He had not been aware he possessed such restraint. Part of him was grimly amused. Ten years prior, he would never have considered letting her go. But ten years ago she would not have been lying in his arms, panting in her first discovery of passion. Of utmost import was the simple, undeniable fact that she was Cat, and, being Cat, was in all probability the one woman for whom he would need to exercise this near self-abuse. And while he was able to keep from actively encouraging her passion, he could not bring himself to discourage it. And so, stretched on a rack of need and want, honor and desire, he closed his eyes, clenching his teeth as he endured the sweet abandonment of her exploration.
Slowly she became aware that he was not returning her kisses and, while she was still being held tightly against him, he had raised his head. She shifted and the movement pressed her softness against the most rock hard part of him, causing his involuntary groan.
Her struggle to push herself upright on his lap alerted him to her realization, the embarrassment he knew was inevitable. Still, he could only look with a sad smile into her clouding eyes and say, “I am completely undone. Your reputation as a roué is confirmed. You have proven your point, and any further demonstrations shall leave my reputation in shreds, m’dear. So I must humbly beg you to have mercy on my over-tried body because I haven’t the strength of will even to put you from me, let alone say you nay.”
Her lovely face went white. Her lips, swollen with his kisses, trembled. “You needn’t mock me!”
He wanted nothing so much as to take her once more into his arms, to smooth her furrowed brow with kisses and enfold her in his clasp. But, though he was no stranger to passion, he judged her to be, and therefore uncomfortable in its wake. She had read his response as simple lust and had not yet recognized the depth of emotion that had compelled him.
He was a fool, he acknowledged to himself, but not so much a fool as to allow himself to be flayed beneath her tender pity.
“Not at all,” he said. “I congratulate you. I concede your victory. Stramp does not have a chance should you choose to utilize this… gift.”
“I never would!” she said. “And his name is Strand !”
Quivering with fury, Cat bolted out of his arms to stand over him. Thomas relaxed against the wrought-iron seat and stretched a long arm along its back. The act cost him much, but at least she would not see his hands shaking. Cocking his head, he looked up at her.
“Whatever,” he said, relieved to hear that the tones so closely impersonated normalcy. “And now, how do you intend to cap the afternoon’s instructions? Shall we go a bout of fisticuffs or try our hand at a round of intense petit point?”
“Thomas, you are insufferable,” she sputtered. “As far as I am concerned, the afternoon’s instructions are at an end. I leave you to find your own way out.”
“Not very gallant. I never seduced a lady and left her to her own devices after sampling her gifts. What? Leaving so abruptly? I shall be here to collect you, that you may collect my forfeit, at seven o’clock. Did you hear me, Cat? Seven!”
Chapter 13
It meant nothing. She was making herself ill, needlessly. To Thomas, her extravagant reaction to his lovemaking must have seemed a tepid entertainment. And, truthfully, it was not his lovemaking at all. She had incited the entire scene. Yet she could have sworn her breath mingled with one nearly as ragged as her own.
And his casual teasing—for it could only be that—must have been his way of extracting himself from her embrace. Why else would he have pulled away from her with such gentle determination?
She would retreat into the absurd charade of friendship. She must allow him to dictate the parameters of their relationship or risk losing him altogether. And that, she would not do. If only she could forget the awful, wondrous sensation of being in his arms, of his mouth open over hers…
Well, she must.
And Lady Catherine Sinclair always did what must be done.
Thomas and Cat approached each other warily when he arrived to take her and Hecuba to the Pavilion. Answering his impersonal greetings with monosyllables, Cat was unable to meet the gaze she knew was unwaveringly on her. Finally, defiantly, she looked directly into his eyes, only to find to her relief and irritation that he was not staring at her at all but nonchalantly studying his Hessians.
“What do you think, Cat?” he asked in a patently normal, friendly voice. “I hied myself off and acquired this entire getup just that I might not embarrass you. Though I must say, these boots are deuced uncomfortable. Am I not grand?” He quirked a black brow, blatantly imitating her words of the previous evening.
She could not fail to respond to such a good-humored overture.
“Don’t beg for sweets,” she said, answering his grin with her own.
