“Oh, God, Thomas.” Poor little boy, all his potential, all his might-have-beens ended in a tragic instant. Poor mother, all the smiles she’d never see, the tears she’d never dry. His little clothes put away, never to be outgrown, never to be worn out. Sobs choked Cat. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Yes. God,” murmured Thomas. “I bought a commission and went to Salamanca after that. Eventually that diversion palled. I resigned my commission and went to Devon. That is when you arrived, Cat, my own, to rescue me from inevitable ennui. I thank you.”
So much bitterness. So much hate. So much guilt. “How could you foresee his death, Thomas? It was a tragic accident.”
“Damn it, Cat!” he ground out. “What can I say to convince you? I am not some misunderstood Byronic ass, unaccountable for his own actions. My parents were decent people, my youth unexceptional. I chose my course. I was not forced to it.”
She could not speak for weeping. She struggled for mastery. She lifted her eyes to his. White lines scored the grim set of his mouth. Dark shadows hung beneath his burning eyes. Tears fell unchecked down her cheeks.
She made one last attempt, raising a shaking hand and laying it on his arm. “Thomas! To me you are never—”
Her words seemed to shatter his harsh restraint.
“Damnation!” he said again, and this time his curse was a groan. “I was never what? Vulgar? Forward? Salacious? And you thought since I had never pressed you, I could not be those things and worse? Have you not been listening? Ridiculous child! You thought since you had never seen me wink and leer and caper, I was incapable of base action? I’d thought I’d taught you better than that. Subtlety, mon coeur. I am ever subtle.”
He grabbed her wrists, dragging her forward, bending his face inches from her bowed head. “I undressed you even as you sat drinking tea in my morning room. I wetted your mouth with mine each time you nibbled a piece of toast. I ravished you every damned time you entered a room! My God, woman, in my mind I have had you a thousand times since we met.
“There! Does that disabuse you of any little misconceptions you might have concerning my character? What? No? Well, maybe this will.”
He caught her to him, intent on taking her mouth and punishing her with his kiss, forcing her, once and for all, to reject him. She did nothing to stop him; no hand was raised to fend him off; she did not plead with him to release her.
He could not do it. For all that he was, he had never forced himself on any woman. And this woman was Cat. He could not take from her in anger, not even a kiss.
Abruptly he released her, and she stumbled back, bracing her hand on a chair. He lifted both hands to his temples. His gaze traveled haphazardly about the room, entrapment expressive in the erratic movement of his eyes. He looked older, tired. Deep lines scored his lean cheeks and his jaw was stubbled with a gray-black beard.
Cat wanted to brush the strand of glossy, dark hair from his forehead, wanted to tell him his kiss could never frighten her. She would welcome it. His anger was too great an obstacle. She had to try.
“Thomas.”
He stepped back, opening the door behind him. “Forgive me,” he said, and was gone.
Thomas did not see the black-clad gentleman lounging in the wing-backed chair before the host’s fire. A seamed countenance turned with rapacious interest as Thomas crossed the room and disappeared into the night.
“Monsieur.” The thin Englishman beat his ebony cane against the tabletop, calling the manager to him. “Monsieur, I see you have Mr. Thomas Montrose staying with you.”
The innkeeper frowned in consternation, more than willing to avail himself of this oh-so-rich English aristo’s whim. The man had paid excellent well for the use of his last room, and he was polishing off bottle after bottle of the house’s cheapest wine in order to, he said, “carry me through any damned embargo.”
“No Mr. Montrose is staying here, milord.”
“Curse you, man! I just saw his monstrous form leave!”
“That? That was no Englishman, milord. Just a French putin, trash what makes his living off of servicing rich women.”
“Damn you man, that was no Frenchie. ’Twas Montrose, I say!”
The innkeeper wrung his hands, unwilling to disagree with so rich a guest, yet not wanting to encourage a potentially embarrassing encounter.
“I am sorry to say, but you are mistaken. He has brought his English keeper with him. She is upstairs even now. No doubt she has sent him off for some exotic toy to entertain her. She is very much the bawd.” He winked as he leaned over to fill the gentleman’s cup.
