The Duke Suggests a Scandal

by Gemma Blackwood

  Dinner passed most pleasantly without any further incident except that on rising to excuse himself for some air, Harry passed quite deliberately behind Catherine’s chair. As he went, he dropped his cigar case and bent down to retrieve it. Catherine was amazed to find a small slip of paper dropped into her lap. She covered it with her napkin, knowing that if anyone else should see it would be thought very scandalous, and, not knowing what else to do, kept it closed in her hand until she had a moment to slip across to the window when the ladies had retired to the drawing room. Then she opened up the note to find Harry’s familiar looping hand:

  Meet me by the riverside the day after tomorrow. The same hour, the same spot.

  I shall be waiting for you.

  Westbourne

  Catherine slipped the note into her glove as she prepared to leave with her sisters. All the while she bid goodbye to the Hendringtons, her mind was in a flutter.

  She would not go to him. No, she was quite resolved. It would be far too dangerous.

  The moment she returned home she dropped Harry’s note in the fire and resolved to think nothing more about it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next morning, Catherine went about her chores with a firm resolve and a cheerful face. She was thoroughly determined to think no more of the Duke of Westbourne, but to immerse herself in the pleasures of everyday life. Agnes commented more than once on her uncommonly merry demeanour.

  “And you have not even stepped outside, Catherine! I do believe you are finally becoming quite domesticated.”

  “What an idea,” said Catherine, but she was smiling.

  Mr Hinton called upon them very promptly, as he had grown accustomed to do after a ball. Catherine was most distracted during his visit by Agnes’s continual search for some excuse to leave the two of them alone.

  If Mr Hinton wanted to propose, she wished he might be left to do so in peace. She had no reason to wish it to come any sooner than it already would.

  “Oh! Alice! Do you see that out of the window?” asked Agnes finally, shocking Mr Hinton into spilling his tea. “Oh, I do believe a chicken has got out into the garden! Won’t you come and help me shoo it back inside, my dear?”

  Catherine gave Alice a firm shake of her head. Alice took on an almost devilish expression of ignorance. “Why, Agnes, I see nothing of the sort. Your imagination is running away with you.”

  She leaned across to take another lump of sugar for her tea and settled into her chair as firmly as if she did not intend to get up again all day. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I should be more than happy to assist you, Mrs Blakely,” offered Mr Hinton at once. Catherine raised a hand to her mouth to smother a giggle at the thought of the portly Mr Hinton chasing after Agnes’s chickens.

  “Please do not trouble yourself,” said Agnes, sinking down again with a pained smile. “I’m sure the creature can take care of itself.” She sent a poisonous look towards Catherine, who understood it to mean that she was not doing enough to engage Mr Hinton in conversation. The problem was that she had very little idea of what to say to him.

  “Do you not hunt, Mr Hinton?” she asked eventually. “Mr Blakely has joined the other gentlemen at the hunt this morning. It is a very fine day.”

  “Hunting? Can’t abide the sport. All that wind in your face. Terrible for the complexion.”

  Catherine nodded as if she entirely agreed. Behind Mr Hinton’s back, Alice was holding back a laugh at the thought of the red-cheeked old gentleman having any care for his complexion at all.

  “I myself am very partial to a pleasant ride on a breezy spring morning,” said Catherine. She knew she would be rebuked, later, for daring to disagree with her suitor, but she could not help but speak her heart.

  “That speaks of an independent temperament, Miss Sharp,” said Mr Hinton disapprovingly. Agnes hurried to distract him.

  “Of course, one’s health can be maintained in all sorts of more comfortable ways. There is no need to go riding often. Catherine knows that. Don’t you, my dear? Mr Hinton, would you care for another cup of tea?”

  “I must take my leave,” he said, standing up and giving them a courteous nod.

  “Such a shame!” said Catherine, drawing another smothered giggle from Alice.

  Mr Hinton turned to her with a toothy smile. “In fact, Miss Sharp, I wish to warn you that you will not see me for some days to come. I have an errand to run of the greatest importance.”

