Married by Morning

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Thank you.” Picking up the small sealed card, Catherine felt a twinge of pleasure when she saw her name written in Leo’s unmistakable style, the neat, semi-joined italic of a trained architect.

  “Ring when you’re finished with the tray, miss, and I’ll run up to get it. And if you need help dressing or arranging your hair, I’m a fair hand at that too.”

  Catherine waited until the maid had left before opening the note.

  Mysterious outing planned for this morning. Be ready at ten o’clock sharp. Wear walking shoes.

  —R

  A smile broke out on Catherine’s face. “Mysterious outing,” she said, watching as Dodger hoisted himself up on the bed, his tiny nose working appreciatively as he detected food nearby. “What could he be planning? No, Dodger, don’t even think of disturbing my breakfast. You’ll have to wait till I’m done. I draw the line at sharing a plate with you.”

  Seeming to understand her stern tone, Dodger stretched and rolled slowly, completing three revolutions across the mattress.

  “And don’t expect this to be a permanent arrangement,” Catherine added, stirring sugar in her tea. “I’m only taking care of you until you go back to Beatrix.”

  She was so hungry that she ate every morsel on her plate, except for the small portion she reserved for the ferret. The eggs were perfect, the steaming yellow centers perfect for dipping the crisp pistolette crusts. When she was done, she spooned a coddled egg into a saucer for Dodge, placed a few berries on the side, and went to set it on the floor for him. Happily Dodger circled her, paused for a petting, and went to devour his food.

  Catherine had just finished washing and brushing out her hair when there came a knock at the door. It was Poppy, accompanied by the housemaid she had seen earlier. Poppy was carrying at least three dresses draped across her arms, while the maid held a large basket filled with what appeared to ladies’ linens, stockings, gloves, and other fripperies.

  “Good morning,” Poppy said cheerfully, coming in to lay the gown across the bed. Glancing at the ferret eating in the corner, she shook her head and grinned. “Hello, Dodger.”

  “Are all those things for me?” Catherine asked. “I don’t need so much, truly—”

  “I’m forcing it on you,” Poppy informed her, “so don’t dare try to give anything back. I’ve included a few new underthings from the dressmaker, and a ‘reform’ corset—do you remember when we saw them displayed at the ladies’ outfitter stand at the Great Exhibition?”

  “Of course.” Catherine smiled. “Impossible to forget a collection of women’s private garments being hung out for all the world to view.”

  “Well, there was a good reason why Madame Caplin won the prize medal at the exhibition. The Caplin corsets are much lighter than the usual ones, and they don’t have nearly as many poky, pointy stays, and the whole thing adjusts to the body rather than molding you into an uncomfortable shape. Harry told the hotel housekeeper, Mrs. Pennywhistle, that any of the maids who wished to wear one could charge it to the Rutledge.”

  Catherine’s brows lifted. “Truly?”

  “Yes, because it allows them so much more freedom of movement. And you can breathe.” Poppy lifted a pale seafoam-green dress from the bed and showed it to her. “You must wear this today. I’m sure it will fit you—we’re the same height, only you’re slimmer, and I have to tight-lace to fit into it.”

  “You are too generous, Poppy.”

  “Nonsense, we’re sisters.” She sent Catherine an affectionate glance. “Whether or not you marry Leo, we’ll always be sisters. Leo told me about your outing at ten o’clock. Did he tell you where you’re going?”

  “No, did he tell you?”

  “Yes.” Poppy grinned.

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll let him surprise you. However, I will say that the expedition has my—and Harry’s—full approval.”

  After the combined efforts of Poppy and the maid, Catherine was dressed in a pale seafoam gown, neither blue nor green but some perfect shade between the two. The bodice was close-fitting, stylishly cut without a waist seam, the skirts plain until the knee, where they draped in rows of flounces. The matching jacket, tailored to the waist, was trimmed with silk fringe in interwoven shades of blue, green, and silver-gray. A small, flirtatious hat was set on the upsweep of her hair, which had been done in a waterfall chignon with the ends tucked up and pinned beneath.

