At a certain point the Duke went to the window to admire the view, which was indeed pleasant enough, if not magnificent – Agnes’s house stood at the very edge of town and overlooked a rolling pasture, with a rather craggy hilltop on one side beyond which a small river ran. There was a smattering of spring flowers, daffodils and purple crocuses, which had delighted Catherine during her daily walks over the hill and along the riverside.
“It reminds me of that poem by Mr Wordsworth,” remarked Harry. “The one about the daffodils – do you recall, Miss Sharp?”
Catherine was surprised at being addressed so directly. She raised her head and felt very keenly the weight of the book of poetry still sitting in her lap.
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“If I remember rightly you used to recite that poem as we walked through your father’s gardens in the early morning. About ten o’clock, if my memory serves me. I wonder if the riverside here at ten o’clock in the morning is half as pretty as a Devonshire garden?”
“You have a very…exact memory, Your Grace,” said Agnes, perplexed, and completely failing to ascribe any hidden meaning to Harry’s words.
Catherine was not so slow as her sister. She knew immediately what Harry meant by musing aloud about ten o’clock by the riverside. Indeed, she recalled no such custom of a morning walk in her father’s garden.
Harry was clearly making her an invitation.
A most improper invitation, else he would have made it a general one and made his meaning clear.
He wished to meet her, alone, at ten o’clock the next morning on the banks of the little Larksley river.
She did not know how to respond. He had asked in such a way that she was unable to rebuff him openly.
Perhaps he only meant to make an apology for the way he had behaved at Lady Hendrington’s house. For all his bad behaviour – for six past years of negligence.
In that case, why would he not apologise to all three sisters? He had dropped them all equally from the moment of his marriage.
When Harry took his leave his eyes met Catherine’s as he raised her hand to his lips. “My memories of ten o’clock beside the water have been a source of great delight to me these past years, Miss Sharp.”
“My memory is as good as yours, Your Grace,” said Catherine, before she could stop herself. “I will not forget.”
A spark of pleasure lit up at the back of Harry’s eyes. “I am glad of it.”
Agnes allowed Alice to run to the window and watch him ride away. Catherine could not help her own eyes following. He sat his horse very well, she had to admit. He was no longer the boy of their childhood, but every inch the Duke.
And now she had a secret assignation to meet with him. One that would cause the most awful scandal if anyone were to discover them alone together. She hardly dared think of it – she even took up her detested needlework once more and attempted to bury herself in industry so that the thought of what she might dare do did not drive her to distraction.
A sick feeling of tension grew in her stomach. She hardly knew whether she was nervous, excited, or afraid.
At least she could no longer complain of boredom. In that much, at least, the reappearance of Harry was a blessing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The banks of the Larksley river were alive with beauty on the crisp spring morning that followed. Harry waited anxiously to see whether Catherine would accept his invitation. It was already past ten.
He was about to give up hope and remount his horse when Catherine came into view at the top of the hill. Her figure made a striking silhouette against the sunlit sky. His breath caught in his chest at the sight of her.
“Miss Sharp,” he greeted her, breathing her name soft and low and pressing her gloved hand to his lips. This was the way he was accustomed to greet the ladies of the ton. He was also accustomed to a certain degree of swooning and blushing which followed.
Catherine neither swooned nor blushed. She allowed him to kiss her hand, but otherwise her manner was distant.
“A beautiful morning,” Harry remarked. He found himself desperate to know what she was thinking, but knew not how to draw her out.
“Quite,” said Catherine.
“And are you still a nature-lover, Miss Sharp? I hope your sisters will not remark upon your leaving the house this morning to walk alone.”
“It is still my habit to take a daily walk, Your Grace.”
Harry began to feel frustrated. Catherine’s eyes were fixed on the river, on the flowers budding in the hedges, on the fluffy clouds in the sky – on everything but him.
“Have I offended you?”
Her eyes flashed yes, but her mouth shaped only the polite question: “How could Your Grace possibly have offended me? We have not spoken these past five years.”
“It is six years, Cathy,” said Harry, feeling the blood rise in his chest. “Believe me, I have felt every moment of it.”
Her lips set into a firm line. “You are exactly as I feared you would be. A rake concerned only with flirting and amusing himself. I’m afraid I have made a mistake in coming here this morning. Good day, Your Grace.” She curtseyed briefly and turned away, but Harry caught her arm.
“Please, Cathy – you must listen to me! Don’t speak so harshly to me! I am not what you think.”
Catherine stared at the place where his hand clutched her arm as if she did not know whether to believe he was touching her. Harry pulled her closer. It was against his better instincts – he knew that he risked entrenching himself as a feckless flirt in her eyes – but he could not help it. Now that Catherine was here again before him, a vision from the past, there was no containing his emotion.
Her large eyes rose to his fearfully. Harry felt the spark of their old friendship reignite. The surprise on her face told him she felt something too.
“We were such good friends,” he said. “If you ask me to mend my behaviour, I will. I am the first to admit I have not behaved properly since my wife died. But she is more than forgotten – you and I are here today and I will do anything for things to be as they once were between us.”