He looked magnificent. The dark broadcloth stretched across his shoulders, emphasizing their great breadth; the buff trousers displaying the long muscles of his thighs and calves to advantage. His shirt was a flawless expanse of snowy linen, his waistcoat of pearl gray satin, his cravat an intricately tied demonstration of the knot maker’s art. And his roguish, charming smile lit up his gypsy-dark eyes.
She was relieved. What had happened, anyway? She had kissed him. A simple, momentary diversion for a man like Thomas. He was well used to that type of play.
Taking his proffered arm, Cat was surprised by the flash of relief that had preceded his casual pat of her hand. By the time the carriage deposited them at the Pavilion, they were once again friends.
Stepping inside the Prince Regent’s newly begun fantasy Pavilion, her eyes grew wide. She had heard of the plans to renovate it, and the Prince Regent’s new enthusiasm for anything Oriental was well known, but this! Faux bamboo furniture, dragons, papier-mâché, and red lacquer met, mingled, and fought for attention in dizzying opulence. Carved wooden lotus blossoms, heavily gilded, acted as light fixtures. Palm leaves had been pressed into wet plaster, their pattern repeated in the bejeweled border of a table scarf. Huge pots of Chinese porcelain held enormous stands of flowering jasmine. It was overwhelming now; when completed it would be garish, gaudy, blatantly extravagant.
Hecuba peered through her lorgnette with ill-disguised disdain. “The lad has never understood the meaning of restraint.”
Cat had to hide her smile behind her silk fan.
There was a small group of forty or fifty assembled. Though Cat did not personally travel in their circle, she had met most of those present: Lord Mansfield; the Creeveys; Sir John Lade and his wife, Letitia; the Canfields; and the Earl of Barrymore, “Hellsgate” Barrymore.
At the sight of Hellsgate’s pale, lined face, Cat shuddered. She had crossed his path once before. He had fairly oozed dissipation. When she had been introduced, he’d grabbed her hand. His was hot, dry tensile strength in his long, bony fingers. She had had to forcibly remove her hand from his prolonged grasp. He had flung back his head and laughed.
He saw her from across the room. Raising two fingers to his lips, he kissed their tips lingeringly, his eyes bright with sarcasm. She turned her shoulder to him, looking for her host, the Prince Regent. On the far side of the room, she saw him.
Ornate, overly tight evening attire bedecked Prince George’s stocky figure. He was bending to capture the words of the diminutive beauty next to him. She was fashionably pale, tendrils of black hair framing a piquant, angular face. Her eyes were dark, huge, their color indiscernible from across the room. Her mouth was a startling red bow.
The woman tilted her head, her eyes gleaming up at the Prince Regent. The crowd of people in the room shifted, and Cat could see her gown. It was pearl-hued, a shimmering, clinging fall of the sheerest muslin. There was no doubt in Cat’s mind that the woman’s under-gown had been damped. Cat had heard of the style but had yet to see any lady adopt it. The woman’s small, pointed breasts were apparent beneath the moist, molded fabric, her fine-boned ribs and narrow waist clear to see beneath the all-but-transparent material. Cat beckoned Thomas near. He bent his hea
d.
“Who is that extraordinary woman?”
“A whore,” Hecuba answered loudly.
Thomas, his eyes bright with amusement, looked over Cat’s shoulder. She saw the nearly imperceptible flare of his nostrils. Tension stiffened his body.
“Her name is Daphne Bernard.”
“The name is French, is it not? Do you know her?”
“Yes.”
“But how?”
“There are many people I have met over the course of the years. Don’t forget, Cat, that I have led a much longer and infinitely more varied existence than you. I shan’t.” His tone was laced with bitterness at odds with his casual words. Cat frowned.
“You have more honor than sense, Montrose,” Hecuba grumbled.
“As always, Lady Montaigne White, you are correct,” Thomas said before turning back to Cat. “His Highness always demands a near infernal climate and far too much food, so I suggest we find ourselves a window to wrest open when his royal back is turned.”