  To Catherine, who had gone so long without wearing anything pretty or modish, the effect was disconcerting. She saw a stylishly turned-out woman in the looking glass, decidedly feminine and dashing.

  “Oh, miss, you’re as pretty as the girls they paint on tins of sweets,” the housemaid exclaimed.

  “She’s right, Catherine,” Poppy said, beaming. “Wait until my brother sees you! He’ll rue every awful word he’s ever said to you.”

  “I’ve said awful things to him too,” Catherine replied soberly.

  “We all knew there was a reason behind the animosity between you,” Poppy said. “But we could never agree on what it was. Beatrix was right, of course.”

  “About what?”

  “That you and Leo were like a pair of ferrets, a bit rough-and-tumble in courtship.”

  Catherine smiled sheepishly. “Beatrix is very intuitive.”

  Poppy directed a wry glance at Dodger, who was carefully licking the last residue of egg off the saucer. “I used to think Beatrix would outgrow her obsession with animals. Now I realize it’s the way her brain works. She sees hardly any difference between the animal world and the human one. I only hope she can find a man who will tolerate her individuality.”

  “What a tactful way to put it,” Catherine said, laughing. “You mean a man who won’t complain about finding rabbits in his shoes or a lizard in his cigar box?”

  “Exactly.”

  “She will,” Catherine assured her. “Beatrix is far too loving, and worthy of being loved, to go unmarried.”

  “As are you,” Poppy said meaningfully. She went to scoop up the ferret as he proceeded to investigate the contents of the basket. “I’ll take Dodger for the day. I’m doing correspondence all morning, and he can sleep on my desk while I work.”

  The ferret hung limp in Poppy’s hold, grinning at Catherine as he was carried away.

  Leo hadn’t wanted to leave Catherine alone last night. He had wanted to stay beside her, watch over her, like a griffin guarding an exotic treasure. Although Leo had never possessed a jealous nature before, it seemed he was quickly making up for lost time. It was particularly annoying that Catherine was so reliant upon Harry. But it was natural that she should want to depend on her brother, especially when Harry had once rescued her from a dire situation and had been her only constant in the years afterward. Even though Harry had shown little love or interest in her until recently, he was all she’d ever had.

  The problem was that Leo had a consuming desire to be everything to Catherine. He wanted to be her exclusive confidant, her lover and closest friend, to tend to her most intimate needs. To warm her with his body when she was cold, hold a cup to her lips when she was thirsty, rub her feet when she was tired. To join his life with hers in every significant and mundane way.

  However, he would not win her with one gesture, one conversation, one passion-filled night. He would have to chip away at her, removing strategic slivers here and there until her objections finally collapsed. That would require patience, attention, time. So be it. She was worth all of that and more.

  Arriving at the door of Catherine’s suite, Leo knocked discreetly and waited. She appeared promptly, opening the door and smiling at him. “Good morning,” she said with an expectant glance.

  Any words of greeting Leo had intended to say vanished instantly. His gaze traveled slowly over her. She was like one of the exquisite feminine images painted on bandboxes or displayed in print shops. The pristine perfection of her made him long to unwrap her, like a bonbon done up in a neat paper twist.

  Leo’s
silence went on so long that Catherine was forced to speak again. “I’m ready for the outing. Where are we going?”

  “I can’t remember,” Leo said, still staring. He moved forward as if to crowd her back into the room.

  Holding her ground, Catherine placed a gloved hand on his chest. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you inside, my lord. It wouldn’t be proper. And I do hope that for this outing you have hired an open carriage instead of a closed one?”

  “We can take a carriage if you prefer. But our destination is a short distance, and the walk is pleasant, through St. James’s Park. Would you like to go on foot?”

  She nodded immediately.

  As they left the hotel, Leo took the side nearest the curb. Walking with her hand tucked into the crook of Leo’s arm, Catherine told him what she and Beatrix had read concerning the park, that King James had kept a collection of animals there, including camels, crocodiles, and an elephant, as well as a row of aviaries along what became Birdcage Walk. That led to Leo telling her about the architect John Nash, who had designed the central mall through the park. The avenue had become the royal ceremonial route from Buckingham Palace.