  “I hope you will not be gone long?” asked Catherine. Was it too much to hope that he had already decided against her?

  Mr Hinton leaned towards her, his yellow-toothed smile growing ever wider. “Do not distress yourself, dear lady. I have reason to believe you may come to be glad of my…little errand. But I can say nothing more as yet. Wait patiently for my return, Miss Sharp. Then all will be revealed.”

  Catherine sat quite stunned after he took his leave. Alice, as was her habit, ran immediately to the window to give a running commentary on the amusing waddle with which Mr Hinton made his way down the garden path.

  “Hush, Alice. You are speaking of Catherine’s best prospect,” snapped Agnes, who was not at all pleased with the way the visit had turned out. “Goodness, but you were very stupid in front of Mr Hinton. Could you not see that I wanted to find some way of leaving them alone?”

  “I saw it very well,” said Alice smugly. “And if I were Catherine I should die to be proposed to by a Mr Hinton when there are such gentlemen as Captain Kirby in town!”

  “Captain Kirby! Good lord! Not another word out of you, young lady! Fetch your needlework and be silent.” Agnes shooed Alice into her chair as if she were the imaginary escaped chicken. “Now, Catherine, what do you think he meant just now? All that talk of his special errand seemed to be directed at you, did it not?”

  Catherine clutched her hands in her lap. “Is it too much to hope that he is travelling to Devon to speak to Father?”

  Agnes cupped her cheek in her hand. “You are radiant today, Catherine. You don’t look a bit over two-and-twenty. There is a very good chance of it, I am certain.”

  Alice made a face over her needlework. “Are you happy, Cathy? Seven thousand a year! Lawks, I would not marry Mr Hinton if he had twenty thousand.”

  Catherine took a deep breath. She would not for all the world lay the family troubles at Alice’s door, but it was very hard to keep quiet under such provocation.

  “My head is aching terribly,” she lied, turning to Agnes with a piteous expression. “I think I must lie down a moment.”

  “That explains why you were so stand-offish with dear Mr Hinton!” sighed Agnes. “Go upstairs and lie quietly – I’m sure it will soon pass.”

  Catherine stumbled into her room, suffering not from a headache but a paroxysm of fear. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of some great abyss down which it was impossible to do anything but fall. All that remained was for her to gather the courage to take the final step over the edge, and she would be lost – lost forever to that awful darkness.

  She lay on her bed and clutched the counterpane against her face to stifle the sound of her sobbing. The last thing she wanted was for Alice to hear.

  Naturally, Alice was too young to understand the family’s situation. Too young to comprehend why a woman might be compelled to accept a man so very repellent to her.

  As long as Catherine had strength in her body, her sister would never be exposed to the awful fate which Catherine now faced herself.

  She pleaded illness for the rest of the day, remaining locked in her rooms and waiting for the fit of terror to pass. Agnes stopped in on her very often, laying a hand on her brow and commenting on how pale she looked.

  Catherine had the strongest urge to run away. Even if only for an hour. To reach the top of the little hill and then run, run, run, leaping over the river and carrying on as far as her feet could take her. No cares under the open sky. No looking back.

  But she knew that even
the beauties of Spring would not soothe her troubled soul. The problem was insurmountable. She had gone too far with Mr Hinton – she had led him to believe too much, and done so too publically – to turn back now.

  All she could do was pray that he was not going to Devon. The thought of his waddling gait approaching the dear ivy-grown doorway of her father’s house made her sick.

  That night Catherine tossed and turned without once falling into the bliss of oblivious sleep. The night seemed to press in against her. She did not understand what had happened to all her resolve, all the fine promises she had made herself.

  She was afraid. She did not want to marry Mr Hinton. She began to believe she would rather die.

  It will not be, she told herself, repeating it again and again like a prayer against evil. It will not be. It will not be.

  By the time she saw the first hints of dawn creeping over the horizon, she had nearly convinced herself. It will not be.

