Twice the Temptation (5 page)

Catherine regarded Meghan. “But the two of you are…” She struggled to find the appropriate term to describe their interaction for she couldn’t call it a relationship. Cool, formal, and unfriendly were more apt terms.

“Go ahead, say it, I don’t mind. We are the last two people you could ever picture together. He is a rake and I suffer rakes not at all. Every week the man has a different woman on his arm. I guess it was incumbent upon him to make the attempt, as I must be one of the few women in all of London who isn’t tripping all over herself to cross his path,” Meghan concluded with a disdainful sniff.

Olivia’s brother, the Earl of Granville, was currently considered the catch of the century. Should any woman get him to the altar, she’d be lauded all over England. Aesthetically beautiful in a wholly masculine way, he was heir to one of the oldest, most respected dukedoms in England. And should charm be considered a virtue, he’d possess more than a saint.

“Interesting,” Catherine replied softly. While the earl had always been mildly flirtatious, he’d never once crossed the line so she’d have reason to believe he wanted more. But for Meghan he had. So
very
interesting.

Meghan wore a disgruntled look. “An obvious exaggeration, but I believe my point is made.”

“And where was I when all this occurred?” Catherine asked.

Meghan took a long drink from her tea before answering. “This was in the early days of Charlotte’s return. I didn’t burden you with it, as I knew it would come to nothing. True to his colors, Lord Granville ceased his pursuit after two months.”

Olivia remained silent, her expression indicating she refused to enter into a discussion about the exploits of the older brother she adored.

It really wasn’t so surprising that Lord Granville would pursue her. If he was declared the prince of men, certainly Meghan couldn’t be less than a princess in her own right.

Her friend’s dark auburn locks and exquisite features personified femininity and elegance in the most elemental way. And so that ordinary women could rail at the gods at the unfairness of it all, she had once caused two carriages to collide in Piccadilly Circle in the course of simply crossing the street. Men couldn’t help but stop and stare. Contrarily, the ladies would inspect her like a brood mare, desperately seeking some tiny imperfection so they could declare she couldn’t be the fairest after all. Their search would end in vain.

“That is all in the past. Now they are once again, unfailingly polite to one another, are you not?” Olivia gave Meghan a pointed look, which was blithely ignored. “But truly, I’d rather we not speak about my brother when we have other matters at hand. Meghan you haven’t yet told Catherine who she is to test next.”

Subject changed and discussion of the next man in their crosshairs now squarely in Meghan’s lap, Olivia touched the serviette to the corners of her mouth to wipe away any lingering evidence of the second pastry she’d just eaten.

“But why must it be me?” Catherine normally would not have protested as her friends took on the majority of the assignments, but two days in a row
was
excessive.

“’Tis Lord Billings.”

Meghan’s explanation squelched any further objections Catherine would have made. A baron of modest fortune, adequate looks and temperance, Lord Billings had courted Catherine two years ago with no success. She’d been relieved to hear of his betrothal to a young American woman, who boasted a dowry of fifty thousand pounds.

“Have you met this Miss Fairchild?” Catherine asked, picking up her cup to take a sip of her long-neglected tea. As expected, it was barely lukewarm.

Meghan shook her head. “I will—we shall,” she corrected “—all meet her tomorrow evening at Lady Ever’s ball. Miss North says she’s quite the beauty.”

“Does she wish to marry the baron? Given she hails from America, this has the look of one of those mutually advantageous arrangements. Coin for a title. A fair trade some might say.”

Unless the legitimacy of your birth deemed you forever unsuitable a match.
One must never forget that.

“From what I was able to gather, she may be looking for a way out of the betrothal. Should he pass muster, however, she will consider him,” Meghan said.

Olivia nodded emphatically. “Clever girl. As you stated, Catherine, such gentlemen are few and far between. The odds are, she mightn’t find another like him again should he prove the faithful sort. I believe this will turn out to be all a numbers game.”

Catherine had never fared well in games where fortunes were left to chance by the roll of a dice or capricious turn of a card. She fared even worse in the matters of courtship and love. Mr. Samuel, Lucas, and Lord Braddock, disasters, all of them.

Her expression must have conveyed her thoughts for Meghan reached over and gave her hand a pat and a light squeeze. “Lord Braddock is a loathsome man.” Meghan’s voice was as venom-filled as the fateful day she’d learned of the incident. “A proper pounding is what he deserved for what he did to Jillian. I thank God every day you didn’t marry that pompous arse. You are too good for him.”

“Truthfully Catherine, did you intend to accept when he proposed?” Olivia peered at her over the rim of her cup. Without waiting for Catherine’s response, she continued, “It’s just that I sensed a lack of interest, quite unlike the interest you had in Mr. Beaumont. We scarcely saw you the entire time he was in England.”

Catherine sucked in a breath.

Memories of him came unbidden, assailing her with such stark longing, her heart hurt. It had already been a year since his return to America. She missed him still. Truly, she tried her best to forget him, his touch, his kisses. But it was an exercise in futility as the most minute of things brought with them
more
memories of him. Yet every day, she would start the process anew, trying to thrust him permanently from her mind and other inconvenient places.

Stifling those errant emotions, she stated, “Mr. Beaumont is in America and I am here.” Her tone was hard and final. Discussion of said American was irrevocably closed.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE
 

T
wo hours later, Catherine followed the footman who’d accompanied her on her call into Gretchen Manor, her sister’s residence and hers temporarily until James and his family returned from London.

The entrance hall was empty and she was struck by the silence. It was frightfully quiet when her five-year-old nephew, Nicholas, was not about. He was boisterous, energetic, and everything excited him. He was a boy.

