She smiled into the turf, then rolled over onto her back. She squinted into the bright sky, felt the damp of the grass seeping into her clothes, into her hair. She stretched out her arms, then held her gloved hands in front of her face. Grass stains on this pair, now.
“Oh, Captain Avebury,” she said, closing her eyes. “That was splendid. It has been years and years since I have made the effort to run like that. I felt like the wind.” The smile faded a bit, and she added softly, “I used to try to run when I was a very small girl. But my father saw me from a window, and then Nurse told me I had to stop, because he found it disgusting to watch.” Her voice trailed off, the image of the green lawns of Albrook fresh in her mind.
“You know,” Avebury began in a conversational tone.
Catherine opened her eyes. She shaded her brow with a hand.
“I would not lie on the grass. The sheep, you know.” He sounded apologetic. With an appalled cry, Catherine started, trying to scramble to her feet.
“Oh, good gracious!” she exclaimed, wobbling as she tried to pull her bad leg out from under her. Avebury pulled her up with a strong hand. Frantically, she beat at her habit and tried to do the same with her hair, which only caused it to tumble down her back in a messy tangle. She looked about wildly, then saw Avebury’s expression.
“Oh, you dreadful creature!” she cried. “You are teasing me!”
“It was far too tempting,” Avebury admitted, avoiding Catherine’s infuriated lunge toward him. “Was that blow meant for me? I will come and take my medicine, ma’am.”
Meekly, he came forward.
Catherine pretended to swat his arm. “This is the proof I needed. You are a country-bred boy. I am right, am I not?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am. A city boy would not have thought twice about lying on the grass in a field where sheep are grazing.” His voice was grave, but she could see the laughter threatening in his eyes.
“Where are you from? The north?”
“I was born in the north. Yorkshire.”
“You do not sound like you are from the north at all. Is your family from there?”
She was trying to put her hair back to rights, and failing miserably. It was useful not to be able to meet his eyes right at this moment. She detected a strained note in his voice.
“They were once. But we moved to London when I was just a little boy.”
“I see.” Catherine gave up trying to make herself tidy. “My hair will just have to do as it is. Where has my hat gone?” She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped grimly at her chin.
“Let me fetch it for you.” Avebury strode across the field to retrieve the hat. He was so tall, so sturdy, so confident. But he was uncomfortable talking about his family. He had to be of good background, Catherine decided. The Navy wouldn’t have advanced him otherwise, surely? Even if he had risen up through the ranks, beginning as a lowly ship’s boy, they would have expected him to know how to behave in polite company.
A family in trade, perhaps? That was not such a disgrace. Sir Lyle had shipping and trading interests. There were worse places in which to invest one’s money.
And I have the countenance to overcome any number of bad connections, she thought comfortably. No one would dare speak ill of my husband.
Chapter 12
She started as she realised what she was thinking. Dumbly, she took the hat Avebury proffered. She stared blankly at her handkerchief, now adorned with mud and grass, all of it wiped from her chin and neck.
“Lady Catherine? Are you well?”
“Why – yes,” she stammered. “Quite all right. Just … daydreaming.” She put on her hat. “There. We can pretend my hair isn’t a mess. Is there mud on my face still?”
Avebury bent to brush away something from close to one ear. “All gone.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said, her voice faint. She was disconcerted. This was all very strange. She was unaccustomed to feeling self-conscious in front of him. Even though she leant against him, grabbed his hand for support, let him help her up to and down from her mount – he was so casual, almost brotherly. She had never felt even slightly vulnerable. He did not frighten her the way that Sir Lyle did.
But would he marry her? Was he in the least bit interested?
She tried to glance at him from under her lashes, like a young girl at a ball, intent on flirting. She felt ridiculous, so she tilted her head to see him better. Avebury was looking at her, a slightly puzzled frown on his face. Then he looked away, across the fields, toward Wansdyke.
“Why do you live at Wansdyke?” he asked.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Is it your father’s property? Will you have to leave when he is gone?”
It was the first time he had asked about her father, and his first acknowledgement of her father’s condition. She hesitated before replying; she wanted to be honest, but she had never had to explain herself before. Everyone in Bath knew the story. Everyone in Bath pitied her, even while they envied and disliked her. No one had ever asked her about her family in such a dispassionate way.
“It was my mother’s property,” she began. “It passed directly to her from her father. The Mansion Place apartment as well – she took the waters often when she was ill, before she died. I don’t remember anything about it, of course. I was very, very small. I came to live at Wansdyke with my governess when I was ten. My father did not want to see me, you see.”
“Does your father not have anything to say about how you live here?”
Catherine cast him an amused smile. “No. Even if he had, I would ignore him. Papa’s only concern is that I keep up appearances – but he never could bring himself to care enough to come down to Wansdyke to scold me. He has always sent me a great deal of money – which, of course, I spend before asking for more – so I deal with his agent, most of the time.” She laughed. “It upsets him that I choose to go out in society. He thinks it a disgrace that a deformed child like myself should have ball gowns made and attend functions as if I had had a proper coming out.”