  “Nash was what they called a coxcomb back then,” Leo said. “Arrogant and self-important, which are requirements for an architect of that caliber.”

  “Are they?” Catherine seemed amused. “Why, my lord?”

  “The staggering amount of money expended on an important work, and the public nature of it … it’s effrontery, really, to believe that a design in one’s head has enough merit to be built on a large scale. A painting hangs in a museum where people have to seek it out, or avoid it if they prefer. But there’s not much one can do to avoid a building, and God help us all if it’s an eyesore.”

  She glanced at him astutely, paying close attention. “Do you ever dream of designing a grand public palace or monument, as Mr. Nash did?”

  “No, I have no ambitions to be a great architect. Only a useful one. I like designing smaller projects, such as the tenant houses on the estate. They’re no less important than a palace, in my opinion.” He shortened his stride to match hers, and steered her carefully over a rough patch in the pavement. “When I went back to France the second time, I happened to encounter one of my professors from the Académie des Beaux-Arts, while I was on a walk in Provence. Lovely old man.”

  “What a fortunate coincidence.”

  “Fate.”

  “You believe in fate?”

  Leo gave her a crooked grin. “Impossible not to, living with Rohan and Merripen, don’t you think?”

  Catherine smiled back, and shook her head. “I’m a skeptic. I believe fate is who we are and what we make of our chances. Go on … tell me about the professor.”

  “I visited Professor Joseph often after that chance meeting, drawing and drafting and studying in his atelier.” He pronounced the surname the French way, with the stress on the second syllable. Pausing, he smiled in rueful reminiscence. “We often talked over glasses of chartreuse. I couldn’t abide the stuff.”

  “What did you talk about?” came the soft question.

  “Usually architecture. Professor Joseph had a pure view of it … that a small, perfectly designed cottage has as much value as a grand public edifice. And he spoke of things he’d never mentioned at the Académie; his sense of the connections between the physical and spiritual … that a perfect man-made creation, such as a painting, sculpture, or a building, could provide you with a moment of transcendence. Clarity. A key to unlock a glimpse of heaven.”

  Leo paused as he glimpsed her troubled expression. “I’ve bored you. Forgive me.”

  “No, it’s not that at all.” They walked in silence for nearly a half minute before Catherine burst out, “I’ve never really known you. You are overturning so much of what I assumed about you. It’s very disconcerting.”

  “Does that mean you’re softening toward the idea of marrying me?”

  “Not at all,” she said, and he grinned.

  “You will,” he said. “You can’t resist my charms forever.” He guided her away from the park and onto a prosperous street of shops and businesses.

  “Are you taking me to a haberdashery?” Catherine asked, viewing the windows and signs. “A flower shop? A book shop?”

  “Here,” Leo said, stopping in front of a window. “What do you think of this place?”

  She squinted at the printed sign hung inside the window. “Telescopes?” she asked in bewilderment. “You want me to take up astronomy?”

  Leo turned her back to the window. “Continue reading.”

  “‘Purveyors of camp, racecourse, opera, and perspective glasses,—” she read aloud, “‘by Her Majesty’s royal letters patent. Illuminated ocular examinations performed by Dr. Henry Schaeffer with modern devices for the purpose of scientific correction of vision acuity.—”

  “Dr. Schaeffer is the finest oculist in London,” Leo said. “Some say in the world. He was a professor of astronomy at Trinity, when his work with lenses led him to an interest in the human eye. He was habilitated as an ophthamologist, and has made remarkable strides in the field. I made an appointment for you to see him.”

  “But I don’t need the finest oculist in London,” she protested, puzzled that Leo would have gone to such lengths.

  “Come, Marks,” he said, drawing her to the door. “It’s time for you to have proper spectacles.”

  The interior of the shop was intriguing, lined with shelves of telescopes, magnifying glasses, binoculars, stereoscope instruments, and all manner of eyeglasses. A pleasant young clerk greeted them and went to fetch Dr. Schaeffer. The doctor came out very soon, displaying an expansive and jovial temperament. A handsome set of white whiskers framed his pink cheeks, and a thick snowy mustache curved upward when he smiled.

