The Duke Suggests a Scandal

by Gemma Blackwood

  “I asked for your hand,” said Harry. “As was our arrangement. Do not trouble yourself, Cathy. I am quite sure he cannot refuse me. If the kiss was not enough to force his hand – why, you have done even more to compel him by coming here today unaccompanied.” The expression on her face stopped him. “Are you not happy?”

  “I can only be happy when all is settled,” said Catherine. In truth, it was the coldness of Harry’s words which had made her frown. He spoke so clinically – as if their engagement were nothing more than a prearranged piece of business!

  It was quite clear to her that Harry could not possibly be in love. Why this disappointed her, she could not rightly say.

  “I will call upon your father again as soon as you send me word that he is well,” Harry assured her. “In the meantime, how can I assist you? I do not like to think of you managing your house and your father’s care all alone. Perhaps I can send a basket of sweetmeats to tempt him back into a good appetite? I will have anything you desire sent down from London immediately. I shall have to get my brothers’ housekeeper on it – they cannot be trusted to manage any task themselves, however small.”

  The fond way he spoke of his brothers warmed her heart. Harry was a good man, full of empathy, humble despite his great station and his fortune, and capable of most anything. The more they spoke together, the less Catherine’s stomach fluttered when she thought of the future. She did trust Harry, after all. He had given her no reason to doubt him.

  “Have you any books about the house?” she asked, feeling a little shy. Within the space of a few weeks, if all went to plan, it would be her house too. “My father has a great desire to occupy himself with reading.”

  “A very fine occupation,” smiled Harry. “I shall have a package of books sent around immediately.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. And I must thank you for something more…” She found herself blushing to speak of it. “The little book of poetry and – and the beautiful necklace.”

  “Did you like it?” he murmured, drawing closer to her. His hand moved to trace a line across her delicate collarbone. Catherine shivered – with fear or delight, she did not know.

  “I am afraid I must go, Your Grace. I do not want my father to wake and send for me and find me gone.”

  “Perhaps you ought to leave by the back entrance?” Harry suggested, moving away again. “That will keep your visit safe from prying eyes.”

  Catherine smiled. “I came in by the front door, Your Grace. I cannot imagine what your neighbours will think if they do not see me leave again. I shall have to trust in you and Papa for the restoration of my reputation – I do not seem to have the knack for repairing it myself.”

  Despite the further knock she had given her prospects by visiting Harry alone, Catherine returned home with a spring in her step and a lighter heart.

  Her father had fortunately not risen again from bed. Her illicit visit would remain a secret for now. The only indication of what she had done was the smile that stayed on her face until late in the evening. Seeing Harry’s face again had put her in the best of moods. When her father remarked upon her unusual good spirits, Catherine only answered:

  “I am glad to see you recovering, Papa.”

  Yes, she was reassured that Harry was handsome. Harry was all that a gentleman should be. Best of all, Harry was true.

  The only thing that she found lacking was that Harry had not said he loved her. If that was said – if she could feel secure in his affections, or lack of – she would finally be able to decide for herself exactly how it was she felt about Harry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Harry had a great number of calls to make the next morning. There were numerous old friends of his and his mother’s who would have taken it as a slight if he did not pay a visit. Besides, he had grown to thoroughly enjoy the reaction of those who had known him since childhood when he met them for the first time in his new role as the Duke of Westbourne.

  For this reason, he left his valet in charge of selecting a number of books to parcel up and send round to the Sharp household. He penned a quick, excessively polite letter to Mr Sharp and left the rest to Jacobs, giving him free reign to search all the bookcases of the house for works of poetry and fiction.

  The morning passed most agreeably. He was greeted with delight by all he encountered, regardless of whether they had heard of his recent scandals or not. A Duke was certain to be well-received no matter where he went. Harry would have been lying if he pretended he did not enjoy the privileges of his new title. The persona of the young and handsome Duke was one that suited him admirably. He enjoyed the new gravity with which men conversed with him – even gentlemen so much more advanced in years that prior to his elevation they would have considered him no more than a young scamp. His opinion now carried great weight in all matters. Every word he said was held up as a shining example of the English language.

  As long as he did not want to be taken seriously as himself, forgetting the title, he had every reason to be perfectly content.

  He even enjoyed the attentions of the ladies. The young debutantes especially – not that many still remained in Devon now that the Season was underway – were continually shooting him shy glances, laughing at his jokes, and dropping hints that further visits might be well-received. Kirby’s fears for his reputation with the fairer sex thus far proved to be quite unfounded.

  The young Misses of Elmston did not go quite so far as the tenacious Miss Hendrington had done in Larksley. At her parents’ last ball she had even taken the step of slipping a note into his hand as they danced together. His mind at the time had been firmly fixed on Catherine, however, and to spare the lady any embarrassment he had pocketed the note and torn it to shreds, unread, at his earliest convenience.

  No-one, however, was fair enough or charming enough to tear his mind from its primary occupation: thinking of Catherine.

