Lady Hendrington was soon flattered into deep conversation, leaving Miss Hendrington to lean over the balustrade with Harry.
“It’s very nice to see you again, Your Grace,” she said, all dimples and innocence.
“The pleasure is mine,” Harry answered automatically. Miss Hendrington’s hand crept an inch closer to his own. Her little finger in its white glove brushed against his wrist. Harry jumped visibly.
“Do you enjoy the opera?” she asked softly.
“It is tolerable,” he answered, and folded his hands in his lap. In another box across the theatre, he saw the Earl of Scarcliffe’s face redden as William stroked a curl of hair back from Celia’s white neck.
The evening could not possibly be going any worse.
Harry feigned a great interest in the beginning of the opera to avoid speaking to any of his companions. The music was lovely, light and enchanting, and despite his cynicism he felt himself begin to relax.
They were partway through the first act when James leaned forward and muttered, “I will go and have a word with William.”
Harry’s attention snapped back to the Earl of Scarcliffe’s box. William and Celia sat hand in hand – that was not ideal, but at least acceptable for an engaged couple – and were listening to the music with the benevolent smiles of those who are so very much in love that anything and everything must be charming. He could not see what had aroused James’s concern, but he made no move to stop him. Where the Earl was concerned it was better to be safe than sorry.
Of course, now that his attention had been diverted from the opera, he was left at the full mercy of Miss Hendrington’s advances. She leapt on the opportunity like a cat on a mouse, shuffling her chair towards him with a gentle squeaking of wood on carpet. Her mother turned her eyes away, focused steadfastly on what took place onstage. There would be no help forthcoming from her.
“Withdraw a little with me so that we may speak without everyone looking at us,” said Miss Hendrington, indicating the back half of the box with its blue and gold-painted panels.
“Thank you, I am very comfortable here.”
She was only put out for a moment. “I find music very romantic, don’t you?”
“Music can be many things.”
“Your brother has told me some interesting stories about you,” she said, with a wink intended to draw his curiosity. Harry merely shrugged.
“I doubt I am as interesting as all that.”
“Oh, I disagree!” She leaned closer. “I want you to know that I have quite forgiven you for your behaviour at your dinner party. Quite.”
“Forgiven me?” He raised an eyebrow archly. “I do not recall any behaviour, as you call it, for which it was necessary to seek your forgiveness.”
She bit her lip. “I only wish you to know that there are still people in the world who think well of you. James indicated to me – well, he did not say as much, but I quite clearly saw what he really meant – that you would be pleased to know. Is that not the case?”
“I have never concerned myself with what anybody thinks of me,” said Harry, wishing that were entirely true. Miss Hendrington took that as an invitation to go further. She put her hand on his knee, below the level of the balustrade where no-one could see, and whispered softly,
“I hope that to you I am not just anybody.”
Harry brushed her off irritably. Curse James for leaving him in this mess! “I beg your forgiveness,” he said stiffly, in tones which caused several of the people in the adjacent box to jump and glance in his direction. “I have never sought your particular regard. I can think of no cause I have given you to imagine that I have. Whatever my brother has said to you, I must only apologise for it. I suggest you would do better in future to follow the evidence of your own eyes, rather than the rumours you hear from others.”
Miss Hendrington’s eyes filled with tears. Harry stood up abruptly, sickened by the whole situation. What on earth had James been thinking? Did he imagine his feelings for Catherine were so easily swayed as to reattach themselves to the first woman who crossed his path?
“Do excuse me one moment,” he said brusquely, and stalked through the door…
Very nearly crashing straight into Catherine Sharp.
James, standing nearby, clapped his hands in delighted applause. “Bravo! Very well said! The pair of you could not have done better if I had handed you a script!”
“What is going on?” asked Harry. The question was directed at James, but he could not tear his eyes from Catherine. She looked beautiful but terrified; a radiant flower who might be blown away at any moment by a breath of air. Her brown eyes were wide and pleading, her pink lips frozen half-open as though she were trying to remember how to speak. Her hair glowed about her face in a waterfall of golden ringlets. Best of all, the ruby necklace he had given her was shining around her slender neck. The sight of her, so flushed with emotions he could not guess at, almost struck him dumb.
“You must not chide Miss Sharp for eavesdropping,” said James, breaking the spell. “It was entirely at my instigation.”
“You really are not in love with Miss Hendrington?” asked Catherine. It both was and was not a question. The certainty of it was blooming like a rose in her cheeks.
“What on earth would make you think that?” asked Harry. The next sentence caught on his lips – The only one I’ve ever loved is you – but it was not the place to tell her, with James looking on. Catherine only smiled, a luminous smile which lit up her face like candlelight.
“I’ll go in and see that Miss Hendrington does not come exploring,” said James, slipping inside the box. Harry reached out his hand to Catherine wordlessly. She took it. A small shiver ran up his arm at the touch.
“We have many things to discuss,” he said.
“True. Harry, let me explain –”
“Not here.” He looked up and down the corridor. There were too many doors leading onto it, too many chances that they might be overheard. “Come with me.”