  She rose, washed her face, and dressed, all in a state of weary, dream-tinged anxiety. She was so tired that her hairpins felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds.

  It will not be.

  She managed to smile at breakfast and, though Agnes fretted over her wan appearance, she insisted she was well enough to sit up with her sisters. Agnes must have been very concerned, for she even allowed Catherine to take up her book of poetry instead of needlework without a single word of reproach.

  It will not be.

  Catherine lost herself in the words of the poets, following the amorous highs and awful heartbreaks of love as Mr Donne wrote it, and immersing herself in the sublimity of nature as recounted by Mr Wordsworth.

  It will not be.

  Her heart was finally growing calmer when Mr Blakely arrived back early from his morning calls with something of a clatter.

  “Mr Blakely!” cried Agnes. “Tell me you are not ill as well? What can have brought you back so soon? You were to call upon Lord and Lady Hendrington this morning, as well as the Duke of Westbourne – had you forgotten?”

  “Not at all,” said Mr Blakely, with a twinkle in his eye. He grasped his wife’s hand with clear affection. “Pray, do not concern yourself, dear wife. I have some very fine news to share, very fine indeed. Where is my little sister-in-law? Where is Miss Sharp?”

  “I am here,” said Catherine, confused, setting aside her book of poetry. Mr Blakely strode in towards her, a beaming grin upon his face, clapping his hands together in delight.

  “Now! Who do you suppose I met at Lord Hendrington’s this morning?”

  “I cannot imagine,” said Catherine. Something in Mr Blakely’s expression prickled at her heart, but she forced herself to remain calm. It will not be.

  “I stopped by to pay my morning call,” continued Mr Blakely, “and it so happened that Mr Goodridge was there as well. He is, as you know, a most particular friend of – well, I am sure you can guess who, Miss Sharp!”

  Catherine did not need to guess. Larksley was a small town, and everybody’s preferences were widely known. “Why, he is Mr Hinton’s good friend,” she answered with great equanimity. It will not be. “That must be the gentleman to whom you are referring, Mr Blakely. I cannot imagine that any other of Mr Goodridge’s acquaintance should arouse my interest.”

  “Exactly so!” exclaimed Mr Blakely, rubbing his hands together. “And can you guess what he told me, Miss Sharp?”

  “Indeed, I cannot.”

  “Please, Blakely,” begged Agnes, “do not delay the telling any longer. Catherine is not disposed for excitement this morning. Remember that she has been unwell.”

  “Then I am sorry to announce that my news is very exciting indeed,” smiled Mr Blakely. “For I have heard not half an hour ago that Mr Hinton left yesterday afternoon – for Devon!”

  “Devon!” cried Agnes, practically shouting with delight. “Of course! Catherine, I knew it – I knew it! He must be going to Elmston!”

  “Has he any particular business in Devon?” asked Catherine dimly, feeling as though the world was spinning away from her. “I did not know that he had any friends there at all.”

  “You silly goose!” said Agnes fondly. “Don’t you see? He means to ask Papa for your hand! You are saved! Oh!” She pressed Alice’s head against her chest. “My sisters are saved. Catherine, you clever, clever girl!”

  “Why do you look so sad, Cathy?” asked Alice, pushing Agnes off with a look of concern for Catherine. “You know you need not marry him unless you want to. Cathy?”

  Catherine rose from her chair and moved numbly into the hallway, fumbling for her bonnet and her coat.

  It will not be, she said to herself, her lips mouthing the words. It will not be.

  But it was.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Harry had been waiting by the river for an hour. It was the longest time he had ever spent waiting for a woman.

  He had been cursing himself for the past twenty-five minutes. Cursing his stubbornness, for staying so long. Cursing his past behaviour, which clearly meant that no woman of standing could now take him seriously. Cursing his pride, for thinking Catherine would come anyway.

  He was about to leave – yes, he told himself firmly, to leave and be done with his foolish lost love forever – when Catherine hurried over the ridge. She was deathly pale and her eyes were red with weeping. She held a handkerchief to her face to hide the sobs which racked her.