“It seems that you have limited use for those niceties, Lady Catherine. Or am I mistaken?” Avebury turned his eyes away from the view of Wansdyke and back to her. She thought she glimpsed a faint tinge of envy; perhaps it was a trick of light. “Is the approval of the ton important to you at all?”
“Not very,” Catherine began, but she stopped seeing something shadowy, something painful, flit across Avebury’s face. “What is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Something – you just thought of something.”
“Not at all.” He turned, hands in his pockets. “Will it rain, do you think?”
Bewildered, Catherine looked about. Little white clouds, puffy and light, were visible in the distance, but this was as clear a day as one could hope for at this time of year. She watched Avebury’s retreating back as he headed in a leisurely fashion toward the sheep, kicking clods of earth out of the way as he went.
Something was wrong. She could feel it. What could it be? “Captain Avebury!” She hobbled along.
He turned around and waited for her to catch up.
“Have I said something wrong?” she asked, panting. She reached out to lean against his arm.
“Not at all, Lady Catherine.” He smiled, but his eyes were blank.
“Does it bother you that we meet this way? Would you rather not? Do you think me dreadfully fast? Do I disgust you?”
That forced a laugh out of him. He shook his head. “So many questions!”
“I speak my mind,” Catherine said. “Isn’t that better than lying behind polite words?”
She saw the exact moment when his face froze. Her own voice echoed in her head. Isn’t that better than lying behind polite words?
Avebury looked away. “You do not disgust me, Lady Catherine.”
“Wait, Captain Avebury, please,” Catherine begged. She pulled at his arm until he stopped beside her. Still, he avoided her eyes. He examined his bo
ots, bent to flick off a blade of grass. “You are upset, Captain Avebury. Are we not friends? Will you not tell me what is on your mind?”
“Many things, Lady Catherine. Many complicated things that I cannot possibly explain in an afternoon.” Avebury looked up from his boots. “But you are kind to be concerned.”
“I am more than concerned!” Catherine protested. “I am—” She stopped herself. She was … was what?
“I am your friend,” she ended weakly.
“As I am yours.” Avebury smiled down at her. “Come, let us walk before all this glorious sunshine is gone. And before your very dour Miss Barrow decides to come in search of you.”
“Unlikely!” Catherine laughed, following along. She knew him better than to press too far.
“We need a picnic,” Avebury said. “And a blanket for the grass.”
“Next time. But it will be your responsibility. I can hardly carry a hamper when I ride. And I cannot convince Lydia to walk with me.”
“Does she not scold you for riding out alone to meet an officer?”
“Not at all. It is scarcely a clandestine meeting when I do not hesitate to invite her to join us. I would like to introduce you to her. Why will you not come back with me to Wansdyke?”
Avebury shrugged. “I am very ill at ease in grand surroundings. I prefer to view Wansdyke from a distance.”
“Well, one day you must come. It is a great deal less grand inside.”
Avebury did not reply. Catherine glanced up at his profile. He was becoming very dear to her – but did he feel the same about her? She had gathered that his voyages had been extremely profitable so he had no reason to marry for money. Social status and prestige seemed not to matter to him. Could she convince him that a life with her might be … interesting?
And he could return to sea, of course. He would be recalled to duty at some point, anyway. Perhaps she could go along. And she could surely find someone in the Admiralty who would see fit to make him an admiral. He could certainly take her along if he were an admiral. And if not – why, she could make do with an occasional visit. She had never expected to be married at all; she could continue to live alone while he was at sea, she imagined.
She knew why marrying her was advantageous to Sir Lyle; she could make it advantageous for Avebury, instead. No matter who her husband, her marriage would be one of convenience, after all. Both parties should have what they wanted. And, as long as she had an heir – as long as she could bear the next Earl St Clair, she would be happy.
She felt herself blushing a little at the thought.
But most of all, her heart sang, I would be free, free of the limitations placed on unmarried ladies, and free to do anything, go anywhere, be anything I choose. I would have beaten Papa at his own sad game. I would not be a prisoner of this cursed leg. I would not be a prisoner of my sex. I would have the family and tradition that the Clavertons denied me. And I would be living proof that Papa was wrong. He would not love me. But I will have someone who will love me – my son. And I will love him, every inch of him, and never, never leave him!
She hadn’t needed that portrait after all. And now, she deeply regretted having it made. When she got her hands on it, she would burn it.
She would wait for Lydia to tell her what she could discover about the captain. Perhaps there would be a clue to this secret unhappiness.
“Captain Avebury,” she said shyly. He looked inquiringly at her. She took a deep breath. “Tell me about … about India. What do the natives wear? And can you really smell the spices in the breeze?”
For a moment, a little wrinkle between his brows suggested incomprehension. Then his face – indeed, his whole body – relaxed. Catherine felt him draw her closer, his pace slow, as peace suffused him.
“India …” he began. “Well, their most remarkable spice is the clove. And you can really smell it around the warehouses, if they are packing the cases and the wind is right ….”
Chapter 13
“Sir Lyle is here to see you, Lady Catherine.” Her butler’s words stopped her in the hall. “He is waiting in the drawing room.”
