin with matching sash and sapphires for her neck, wrists, and ears. The result was guaranteed to stun every gentleman at the ball; nevertheless, Catheryn was delighted to hear Varling’s exclamation. She knew they were partnered for the first set, while she was to dance, ironically enough, with Mr. Lawrence. He had asked her ladyship first and Catheryn as a semipolite afterthought. Tiffany had allowed him to sign her card for the first and third country dances but refused his arch suggestion of a third dance on the grounds of impropriety and the likelihood of arousing Dambroke’s displeasure. Lawrence had been visibly annoyed and Catheryn, seeing the younger girl’s dance card a few days later, wondered rather wickedly how he would react to the fact that Captain Varling had been granted three dances, including the supper dance.

The captain excused himself. “I fear to see her ladyship snatched from beneath my very nose if I tarry.”

Catheryn’s chuckle was lost as he made a hasty bow and set off to claim his partner. Tiffany’s eyes glowed at his approach, and Catheryn started at the sound of a harshly indrawn breath at her side. She turned to find Lawrence staring at the other couple, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, and color draining from his face. Momentarily chilled by his expression, she gradually relaxed as he became aware of her attention and exerted himself to be pleasing. By the time her next partner arrived to claim her hand, the incident had slipped to the nether regions of her mind.

As the evening progressed and she bowed first to one friend and then another, Catheryn realized that she had acquired many since her arrival in London. Thanks to the Dambroke support, she had been easily accepted into their world and was amazed at how comfortable she found it She loved the excitement and fast pace of the city, the parties, and the people. Her life had taken on a certain dreamlike quality for the moment, but she knew the novelty would wear off and wondered if she would long then for the peace and quiet of the country.

Mr. Brummell claimed her for a waltz and, as they swung onto the floor, Catheryn nearly missed her step. The Beau followed her gaze to where Edmund Caston danced with Lady Prudence. He smiled vaguely. “That’s quite old news, Miss Westering. You must know they have been an
on dit
this week and longer.”

“But Edmund is waltzing, sir! Just as though he never disapproved of it at all!”

“So he is,” the Beau admitted, adding that Mr. Caston must have taken lessons, since he was doing the thing quite well. He spoke again a moment later, but Catheryn’s reply was nearly absentminded as she watched the other couple.

“He seems so relaxed, so un-Edmundlike.”

“The match will undoubtedly be the making of him.” Brummell’s tone was acid and Catheryn, quick to hear it, dimpled up at him.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I am boring you.”

“Admitting a fault merely compounds the original error, Miss Westering,” he replied sweetly.

She chuckled her appreciation. “My cousin’s affairs must always interest me, sir, but I should not dwell upon them in your presence. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Of course.” He whirled her through an intricate pattern and into the closing steps of the dance, bringing her up breathless and laughing. Brummell smiled and then his attention was diverted to a point behind her. “I believe your next partner is impatient, ma’am. Your servant, my lord.”

Catheryn turned to find Dambroke behind her. Some days before, he had scrawled his name for the set of country dances now forming as well as for the supper dance, but she had not spoken with him all evening. Seeing him now, she began to feel the same weakness she had felt earlier standing in front of his desk. The company smile with which he greeted her did not conceal an anxious look in his eye, and she scarcely noticed Mr. Brummell’s departure.

“Do you mind very much if we do not dance, Catheryn?”

“Not at all, my lord,” she answered with equal politeness. “Mr. Brummell has quite worn me out.”

“Will you walk with me in the garden, or are you so tired that you would prefer to sit while I fetch some ratafia? Or, no, you prefer lemonade, if I remember correctly.” He quirked an eyebrow and she chuckled. Dambroke relaxed. “I was afraid you were still vexed with me.”

“Me too. That you were with me, I mean.”

“I’m not. Shall it be the garden or the lemonade?”

“The garden. Some fresh air would be delightful.” She glanced around. “I hope I’ve not offended Mr. Brummell again.”

“Again?” She let him place her hand in the crook of his arm and, as they walked, began to tell him of her conversation with the Beau, thinking it would amuse him.

French windows at the end of the ballroom led onto a wide balcony with steps at either end leading down to the gardens. Torches had been placed in strategic areas, both to light the way for casual roamers and—in the countess’s words—to deter the more outrageous young men from certain amorous strategies. When they reached the garden, Dambroke guided her to a marble bench and indicated that she should sit. He had not laughed at her tale. “I doubt he is offended,” he said, “but since he has chosen to notice you, you must be careful, my dear. Should you truly offend him, he might cut the connection.”

“I should survive it, my lord,” she smiled.

“No doubt,” he replied quietly. “But it could ruin you socially. Brummell still wields great influence. Not only do his tailor and bootmaker fear to dun him, lest he take his custom elsewhere, but no hostess who values his opinion would dare invite anyone he dislikes to a function honored by his presence.”

“I see.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “I shall have a care, my lord, while I remain in London.”

“While you remain?” He sounded surprised.