Charlotte appeared just as Catherine handed the last of her outer garments off to the footman.

“Thank goodness you are back.” Her sister rushed toward her in a flutter of mauve merino and silk. Three months past the birth of her second child Rose, Charlotte literally glowed. Her skin bloomed an iridescent pink, her ringlets shone like newly spun gold, and her figure had been fully restored to its natural slimness.

She and Charlotte might be identical in appearance, but her sister possessed an air of well-loved contentedness that made Catherine both happy and envious all at once.
She
wanted that: the adoring husband who put her above all else. And she wanted children. A whole houseful of them. But as life would have it, she was unlikely to have either.

“You will not believe who has just arrived.”

“The Queen?” she teased. “Don’t tell me that word of my irrefutable charm has reached her ears and now I alone can claim the triumph of wresting her out of years of inconsolable mourning?”

Charlotte chortled, a gaily infectious sound. “I’d venture to say even better than poor dear Victoria.”

Catherine’s eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her open mouth in mock affront and shock. Drawing her hand away, she asked in hushed tones, “Who on earth could possibly be better than our Queen?”

“I hope you’ll find me a favorable substitute.”

Had Catherine held a glass in her hand, it would lay shattered on the marble floor much like her composure. The man who’d dominated her thoughts the last twelve months stepped into view. For a moment, she was certain she was hallucinating, conjuring him up from a series of dreams and fantasies.

A gasp escaped her lips, her shock now as real as the man approaching from the direction of the drawing room. And if possible, he looked even better than she’d imagined him—than she remembered him. From his cravat down to his buffed lace-up boots, today he resembled more an English aristocrat than an American businessman. Even the distinctly American way he had of collapsing vowels into consonants seemed to have taken on a crisper, more polished English tone. He seemed to have shrugged off the American in him with his overcoat.

“Lucas.” His name tumbled from her lips, uttered in a rush of breathless disbelief, rippling the currents of the air with a longing that left her vulnerable and exposed. She caught herself when she realized just how she sounded. Bewildered. Bewitched.

Her pride scampered to the scene, belated but not so much so that all was lost. She straightened her spine, cleared her throat, and spoke louder as if that would negate her initial reaction. “Mr. Beaumont, what an unexpected surprise.”

Her sister averted her face, a smile fringing the corners of her mouth. Lucas smiled, elevating his looks from exceptional to sublime. He moved with a precision of purpose, his gait that of a man comfortable in his skin in a world not even she felt entirely comfortable.

He wore a coat the same color of the brown flecks in his hazel eyes and his waistcoat and trousers indicated how mulberry stripes and tan could happily co-exist. Catherine took him in, all long lean muscles and uncompromising masculinity, and wished she didn’t find him so appealing.

“Catherine. You look more beautiful than ever.”

A shiver raced through her at his words and the informality of his greeting. He halted in front of her, standing much too close for proper breathing. She then made the mistake of inhaling, only to permeate her collective senses with everything that was him. Her mind was muddled. She couldn’t recall what she had said last, but stalwart, forged on in an attempt to somehow deaden his effect.

“Pray, what brings you to England again so soon?”

“So soon? Katie, Lucas has been gone for some time,” Charlotte chided. “Over a year if memory serves me right.”

Her sister’s memory served her ill as it had been exactly eleven months and two weeks. But really, who was keeping track? Not she who had counted the days like a miser counted his coin.

“Has it been so long?” Catherine asked with a slight lift of her eyebrow, continuing to hold Lucas’s stare.

“It has been eleven months, two weeks and five days,” he stated with a confidence of fact that one would be smart not to question.

Catherine’s jaw sagged and a small whoosh of air swept from between her lips. What possible reason had he to remember right down to the day? She was afraid to ask. Wishful thinking and hope were her enemies. Both had let her down before.

“Your sister tells me you are her guest until your brother and his family returns from London.”

“Yes. Parliament doesn’t recess for Easter until the eighth of April,” she replied politely, as if her heart hadn’t started a frantic beating within the too tight confines of her chest walls.

“And neither of us could stand the thought of Katie puttering about Rutherford Manor all alone. Though to be completely honest, it saves us both countless trips back and forth. Had I been successful this past year, she’d be calling Gretchen Manor her home.” Charlotte smiled warmly at her.

As much as she loved her twin or perhaps
because
she loved her so very much, she could never accept such an offer. She wasn’t so selfish as to infringe on her sister’s time alone with Alex when a year ago she’d returned after a five-year absence.

“Charlotte, if you don’t mind, I wish to speak with your sister alone.” Without waiting for her sister’s response, he took Catherine’s arm and steered her toward the library at the opposite end of the main corridor. His hand on her elbow was by all appearances appropriately circumspect but in truth, it felt rather possessive…intimate. The silk of her sleeve merely served as a conduit of his body heat as it burned her everywhere his bare flesh touched hers. She resented him for treating her so familiarly, as if their time apart didn’t warrant some apprehension on his part, and certainly some acrimony on hers.

Upon entrance to the library, Lucas closed the door. She moved out of his reach and turned to eye him directly, chin elevated. “You are behaving quite presumptuously.” She prayed the chill in her voice would mask her roiling emotions.

Lucas’s smile appeared like the languid stretch of a cat on a lazy Sunday afternoon. “I rather thought you liked my
presumptuousness
.” He made the word a potent caress. “At least it appeared that way on several occasions when I was last in England.”

Catherine did not accept embarrassment with the
politesse
of a lady—flushed cheeks and a timid smile most men found enchanting. Instead, her walls snapped up as she erected her defenses. “It is very rude of you to bring up the incident.”