He led her down the red-carpeted corridor as though he were certain of where he was going, when in fact he was no such thing. He took the first door they came upon that did not lead back into the auditorium, and they found themselves in a narrow corridor with wooden floorboards and very little light. Moving silently, they crept along it until the sound of singing indicated that the opera was now taking place directly to their right. The melodious voices soared through the cramped space, rising to the heights of the wooden rafters. It imitated perfectly the soaring of Harry’s heart with Catherine’s hand in his.
“Now we are quite alone,” he said, speaking quietly so that they could not be heard onstage. “You must tell me why you thought I was in love with Miss Hendrington.”
Catherine bowed her head. “Harry, don’t make me speak of it. I am so ashamed. Now that all has come to light it seems so silly.”
“Not at all,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Anything that makes you question my faithfulness to you is a serious matter indeed. Now tell me.”
“Miss Hendrington wrote me a letter,” said Catherine hesitantly. “A letter which stated in very plain terms that you had declared your love for her the day before you persuaded me to kiss you.”
Harry would have laughed if Catherine did not look so very stricken. “And you took Miss Hendrington’s word over mine? Over my promise that I would make you happy?”
“I might not have believed it… Were it not for what I found in the book you gave my father.”
Harry stiffened. “What book is that?”
“Lord Byron’s Fugitive Pieces.”
It took a long moment for the truth to descend on Harry. Slowly, as he realised what had happened, a sick pit of horror opened up inside him. He felt dizzy.
“Cathy – Cathy, I am so sorry. I never intended you to read that letter. I was so much younger when I wrote it.” He saw that she was smiling at him and ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “I cannot even remember what was written in th
ere.”
“Awful things,” she smiled. “Heartbreaking things. Beautiful things. Things that I hoped you might have told me yourself, if they were still true. So I thought…”
“You thought I had forgotten you?” He clasped her hands in his, pulling her closer to him with a strange fire in his eyes. “You who have always been the only woman in the world for me?”
“Harry,” she gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His hand moved up her arm, caressing down the sweet curve of her back and coaxing her forwards until he was holding her against him. Catherine moved uncertainly, tensing where he touched her, before closing her eyes and drinking in the sensation of his body pressed against hers.
“I was afraid you could never love me,” said Harry. “It would have been the tragedy of my life to discover you could only ever think of me as a friend. I needed to hold on to hope, even if that meant waiting – I would have waited for years, Cathy. Forever. But I am brave now. The sight of you has made me brave. I love you and I have always loved you.”
Her eyes opened. “You need not wait any longer,” she said, softly but with great conviction. “I love you too.”
The kiss they shared then, hidden in the dusty backstage corridor of the King’s Theatre with music hanging in the air around them, had not the same fear and thrill which lit up their first kiss. Kissing was no longer new to them; the taste of each other was not an unknown land to be explored. It was the first step upon a long journey of learning each other’s most intimate details. The first step, in fact, towards a long and happy marriage.
Catherine, for example, learned in that moment that she liked to be kissed by Harry, and not because it was illicit, or because it was a dangerous adventure, but simply because she loved him.
In every way, as far as she was concerned, their second kiss was far superior to the first.
“I want to ask you something,” said Harry. She felt his smile widen against her mouth as he kissed her again. “I have asked you before, but now I feel that after all that has passed between us – and after the conversation I have recently enjoyed with your father – it is only proper that I should ask you again. Cathy, will you look past all my many flaws, and marry me?”
“Of course I will,” she replied.
They were startled by the sudden burst of applause that rang out so loudly it seemed to shake the rafters. For a moment Catherine was afraid they had been seen – then she understood.
“Oh, it’s the opera! The first act is over.”
“And the second will shortly begin,” said Harry, his hands nestled in the small of her back. “Come, my love. Would you care to watch the rest with me?”
“Very much. But how? We surely cannot return to your box. Miss Hendrington will be most upset at the failure of her little scheme.”
“Quite so. But the Earl of Scarcliffe has a box which may accommodate us, and in that way you can also meet your future sister-in-law. William has quite the story to tell of how he won Lady Celia.”
“I will be very pleased to hear it,” smiled Catherine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
How very different Larksley was from the seat of Harry’s curricle! Catherine clutched at her bonnet and laughed merrily as the countryside sped by. Her new husband was a fast but very capable driver. The miles between Larksley town and Westbourne Hall were eaten up at an incredible pace by his horses’ strong legs.
“Stop, Harry!” she begged as he urged the horses on to greater speed. “Stop, you must stop, slow down!”
“Onwards!” he shouted, knowing what she truly meant. That she loved the speed, loved the adventure, loved him most of all.
“We shall be overturned and killed!” Catherine squealed, but really she was not at all afraid. Harry’s strong arms were guiding the horses just as they now guided her. There was nothing she trusted more deeply.