“Where is Miss Barrow?” she asked, continuing to strip off her grass-stained gloves.
“She has gone out, my lady.”
Catherine almost groaned. This was highly inconvenient. “Send him my compliments, if you please, and tell him I regret—”
“I thought I heard your voice.” The door leading from the drawing room opened, and Sir Lyle emerged into the hall. He dismissed the butler with a nod.
“Good afternoon, Sir Lyle,” Catherine said. “I have just come back from a ride. Would you mind waiting a little longer, while I change?”
“That must have been some ride,” Sir Lyle said, looking amused. “Did you fall?”
Catherine glanced down at the stains on her clothes. “No,” she said coldly. “But it was very muddy. I beg your pardon, I really must change. I will have tea sent in directly.”
Sir Lyle bowed slightly, and retreated.
* * *
When Catherine returned, she found Sir Lyle engrossed in a volume of poetry that she had left open on a table next to her usual chair. He sprang up as she entered, and came to offer his arm. After she had settled into her chair, he stepped back, but remained standing.
Catherine opened her mouth to ask him what brought him out to Wansdyke, but she stopped herself just in time. She said instead, “It is good to see you, Sir Lyle. I thought you would visit me sooner.”
“You disappeared from Mansion Place quite abruptly. But I can quite see why. It is indeed beautiful here.”
Catherine inclined her head. “At this time of year, it is hard to be elsewhere,” she admitted.
“I would certainly not want to be elsewhere.”
Her eyes flashed to his. He was watching her, his expression bland. She looked away.
“It is inconvenient that Miss Barrow is not here at the moment,” she said, ignoring his comment. “I’m afraid I cannot ask you to stay for long without her presence. I don’t receive many visitors here, and I did not expect—”
To her surprise, he burst out laughing. It was a warm, pleasant sound.
“Now, now, my dear Lady Catherine! You cannot expect me to believe that you care for such things. You live as you please, do as you please, think as you please – do you not?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Catherine felt her cheeks growing warm. “I do not normally entertain gentlemen without Miss Barrow present.”
“Forgive me,” Sir Lyle said. “I did not mean to embarrass you. But you are not one for maidenly blushes, I hope?”
“That would depend,” Catherine said, feeling her temper rise. “Are you here to provoke me? I fear I am as sensitive as any female, and my feelings are as easily wounded. At what do you think I would not blush?”
“Please accept my apologies, Lady Catherine.” Sir Lyle made his way over to her. She looked up at him. He was very tall, perhaps even as tall as Captain Avebury. But how different he was in looks – so very blond, rugged: handsome in a very masculine sense. “I am boorish, insensitive.” He knelt beside her and took her hand. “I am here because I want to be with you.”
Catherine felt her pulse quicken. She inclined her head mutely.
“I admire you very much, Lady Catherine. You are a woman of great beauty and sensibility.”
“And lame, Sir Lyle. Do not forget lame.” Her voice was bitter.
“Not important,” he said smoothly. “Why should that matter? How has it affected our friendship?” He kissed her hand, a long, lingering kiss. Gently, he turned her hand over, and pressed his lips into her palm.
“You … you do not really want to marry me,” Catherine said. She cleared her throat. His lips were nibbling softly at the fleshy part of her palm, at the base of her thumb.
“Really?” he murmured. His lips travelled to her wrist.
“You just want the title,” she continued. She closed her eyes, tried to concentrate. He wa
s stroking the inside of her elbow. “For business reasons. Even I have some pride, Sir Lyle. Why should I marry someone who only wants me for my—”
Sir Lyle lifted his head. “Fie, Catherine,” he said gently. “Do you really think that only your title matters to me?” She opened her eyes.
His face was very close. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. But she did not allow her gaze to waver.
He sat back slightly. “You are afraid of me.”
“What?” Catherine tried to laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
“Have you … heard something?”
“About you? Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He cocked his head. “Can that be so?”
“It is indeed. Why should I have heard anything?”
“There are those who despise me.”
“That is true of all men.”
“Ah. You are very wise.” His face softened. He looked away, toward the French doors leading out to the gardens. “We are alike, you know. You and I. We are both passionate souls.”
“You have been reading novels, Sir Lyle.” Catherine tried to laugh.
“I read that in your poetry book. I thought you would like it.” He smiled at her. “You are tempted. Admit that much. Give me hope.”
“Tempted? By you?”
“By love.”
“What of love?” Catherine objected. “Who is speaking of love?”
His grip suddenly tightened. He leant closer. She stiffened. “You forget yourself, sir,” she said hoarsely, before he kissed her.
She had never been kissed by a man; she didn’t know what to expect. The closeness, the cloying heaviness of it – she could feel every inch of herself through the warm pressure on her lips. She wondered fleetingly if she smelled of grass and mud and sheep. Sir Lyle smelled of tea and something she did not recognise, something heavy and heady and strong, like horses or ale.
He was gentle, but she could feel the power behind the gentleness. She realised dimly that she was indeed afraid. She knew nothing of him, really. Dared she marry him merely to have what she wanted? Would someone like Sir Lyle allow her to live the way she wanted? Would he seek to control her, as her father had?
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