It was overwhelmingly hot. The ladies were already vigorously fanning themselves and the gentlemen in their high collars, vests, and jackets were glistening with perspiration. Thomas led them to a window and was in the process of heaving it open when the Prince Regent saw them. His face beamed with delight as he led the petite Frenchwoman through the brilliantly colored throng that parted, fluttering like disturbed butterflies, in his wake.
Hecuba, seated on a chair behind Thomas, snorted.
“Montrose!” Prince George exclaimed. “How pleased we are to see you! We insisted Seward bring you to us that we might convey our appreciation.”
“Your Highness is far too kind. Any small assistance I have been privileged to offer is my duty.” Thomas bowed and then, noting the shadow of petulance on the royal face, he added, “And, of course, my pleasure.”
The Prince Regent’s face immediately brightened. His sharp little eyes slid to Cat.
“May I present to Your Highness, Lady Catherine Sinclair?”
Cat dropped into a deep curtsey before her future king. When she rose, he was smiling at her in open admiration.
“We are delighted to have you with us this evening, Lady Catherine. We know your mama. Delightful woman. Delightful. Do you enjoy music? But of course you do. We have arranged a minor entertainment after dinner.” He drew forth the Frenchwoman at his side. “And see? We have found an old friend of yours, Montrose! Madame Daphne Bernard, may we present Lady Catherine Sinclair?”
The woman’s dark eyes locked on Thomas, a slow smile bending her bright red lips. Her glance flickered briefly to Cat. “Bien, Lady Catherine. Bonsoir, mon grand raffin,” she said, caressing the last word.
A disgruntled cough came from behind Thomas. Hastily, he stepped aside to expose the seated form of Hecuba, her lorgnette raised to her eye, her head at an imperious angle. She did not rise. “Your Highness.” She inclined her head.
The Prince Regent went pale. He cleared his throat and fidgeted nervously with his collar under Hecuba’s hooded glare. Hecuba sighed, raising her eyes heavenward before allowing a slight jerk of her head in Daphne Bernard’s direction.
“Oh, yes, yes indeed,” muttered the discomforted Prince Regent. “Montrose, we were not informed that you would be escorting Lady Montaigne White as well as Lady Catherine. A gross oversight on our secretary’s part. A most gross oversight. But a delightful one, of course.”
He did not look delighted. The Prince Regent squirmed under Hecuba’s quelling stare. “Lady Montaigne White, Madame Daphne Bernard.”
“How do you do?” Hecuba said as the Frenchwoman, confused by His Imperial Highness’s obvious agitation, sank into a demi-bow.
The Prince Regent all but hauled the Frenchwoman to her feet. “We are well pleased you have come. We believe dinner is soon to commence. We will converse with you afterwards, Montrose. Lady Montaigne White. Lady Catherine.” Prince George beat a hasty retreat.
“What did you do?” Cat asked, rounding on Hecuba.
“I did nothing. The Prince Regent, on the other hand, has done a great deal. As have all his disreputable cronies. A guilty conscience, Catherine, is a sinner’s worst flail.”
“Are you calling the Prince Regent a sinner?” Thomas asked in mock horror.
“We are all sinners, Mr. Montrose. All of us, whether king or commoner. And we all have freely chosen our course.” Hecuba fixed Thomas with such a penetrating look that, for the second time in as many minutes, a grown man squirmed.
Cat looked around for a timepiece. The dinner started promptly at nine o’clock, fifteen minutes from now, and Thomas had disappeared. So, too, had Daphne Bernard. Hecuba was involved in a heated debate with the elderly Lady Brent. The two of them unceremoniously waved Cat off when she offered to fetch them some refreshments.
“Lady Cat. How au courant you are!”
Cat knew the owner of those oily tones. She turned and coolly greeted the older man before her. “Milord.”
Hellsgate Barrymore pouted his lips. “So formal. So reserved. Such hauteur. I find it intensely stimulating. Particularly in this gown.” His gaze fell to the daring décolletage of her new gown, his fingers fluttering a hairsbreadth away from her exposed bosom. She stepped back. With a nasty smile, he followed her retreat.
“M’dear, you are now in my milieu. There are no stodgy matrons to impress here.” He gestured around the room. She wanted to recoil from him, slap his leering face, but knew that to do so would only provoke a scandal. A scandal that would reach the ears of Lord Strand and thereby destroy her plan. Her sensible, necessary, abhorrent plan.