“You forgot me and my family the moment you made your fortune,” said Catherine. “How am I to trust you again?”
“I shall make you trust me, Cathy,” he said. Her face was still turned to him, his hand clasped around her waist, and he knew that but a breath lay between them and the kiss he had dreamed of since he was nineteen years old.
But Catherine jerked herself away. “You are entirely too familiar with me. Please do not call me Cathy any longer. It is not proper.”
“You were not always so concerned with propriety,” he said, offering her his arm instead. Catherine took it reluctantly, and they began to walk along the river bank. She was still so close to him – yet so unreachable! It made his heart pound in his chest so loudly he feared she might hear it.
“I was not always in the position I am in today,” said Catherine with a sigh. “I must be the perfect lady if I am to improve my family’s position with a good marriage. And I am already old compared to the young debutantes with their dowries and their good connections. It is difficult. Your Grace must see that things can never be as they were.”
“And yet you came here today.”
“I came to see whether you were also changed.”
“Oh? And what did you discover?”
She stopped walking. “I am afraid you are very much changed, Your Grace.”
“You are afraid?” Harry repeated, a smirk curling his lip. “That sounds unfavourable.”
“Perhaps if you were still Mr Harry Marsden I might explain,” said Catherine. “But I spoke my mind to the Duke of Westbourne at Lady Hendrington’s party, and Agnes chastised me for it. Mr Hinton’s wife must not be outspoken, you see.”
When she spoke of Hinton her gaze fell to the ground and a deep flush covered her cheeks. Harry was clutched by panic.
“Things cannot be quite decided between you and that – that ol
d dog?”
“I expect him to speak to my father any day now,” she said. Her tone was kept carefully blank.
“But he is so – old! Such a fool! And you are –”
“In desperate circumstances, Your Grace. A situation I might expect you to understand.”
“I have suffered the agony of an unhappy marriage,” said Harry quietly. “The last person I should wish such torment upon is you.”
“There is nothing to be done about it now. Everyone knows that Mr Hinton has been courting me. I fear he is not subtle in his affections. To refuse him now would be an insult – worse than that, it would mark me out as a flirt, a tease, an insubstantial woman. My prospects would be ruined.”
“Is this your opinion, or Agnes’s?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Catherine unhappily. “It will all soon be settled, and I am glad of the match. Do you hear me quite clearly? I am glad!”
“What if there were another match for you?” asked Harry. The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. Catherine froze for a moment in shock, before shaking herself as if waking from a dream.
“It is pointless to think of it. There is no other match. I must accept Mr Hinton, and for his sake and my own I’ll smile as I do it.”
“Surely a Duke will do as well for you as a Mr Hinton?” asked Harry, stepping closer to her with a dangerous smile. Catherine backed away.
“I see now that everything I heard of you at Lady Hendrington’s was true.”
“I am making you a serious offer.”
“And I am not a toy to be picked up whenever the fancy takes you! We are no longer children!” She raised a trembling hand to her hot cheeks. Harry took hold of it tenderly.
“Tell me. What is it that frightens you?”
Tears stood out in Catherine’s eyes. “That you are only saying such things to seduce me. That you want me for your mistress, and will cast me aside as soon as sweeter prey comes into sight. I am disappointed to hear you saying such things, Your Grace. My memories of our childhood friendship are…so beautiful. They have been my source of strength in a difficult world. But it is clear to me that you have become a complete rake, and I must take steps to protect myself…”
She tugged away the hand he still held, but she did not move away.
“Your father could have no objection, you know,” Harry continued, as if she had not accused him of lying to seduce her. He ran his hands up her bare arms, and Catherine’s lips parted at the sensation. “You know you would be happier with me than with Hinton, Cathy.”
“I used to trust you,” she whispered. “Now…”
Harry leaned forwards to claim her mouth for his own. Every part of his body was thrilling to the nearness of her, desperate to lose himself in the touch of her lips.
But for the second time she pushed him away. “I have made my decision,” she said, with a quiver in her voice that made her true desires quite clear. “You could make any match you chose, Your Grace – you are rich and handsome and a Duke, and I…”
“Cathy –”
“I do not dare believe you!” she exclaimed, and turned and ran from him up the little hill.
Harry almost followed her. The agonising wrench he felt as she ran out of sight was almost too much to bear.
But he had not had to chase a lady in all the months he had been a widower, and he had developed a sense of pride.
If Catherine did not trust him… well, how could he fault her? It was true that he had revelled in his status as a newly single man. Perhaps he had taken things a little far. He did not relish the thought of the rumours spreading through Larksley reaching her ears. And he had only himself to blame for it.
But that was all before Catherine had reappeared in his life. Now, the only woman he saw was her. He intended to make her his own in every possible way.
The only question that remained was: would she come to him? Or would he have to break his own rule and chase after the one woman he’d ever truly loved?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Catherine spent the afternoon in a state of more confusion than she cared to admit. Fortunately for her, Agnes and Alice had better things to occupy their minds than the flushed excitement in their sister’s cheeks.
“I am going to be the belle of the ball,” sighed Alice, holding her best dress up to the light. “It is a ragged old thing, but I do look well in green.”