  Schaeffer showed them around his shop, pausing to demonstrate a stereoscope and explain how the illusion of depth was created. “This instrument serves two purposes,” the doctor said, his eyes twinkling behind his own spectacle lenses. “First, the stereogram cards are sometimes of use in treating focusing disorders in certain patients. And second, they are helpful in entertaining high-spirited children.”

  Catherine was cautious but willing as she and Leo followed Dr. Schaeffer to the rooms at the back of his shop. Whenever she had purchased spectacles in the past, the optician had simply brought out a tray of lenses, handed her various ones to hold up to her eyes, and when she felt she had obtained sufficient vision, he had proceeded to make spectacles for her.

  Dr. Schaeffer, however, insisted on examining her eyes with a lens he called a “corneal loupe,” after putting drops into her eyes to dilate the pupils. After pronouncing that there were no signs of disease or degeneration, he asked her to read letters and numbers from a series of three charts on the wall. She was obliged to reread the charts with various strengths of lenses, until finally they achieved a near-miraculous clarity.

  When it came time to discuss the frames for the lenses, Leo surprised both Catherine and Dr. Schaeffer by taking an active part. “The spectacles that Miss Marks wears at present,” Leo said, “leave a mark at the bridge of her nose.”

  “The contour of the support arch must be adjusted,” the doctor said.

  “Undoubtedly.” Leo withdrew a slip of paper from the pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. “However, I have a few more ideas. What if the bridge is built up to hold the lenses a bit farther away from her face?”

  “You’re thinking of a design similar to the clips of a pince-nez?” Schaeffer asked thoughtfully.

  “Yes, they would fit more comfortably and also stay in place.”

  Schaeffer stared closely at the sketch Leo had given him. “You’ve drawn curved earpieces, I see. An unusual feature.”

  “The intention is to hold the spectacles more firmly onto her face.”

  “This is a problem, keeping them on?”

  “Without question,” Leo replied. “This is a very active woman. Chasing animals,
falling through rooftops, stacking rock—all an average day for her.”

  “My lord,” Catherine said in reproof.

  Schaeffer smiled as he examined the contorted shapes of her spectacles. “From the condition of these frames, Miss Marks, one could almost believe Lord Ramsay’s claims.” His mustache curved upward. “With your permission, I will instruct the jeweler I work with to build the frames you’ve drawn.”

  “Make them in silver,” Leo said. He paused, regarding Catherine with a faint smile. “And have him put a touch of filigree on the earpieces. Nothing vulgar … keep it delicate.”

  Catherine shook her head immediately. “Such adornment is expensive and unnecessary.”

  “Do it nevertheless,” Leo said to the doctor, his gaze still holding Catherine’s. “Your face deserves adornment. I would hardly put a masterpiece in a ordinary frame, would I?”

  She sent him a reproving glance. She neither liked nor trusted such outrageous flattery, nor did she intend to melt at his charm. But Leo gave her an unrepentant grin. And as he sat there and surveyed her with wicked blue eyes, she felt a painfully sweet contraction of her heart, followed by the sensation of being knocked off balance. Such a long distance to fall … and yet she couldn’t seem to back away from the danger.

  She could only stay there with her precarious equilibrium, suspended in longing and peril … unable to save herself.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It has been confirmed by Mr. Harry Rutledge, the London hotelier, that a woman identified as Miss Catherine Marks is in fact a half sister who has heretofore lived in relative obscurity as a companion to the family of Viscount Ramsay of Hampshire. Upon inquiry as to why the young woman was not previously brought out into society, Mr. Rutledge explained the discretion as appropriate to the circumstances of her birth, as the natural child of Mr. Rutledge’s mother and an unnamed gentleman. Mr. Rutledge proceeded to emphasize the decorous and refined nature of his sister, and his own pride in acknowledging kinship with a woman he describes as “estimable in every regard.”