  The nerve she had, to defy convention and visit him unchaperoned! The very thought of the delicious adventures they might share once she was finally his sent shivers of anticipation running over his skin. Catherine was a woman to be reckoned with. When she wanted something, she reached out and took it – regardless of the consequences.

  The only thing that troubled him faintly was that she had given him no indication that she truly wanted him. Oh, the kiss had spoken well enough of pleasure and desire – he’d be damned if any woman he kissed that way did not tremble down into her stockings. Conversation between them flowed easily and with a degree of honesty he did not often find elsewhere. He had no doubt that they were compatible. The question had not even crossed his mind.

  Was it too much to ask, though, for a few sighs of passion? They had already come so far together. Harry was nothing if not confident in his own natural abilities, but he had to admit to being a tad miffed that, despite all his efforts, Catherine was not falling at his feet. Why, all he had to do to enthral the likes of Miss Hendrington was simply to appear in her drawing room! His very presence was enough to send many ladies of the ton into a swoon.

  Not so with Catherine. He was not certain whether it frustrated him or led him to respect her all the more.

  I have no pretensions to His Grace’s title, she’d told Kirby. And what fire she had spat at him as she said it! But if she wasn’t interested in his title, if she was after his money only to secure her family’s future, and if she failed to be moved by his extravagant gifts, what more could he do to charm her?

  Harry’s ambition went beyond the usual way of married life. He wanted his second match to be incandescent. He wanted nothing less than pure, swooning, heart-rending love.

  By every sign he knew how to read, for the second time in his life he was about to be disappointed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The package of books arrived promptly at Catherine’s house by early afternoon. She was taking advantage of the good light to sew up a new shirt for her father – the days in which he had been able to afford a shirt-maker’s s
ervices were sadly resigned to the distant past – and watched with interest as Robson conveyed a heavy, square parcel up to her father’s room. Within minutes she was called upon to assist him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” her father asked grumpily, waving the short note from Harry in the air. He was sitting up in bed, his nightcap sitting a little askew on his sparse grey hair, and glaring at the books in his lap as though they had personally offended him. “Does your young man mean to bribe me?”

  “He means to assist your recovery in any way he can,” said Catherine, gathering up the books and arranging them on a shelf. “He is a very good sort, Papa –”

  “I always remembered him as such,” growled Mr Sharp ominously. “But his behaviour of late does not suggest a man of fine character. As far as I can see young Marsden has grown up quite wicked.”

  Catherine felt a prickle of fear hearing him abuse Harry so. “He is no longer simply Marsden,” she reminded her father quietly. It was all she felt brave enough to do, considering his weakened condition. This was no time to begin an argument. “He is the Duke of Westbourne now.”

  “He will always be a young rascal to me,” said Mr Sharp. His words were harsh, but Catherine thought she detected a slight softening in his tone. The title of Duke worked wonders, it seemed, even with an old grump such as her father.

  “I did not call you up to debate the merits of your suitors,” her father continued. “Have you leisure enough to read to me a little? It seems to me that I may as well take advantage of his generosity, no matter from what foolish sentiment it springs.”

  “I am at your service, Papa,” said Catherine. She saw a glimmer of hope. Her father could easily have rejected the Duke’s gift if he were really inclined to snub him.

  “Let’s have a few short poems, then. I am heartily sick of this illness, Cathy. I do not have the strength to listen for long.”

  “I will read until you are sleeping,” she offered. “And I shall not take offense if you fall asleep mid-verse. Do whatever suits you best.” Her fingers danced along the spines of each book, all of them enticing in their newness. “Have you any preference?”

  “Let the choice be yours,” he said.

  Her hand stopped at one particular title. Fugitive Pieces. To Catherine, who felt she was now a fugitive from the censure of all Society, it felt peculiarly appropriate. “Will you hear a little from Lord Byron, Papa?”

  He raised his craggy eyebrows. “I might have trusted you to make such a choice. Yes, let us hear his Lordship’s poetry. But be certain to shut the door, Cathy. We don’t want to risk scandalising the servants.”

  She flicked through the book as she obeyed him. “It is a collection of his early work. I do not think there is anything too shocking…”

  Her voice drifted off as her fingers found a page which felt bulky compared to the rest. No, not a page – a letter. She opened the book carefully, holding it so that her father could not see.

  There were two words on the envelope in place of the address. My Cathy.

  She slammed the book closed with a thump.

  “Ha! Have you found something to scandalise you?” asked Mr Sharp, laughing wheezily.

  “Not at all, Papa. It is only… My hand only slipped a moment. Here, let me start at the beginning.”

  Balancing the book carefully so that the letter did not slip out, she began to read. Her mind was racing – certainly not focused on the poetry. How could Harry be so foolish, to leave a letter addressed to her inside a book meant for her father? To address it so familiarly – My Cathy – That was not at all likely to win a parent’s approval. It was unnaturally thoughtless of him.

  Or perhaps he had always been so thoughtless, and she had only mistaken his reckless actions for a sense of adventure.