Alice’s eyes were full of her dreams of Almack’s, of waltzing with fine gentlemen, of rakes and riches and scandals. Catherine’s heart broke a little to think of her denied Season in town. The pleasures of Larksley were a very poor substitute – but unless the Sharps came unexpectedly into some money, Larksley was the best any of them could hope for.
Catherine pushed all thoughts of the Duke of Westbourne from her mind. Alice’s face was enough to stiffen her resolve. This little ball thrown by Lord and Lady Hendrington would not be the extent of Alice’s adventures. There would be London – there would be new dresses – there would be fashion and frolics and rides through Hyde park.
Mr Hinton would provide for all. A matter this important required more trust than she could put in a rake she had not seen for six years.
“You will be the belle of nothing at all unless you mend that tear in your dress. Here, let me show you how to do it nicely.”
“Leave Alice to her own needlework,” Agnes interrupted, taking Catherine by the hand. “I have something to show you.”
She led Catherine up the stairs into her room, where a pale blue dress in fine muslin was lying on the bed.
Catherine gasped in delight and ran her hand over the delicate fabric. “Agnes, it’s beautiful! You will look so wonderful in this that Mr Blakely is like to fall in love with you all over again!”
“It’s not for me, silly girl,” said Agnes with a fond smile. Catherine could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Mine? No, Agnes – it’s too much – you mustn’t!”
“I must and I will,” said Agnes. “And moreover, I am glad to. Blue suits you well. You should look well, Catherine, on a night like tomorrow night.”
Catherine stopped her fingers as they reached to caress the dress again. “What do you mean, a night like tomorrow?”
Agnes took her by the shoulders and spoke to her urgently. “Don’t play the fool. Mr Hinton will be there. We have been expecting him to propose any day now. The ball will make the perfect opportunity. Charm him. Smile at him. Dance with him. Don’t let him change his mind.” Agnes stroked her cheek with a tender hand. “You are not too old, Catherine. You still have a chance. This one chance. You will succeed – I know it!”
Catherine felt a burning lump rise in her throat. She tried to swallow the tears down and barely succeeded. “Thank you,” she stuttered.
The dress which seconds before had seemed so exquisite now looked like her funeral garb.
CHAPTER NINE
The day of the ball dawned cloudy and grey. It was a good match for Harry’s nervous spirits as he prepared to see Catherine for the first time since she had rejected his advances.
“A good swig of wine will do you good,” urged his friend, Captain Kirby. “You are altogether too pale this afternoon, Harry. It chills my heart to see you!”
Captain Kirby was draped across the sofa in Harry’s bedroom, with no regard for the mud still dripping from his boots after his ride down from London. He had a bottle of red in one hand and a cheroot in the other, and was well-prepared to amuse himself just as well with the ladies of Larksley as he did in London.
On any other day, Harry would have joined him. Indeed, Kirby could not imagine what had happened to his friend, usually the wilder of the two, that he had taken such a turn for sobriety. He watched in astonishment as Harry re-tied his cravat and adjusted his clothing.
“Good god, man! Leave your fussing. You’re like an old woman. Where’s good old Harry Westbourne when I need him to polish off this bottle with me? The ladies will be very displeased to find you
sober, Harry, for you know they’re nothing to look at unless you’re half-drunk.”
“I don’t intend to drink myself into a fool tonight,” said Harry sharply. Kirby slapped his knee and let out a hearty laugh.
“What on earth else will you do at a country ball? Dance? Make eyes at the women too poor to make it to town for the Season? By jove, Harry, I came here to drag you out of this piteous mourning hole and take you back to London where you belong – not to watch you fester!” He pushed himself out of his chair and flung an arm about Harry’s shoulders. “Here. A swig of wine for whatever ails you.”
“I said no!” Harry knocked the tipsy Kirby aside as if he were no more than a fly. “I have important business tonight.” Realising he was in danger of revealing all to his rambunctious friend, he added quickly: “And I mean to ride your boots off in the hunt tomorrow.”
“A hunt? Good lord. We really are in the country,” complained Kirby, whose chief amusements lay in wine, women, and sleeping till past noon.
“You had better get used to it, Kirby.” Harry lowered his hands, finally satisfied with his appearance. He had never taken such care before, and certainly not over a woman. His friend the Captain did not know it, but Harry would not be leaving Larksley until he had made Catherine Sharp his own. “Now, promise me you’ll behave yourself. The people here are not like the louche sorts we hang about with in White’s. I will not have you embarrass me in front of my neighbours.”
“Embarrass you? My dear friend.” Captain Kirby winked at him and finished off the last of his wine in one swallow. “I can’t imagine why you’d concern yourself with such imaginings.”
When the gentlemen arrived at the ball, Harry was barely able to congratulate Lord Hendrington on his fine ballroom or Miss Hendrington on her good looks. His mind was entirely focussed on Catherine. He intended to swoop on her the moment she appeared and engage her for the first dance, and following that, the dance before dinner, so that he might escort her in.
The Duke Suggests a Scandal Page 4