  She looked at Harry blearily. “Oh. It’s you. I hoped you would be here.”

  Harry immediately sprang towards her and took her in his arms. He rested her face upon his strong shoulder and let her sob against him. “Cathy, Cathy! It will be alright. Whatever has happened, I will fix it for you. I swear it. Cathy, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  After some time her shoulders stopped shaking and her breath came easier. She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief and, realising that she was caught in his embrace, froze like a statue. Harry let her go, though everything in him wanted nothing more than to kiss every tear from her face.

  “Mr Hinton has gone to Devon,” said Catherine. “We think he means to see my Father. To ask for my hand, Your Grace.”

  “Well, and what if he does? All you need do is refuse him.”

  “I cannot. I tell you, I cannot! My family would never forgive me. My sister –” Here her lip trembled as though she might burst into tears again, but with a great shiver she regained her self-control. “The fact is, whether I wish to or not, I simply must go through with this marriage. Mr Hinton has a fortune of seven thousand a year and my poor father has nothing. If I do not marry we will be ruined. Besides, it has come too far now. Mr Hinton expects me to accept him. It is my fault entirely. I have led him to believe that I will.”

  “Is it wise, to throw your whole future on the prospect of Mr Hinton’s good graces?”

  “What other choice do I have, Your Grace?”

  Harry took her hand in his and brought it to his face, pressing it against his cheek. He closed his eyes to the feeling, wishing she were not wearing gloves. He had a deep, ravenous longing for the touch of her skin. “You have me.”

  She shook her head. “Your Grace, I could never subject you to another marriage of convenience.”

  These words stung Harry’s heart like the cut of a whip. “Of convenience,” he repeated carefully.

  “Certainly not. I always suspected you could not be happy with your late wife, and Captain Kirby confirmed it for me the other evening at the ball. I will not let you do this, Your Grace.”

  “Call me Westbourne,” said Harry, still pressing her hand to his cheek. His fingers caressed the back of her hand. “Better yet, call me Harry.”

  “I will not!”

  “When we are married, Cathy, you will call me all manner of names,” he insisted, gently peeling the glove from her hand and pressing her bare skin to his lips. “Some will be pleasant…” He turned her hand over and kissed the pale skin of her wrist. “Others less so. But Harry will be one of the
m.”

  A small sigh escaped Catherine’s lips as he traced the palm of her hand with his fingers. “I cannot marry you. Have you not heard all I said? What about Mr Hinton?”

  “Would you rather marry Hinton than me?” asked Harry. “Even if it is only…for convenience?”

  Catherine blushed deeply and looked down at the ground for a long moment. He reached forward and tipped her chin upwards, expecting to find her embarrassed. To his surprise, her eyes were full of a new fire.

  “You,” said Catherine. “I would rather have you.”

  This was progress. Harry bit down his smile of delight. “Miss Sharp, I must ask you a very important question.”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” she asked, her head held proud and high. Her lips, which had quivered with tears not five minutes hence, were now still and soft and inviting as two rose petals. She was ready to tell him yes. She did not know it – would not let herself believe it, perhaps – but she was about to make every dream he had come true.

  This was where it would all begin. Harry made himself a vow, then and there, that Catherine Sharp would fall in love with him. It mattered not when, or how. He might become an old man with waiting. But she would love him, as truly and passionately as he loved her.

  He would make it so.

  “This is not quite right,” he said, startling Catherine into a frown. “Come with me.”

  He held her hand tightly and led her down the riverbank until they were at the edge of the water. Sunlight sparkled off the rushing stream, sprinkling tiny points of light over the rustling leaves and the soft grass on the ground, over Catherine’s face as she waited for him to propose. She looked like a fairy queen, all aglow despite her red-rimmed eyes and her pale face.

  A blossoming cherry tree hung over the water, covered in thick white blooms like fallen snow. Harry took Catherine underneath it and kept her bare hand held tightly in his. He turned towards her and looked deeply into her wide brown eyes.