  True to his prediction, Mr Sharp began to nod as the second poem was being read. Cathy fought to keep her voice low and soothing despite the tension rising in her chest. The sooner her father fell asleep, the sooner she might steal out of the room and read Harry’s letter.

  It took several more poems and a few false starts before Catherine was satisfied that her father would not wake and see her leaving his chamber with the book still in her hand. She tip-toed away as quietly as she could and closed the door softly. She was about to run along the corridor to her rooms when she turned and was confronted by the unexpected appearance of Robson.

  “You startled me!” gasped Catherine, almost dropping the book. She fumbled to hold it in as natural a position as possible, so as not to arouse any suspicion.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss,” said Robson. He looked at the door with polite confusion. “Is Mr Sharp asleep? You took such great care closing the door just now.”

  “I did not want to wake him,” Catherine explained. Robson looked embarrassed.

  “I’m afraid it’s time for his medicine, Miss. I have mixed the tonic as the doctor instructed.” He held up a glass of a white, cloudy liquid.

  If her father awoke now he might ask for the book again. Catherine knew he would not be angry if she had taken it without his permission, but she wanted to examine it thoroughly before giving it back and she could not risk telling her father why.

  “An extra twenty minutes will do him a world of good,” she said, hoping that she spoke the truth. “Rest is better than any tonic. Here, give it to me, and I will take it in again later when he has had a chance to doze.”

  Robson looked perplexed, but was too well-trained to argue. He handed over the tonic and went back downstairs, walking with exaggerated care so that his feet made hardly any noise at all.

  Catherine went into her room and locked the door. Her nerves were taut as the strings on a pianoforte. She paced from the door to the window two or three times before finally sitting down at her dressing-table and opening the book to find the letter again.

  My Cathy. He had never addressed her so.

  Her hand trembled as she opened the letter. What strange paper he had chosen! It was yellow and old, as if it had lain a long time unused in some dusty drawer. Curious, her eyes flicked first to the date of the letter.

  She took a long moment to fully understand what was written there. It was dated some six years previously.

  What could it mean? Was it simply an error? But no – the crackle of the old paper, the faded blue of the ink – this was an old letter. Carefully preserved, but written long ago.

  Six years took them back before the occasion of Harry’s first marriage. This letter had been written when she was only seventeen years old. When she had known no dearer companion than Mr Harry Marsden.

  But they had been friends only. What did he mean by addressing her My Cathy? She racked her memories for any time he had called her by that affectionate name.

  Startled, and feeling a knot in her stomach that hovered somewhere between excitement and dread, Catherine read on.

  My dearest Cathy,

  I am writing to you on what is the saddest day of my life to date, though I fear there may be many worse days to come.

  I have just this morning been commanded to marry myself off to Miss Juliana Morrissey. I cannot see any way out of this match. My father, as I think you know, has been most horribly imprudent of late and our situation is dire.

  I must act as I am bid, not for my sake but for the salvation of my dear mother and my two young brothers. They do not deserve to be thrust into a life of penury on account of my selfishness.

  Cathy, I might bear this marriage with much more fortitude were it not for the fact that it robs me of the chance ever to express my true feelings towards you. For some weeks now I have been in agony, wondering how and when to tell you that I no longer view you simply as my friend. You are the most fair, the most fascinating, the most intriguing woman of my acquaintance. I have spent sleepless nights thinking of you, Cathy. I must take this final opportunity to tell you that I am utterly and irrevocably in love.

  It is my greatest regret that I never made my feelings known while I had t
he chance. Only yesterday I felt so young, so carefree – I believed that I had all the time in the world. I meant to court you as you deserved, with care and patience. I meant to make you fall in love with me as I have fallen for you.

  We would have been poor, but what is poverty next to love? Cathy, I truly believe that my one chance for happiness in this life lay in your arms.

  I will never forget you. The memory of having loved you will be the one shining light that guides me through the coming darkness.

  I beg you, think of me kindly. Do not let my confession prevent you from living a most full and happy life. Though it wounds me deeply to think on it, I know you cannot help but inspire love in another’s heart. All too soon you too will be settled for life. I can only hope you make a happier match than mine.

  The torment is unbearable. I can write no more. I must accept my fate.

  I am always yours. Always, always, always.

  Harry

  Catherine read the letter completely through in one stunned attempt. Her mind reeled. Once she was finished, she found she could not quite comprehend what had passed before her eyes. She kept returning first to one phrase, then another, in a bewildered struggle to understand.

  Harry had loved her. Before his marriage, Harry had loved her.

  Why had he not sent her the letter then?

  Why was he sending it now?

  Unless… unless he had not meant to send it at all. By all appearances it had lain undisturbed within the covers of Fugitive Pieces for many long years.

  The anguish emanating from the lines of his letter sent spikes of pain through Catherine’s heart. How she longed to reach through the page – to reach through time itself – and take this tormented younger Harry in her arms and comfort him!