The trees overhanging the road were bursting out into summer leaf, dangling boughs rich with greenery into the road. Harry slowed the horses as they approached a patch of rough road. Taking the reins in one hand, he turned about and pulled Catherine towards him for a deep and passionate kiss.
“My Duchess,” he sighed.
“Harry! Not out here – where anyone might see us!”
“There is no-one around for miles, my love. And what if someone does happen by? I am the lord of these lands, as you are their lady. And we are in love. And we are married. If there is a single farm boy in Surrey who does not know it by now, I will stand on my seat and declare it for all to hear!”
“Sit down,” she begged. “Really, Harry, you are too reckless.”
“You are not entirely honest with me, Miss Sharp. I suspect it is my daring which you most admire.” Obliging her, he settled himself and turned his attention back to the horses.
“There are many parts of you I admire,” said Catherine, blushing. A slow smile brightened Harry’s face. This was a new smile, a tempting and desirous smile, the meaning of which she had only recently grown to understand.
“Then you must show me which parts you are particularly fond of when we return to Westbourne Hall.”
Barely had they set foot in Westbourne Hall’s marbled hallway, however, than Harry was bounding off towards the east wing. “Is it ready?” he demanded of his butler.
“All in perfect order,” said the butler solemnly.
“What are you talking about?” asked Catherine. Harry grasped her hand and began leading her, half-running, through the corridors of his great house.
“I have a gift for you,” he said, in great excitement.
“Harry! You cannot – you have given me so many gifts already!” There had been more than she could possibly have imagined. Her dressing-table upstairs was overrun with so much beautiful jewellery she might wear a different piece each day of the year. Her dresses, which once had been so patched and old and behind-the-times, were now all replaced with works of high fashion in gorgeous silks and fine muslins.
“This one will top them all,” he assured her, leading her up a staircase.
In the two days since their marriage, Catherine had still not had time to explore all the rooms of Westbourne Hall. Once she would have thought it would be her first concern to run through each and every room, discovering the delightful secrets of the fine old mansion, but she had quickly realised that there were other secrets still more enticing to be explored in the early days of marriage.
She had not been in this part of the house before. Harry stopped in front of a huge and ancient door made of heavy dark wood carved into elaborate panels. Something about that door filled Catherine with excitement. She could not guess what lay behind it, but knew it must be thrilling.
“Are you ready?” asked Harry. She nodded. He leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on her forehead, then slowly pushed the door open.
Behind it was a beautiful room, small and cosily furnished, with two large comfortable chairs, a writing desk, and the walls lined with bookshelves.
The closest shelves were stocked with books – Catherine ran her fingers over the spines fondly – poetry on one side, novels on the other. All her favourite works were there, and a handful more that she was yet to discover.
A large fireplace occupied one wall, currently unlit and filled with a basket of fresh wildflowers.
But the best thing of all was the huge window which spread nearly from floor to ceiling. Catherine ran forwards to drink in the view.
It was as if the whole of Surrey was rolling away beneath her feet, with all its gentle hills, its delicate copses of ash and its deep forests of ancient oak, its weeping willows trailing their leafy fingers into rushing streams, and its breathtaking pastoral beauty. She could see across the Westbourne estate and onwards again for miles. In the far distance, off to the right, small spirals of smoke marked where Larksley lay.
“This room has the best aspect of the whole house,” said Harry. “So I am giving it to you.”
She wrenched her eyes from the window.
“To me?”
“Yes. This is your own library. The shelves are half-empty now because I want you to fill them.” He gestured to the comfortable set of chairs. “In the winter, my love, we will sit here by the fire and I will hear you read to me from whichever book you choose. In summer you can fling the windows open and curl up in your own private corner to read with the breeze in your lovely hair.” He paused, almost shy. “Do you like it?”
“It is more wonderful than anything I could have dreamed,” said Catherine, flinging her arms around his neck.
“Would you like to read something now?” asked Harry. “Or shall we go upstairs to change for dinner?”
“But it is hours and hours until my sisters are due to arrive,” said Catherine, confused. Harry twisted a lock of her hair around his finger.
“Do you not think I can keep you entertained throughout those hours, my love?”
“Oh,” said Catherine, and “oh!” again, as a deep blush spread over her face. Harry laughed and kissed her pink cheeks.
“Come upstairs with me, my wife. Say you will not keep me waiting.”
Catherine could only nod. The happiness which was rising inside her was not easily expressed in mere words.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Harry’s arms were wrapped tightly around the beautiful body of his wife. Her head nestled against his chest. The only sound he could hear was the soft sighing of her breath.
He had never known contentment greater than this.
The room had grown almost dark as he lay and held the dozing Catherine. Glancing out of the window, he could see the pink traces of sunset dusting the clouds. He gave Catherine a gentle shake.
“Wake up, my love. We must be ready to receive our dinner guests within the hour.”
Catherine stretched languorously. Harry enjoyed the sight. Her sleepy eyes blinked at him once or twice before she fully regained consciousness. “No,” she groaned, “it is not yet time to get up. Say it is not.”
The Duke Suggests a Scandal Page 15