“No stiff-necked defenders of pedestrian morality here.” He licked his lips. “You may indulge yourself to whatever extent you wish. We are all guilty here, therefore all unaccountable. In the Prince Regent’s circle, no one hears. No one sees. No one cares,” he ended in a whisper, reaching out to touch her.
“How unfortunate, Barrymore, that age and disease have deprived you of whatever sense you once claimed,” Thomas’s voice drawled from behind Cat. “And most arrogant of you to surmise that the rest of us share your disabilities.”
Thomas reached out, catching Hellsgate’s wrist as it hovered inches above Cat’s skin. The blood fled from Barrymore’s already pale hand, leaving it deathly white. Thomas smiled, a slow baring of his teeth, and dropped Barrymore’s hand.
“I hear. I see. And I can assure you, I care,” Thomas said.
“Montrose,” Barrymore hissed, rubbing his wrist. “The mastiff whelp has grown into a dog. I’d thought you were running in French kennels. Tiresome that you are here. I didn’t realize you were once more in your old haunts, nor that your attention had been fixed.”
His eyes darted behind narrowed lids at Cat. One side of his mouth lifted in a sneer. “Not your usual fare. But perhaps you’ve taught her a few—”
Thomas was suddenly inches from Barrymore, his eyes glittering dangerously, his upper lip curled in a snarl. But it was Cat who spoke from beside him. Her voice was cool, composed, detached.
“Thomas, thank you for offering to escort me to view the Prince Regent’s menagerie. But I infer it to be a pitiful, raggedy, noisome lot—I distinctly hear the braying of an ass—and not nearly as amusing as its reputation suggested. Might we not, instead, proceed in to dine?”
Lifting the hem of her gown, Cat scanned the faces of the assembly, looking directly through Hellsgate Barrymore as though he were not there. Thomas laughed, suddenly and loudly. Several people nearby turned to see what so amused the tall, elegant man and found themselves instead viewing the angry, sputtering countenance of the Earl of Barrymore. The venom in his face caused not a few to shudder; Barrymore’s hellacious temper was well known and feared.
Thomas offered Cat his arm and together they left the earl standing alone, having cut him quite dead.
“Well done, m’dear,” Thomas said as they gained the dining hall. Hecuba, in respect for her title, had gone in earlier on the arm of a decidedly uncomfort
able-looking duke.
“Yes?” Cat asked as Thomas seated her. “The man scares me, Thomas. He is so utterly loathsome.”
“He is standard for the breed. Dangerous, but eminently predictable. I doubt he’ll trouble you again. His consequence could not afford another set down. His intimates shall be dining out on that little episode for months.”
“But shall he seek redress?”
“Only if a perfect opportunity presents itself. Barrymore and his ilk have not the energy or imagination to pursue revenge. Don’t worry, Cat.” He bent his dark head close to hers. “I would never allow Barrymore near enough to cause you any unpleasantness.”
It was not so much a vow as a promise of continued concern and Cat’s heart constricted painfully in her chest as she watched him take his chair. A small, unbidden hope sprang up at his words. Their kiss might have been nothing to him, but his concern for her was obvious, his regard genuine. She would swear to it. Perhaps regard might become affection, even love.
Dinner was the long, drawn-out affair common at the Pavilion. Luckily, Barrymore was seated some distance down the table from Cat, between an unknown blond and the dainty Daphne Bernard. The Frenchwoman’s titters could be heard the length of the table. At one point, Cat chanced to find Daphne staring at her with open speculation as Barrymore whispered in her ear.
Cat had been placed between a duke’s younger son and an older military gentleman. They were well within her league, the duke’s son attempting to impress her with his worldliness, the older man with his East Indian experiences. She found she merely had to arrange her mouth into an occasional moue of appreciation to satisfy both.
Thomas, seated a short distance down from her, appeared to find more enjoyment in her performance than the one being acted out by the ladies on either side of him. He listened politely to a plump, bejeweled woman and made appropriate noises of assent when the curly-haired girl on his right paused for breath, but the lift of his dark brow was reserved for Cat alone.
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