Catheryn smiled. “I should like to stay, of course, and I should still like to set up housekeeping here. But although Edmund has said he will speak to my uncle, I doubt he will grant me an allowance large enough for the purpose, so I shall no doubt be returning to Somerset soon. I cannot remain indefinitely as your mother’s guest, you know.” He was silent. “Shall we walk again, my lord? It grows chilly.”

Obligingly, he rose and took her hand again, but he remained silent and Catheryn lapsed into her own thoughts. She wondered briefly if anyone would comment on their absence. It was useless to hope no one had noticed. Dambroke was too great a matrimonial prize. She glanced up at his profile. He looked stern, almost forbidding, even under the softening rays of the golden moon shining above. It was not a full moon, more shame to it, but romantic enough at three-quarters. Nevertheless, it did nothing to make his profile look more loverlike. She thought him handsome but acknowledged that with the firm, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and deepset eyes, his features were too harsh ever to allow him to look like one of the romantic heroes of literature. But then, most of those heroes were probably a bit on the soppy side, now she came to think of it.

“Must I raise the bid to a guinea?”

Jolted out of her reverie, Catheryn stammered, “Wh-what? I mean, I beg your pardon, my lord. Did you speak?”

“I merely offered the proverbial penny.”

“Penny? Oh!” Flaming warmth swept across her face, and she had cause to be grateful to the gentle moonlight. Fighting her blushes, she took a deep breath, exerting herself to control her voice. “I’m sorry, sir. I was but daydreaming. My thoughts are scarcely worth your penny, let alone a guinea.”

“Do you not trust me, little one, or is it that you are still angry with me in spite of your denial?”

Little one! “I believe the music has stopped, my lord,” she said stupidly.

“So it has. You evade my question.”

“I am not angry, my lord,” she muttered.

“You were.”

“Amazingly,” she agreed. “Gentlemen are so idiotish.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Well, they are,” she insisted, glad to pursue a subject she had hoped to avoid, since she wanted so much more to avoid the subject of her private thoughts. “Men always set such store by their own words. You are punishing Teddy because of something
you
said. It would make more sense to me if Teddy were being sent away because of a promise he made to you rather than one you made to him. Oh, I don’t make any sense! Do you understand me?”

He laughed. “Of course I do. You mean it should have been Teddy who said, ‘Now, look here, Dambroke….’”

“Well, perhaps, ‘Please, my lord—’”

“Very well. I’m willing to accommodate. ‘Please, my lord, I promise I shall never do it again, but if I do you must send me to the country.’ Like that?”

“It does sound ridiculous put like that,” she agreed, “but it was so harsh and unfeeling the other way. Females would never be so rigid.”

He was still amused. “My dear Catheryn, does it occur to you that you have just reached the crux of the matter?” She looked up at him. “You have involved yourself in business between two males and are trying to understand it with a female mind. It can’t be done any more than I could presume to understand business concocted between two females.”

Her eyes widened into a gaze of such disarming innocence that the earl quite failed to note the spark of anger. “Tell me something, my lord.” She spoke sweetly, and he smiled, clearly thinking he had made his point.

“What is it, my dear?”

“You have seemed until now to be a sensible man. Do you always talk such ridiculous fustian?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Granted.”

“Catheryn.” The note of warning was there but overridden by amusement.

“Well, you should beg my pardon! Of all the conceited, despicable statements to make, to presume that a female’s understanding is any less acute than a man’s!”

“Don’t take my head off, little one. I cry pardon.” He sighed. “We weren’t even going to discuss this issue.”

“You began it.”

“Must we descend to nursery recriminations?” he moaned.

She chuckled. “No, sir. That did sound childish.” They were silent, each thinking private thoughts while the moonlight danced on leaves made to quiver by a slight spring breeze. Music drifted from the ballroom punctuated occasionally by a note of laughter nearer to hand. Once or twice they passed another couple enjoying the fresh air, but neither noticed the appraising looks cast in their own direction. The music stopped.

“We must go back, sir. The last dance did not matter, but I am promised for this one.”

“One moment.” He turned her to face him, his hands lightly on her shoulders. They were completely alone for that moment. “I have wanted to do this since the day you first arrived.” He bent down swiftly and kissed her.

It was the merest touch of his lips against her own, but it sent a tingling shock wave clear to Catheryn’s toes. She was astounded, taken completely by surprise. Sense and nonsense collided with one another as her mind struggled to cope with a sudden flurry of thought and emotion. How dared he do such a thing! Could he possibly take her for a woman of easy virtue? Perhaps she was one at that, else why had she not evaded him? Of course, she reassured herself, it had happened so quickly that she had had no time to realize his intent before he had taken his liberty; but now, surely now, instead of staring up at him wide-eyed, she ought to react. Why was she standing like a stock, even granting him opportunity to repeat his action? A proper lady would never behave so stupidly. Indeed, a proper lady would smack his face for him. But she had no desire at all to do that. In fact, she realized with a shock nearly as great as that caused by the kiss itself that she rather wished he would do it again. When, instead, he gently took her arm and turned her back toward the balcony, she did not know whether to be glad or sorry.