“I still say ’tis Montrose. Who is this English doxy?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Some rich merchant’s widow.”
“Does she have a name?”
“No name was given, monsieur.”
“Come now, you fat jackanapes, he must have called her something!” the man demanded angrily, leaning forward on the table and slamming a fist down.
The innkeeper rifled his memory to oblige. His face broke into a smile. “Cat!” he said triumphantly. “He called her his ‘little cat’ many times.
“Now,” the innkeeper continued as the gentleman eased back in his chair, an expression of surprise quickly supplanted by malicious satisfaction, “can I get you anything else, Milord Barrymore?”
Chapter 26
Thomas returned a few hours before dawn. Cat was waiting for him. She rose shakily from the chair and came to him. She looked tired unto death. He could punish her with his history no longer. Not even for her own good.
“Thomas.”
Taking her into his arms, he cradled her against his chest.
“Thomas, please—”
“Shh, now. It’s all right.”
“It isn’t. You must understand!”
“Yes, yes, mon enfant. I understand.” He stroked her hair back, kneading the tense muscles in her shoulders. “I am a great beast to have subjected you to a self-indulgent litany of my past. Forgive me.”
“It is the past, Thomas. It is a tragedy, but it was an accident. An accident.” She pulled her head up to look into his eyes and found him smiling tenderly at her.
Her words sounded so intent, so determined. A pity he could not believe them. She was exhausted and frightened and alone with a man whom all members of society would call a monster if they had the information he’d just given her. Of course she must make herself believe in him, if only for a little while longer. The accumulative effect of all the terror she’d endured in the past two days had blunted her ability to appreciate the enormity of his guilt. That had to be the answer.
“Of course, child,” he murmured into her silky hair. “And now, we must be off. The packet unloaded an hour ago, and it’s in our best interest to have you secreted aboard before anyone else divines your presence.”
She abruptly pushed herself free of his embrace, her expression stormy, exasperated. “You may choose to distance me by calling me a child, but naming me thus does not make it so.”
Thomas wanted to believe her. God knows, he wanted to trust her words, her faith, but other lessons, learned long ago, whispered to him. She has convinced herself and that is why she is so convincing to me. And I have the added liability of wanting to believe.
“No. Of course not, Cat,” he said patiently. “But we really need make haste.”
Lifting her cloak, he wrapped it about her shoulders, pulling the drawstrings closed about her neck, his fingers moving impersonally against her flesh.
She jerked away from his touch, tears threatening in her silver-green eyes. “Damn you!”
“Quite,” Thomas returned sadly.
The Channel crossing was rough. The waves mounted high in front of the cold March wind, and the packet ship lurched into watery gullies, climbing temporary precipices only to crash down into deep chasms. The sea churned, and the air boiled with thick clouds; rain was the only constant.
Cat was sick. Horribly sick. Thomas had spirited her to the
tiny cabin well before daybreak and left her there. She refused to let him see how ill she felt, nodding tersely in reply to his comments, not trusting herself to speak.
Child. Enfant. She rebelled against these new appellations. He was deliberately putting distance between them. She felt as though she stood on one side of a vast chasm, and he on the other, and while she tried desperately to breach the distance, he did all he could to widen it. She was exhausted and terrified of the remote look in his eyes.
She didn’t deserve to be summarily expelled from the ranks of adulthood. She didn’t deserve to have her words, nay, her heart, dismissed. But what could she do? How could she help him to forgive himself? How could she breach the gap that each of his kind, detached smiles widened? And so she retreated into frustrated anger, refusing to see him.
The intensity of her nausea didn’t abate with time. She ended the voyage lying on the narrow plank bed, shaking uncontrollably as each receding wave of sickness promised an immediate replacement. Several times Thomas had knocked on the door. Cat mustered enough strength to tell him to go away or reply that she was fine.
Even after docking in Brighton, she wasn’t allowed to leave the cursed ship. Thomas, finally realizing Cat was not going to see him, sent a note via the cabin boy. She must wait until the other passengers had disembarked, and then another hour for good measure, before leaving the horrid-smelling little hole.
By the time Thomas came for her, Cat was feverish and weak, her stomach empty of anything more to expel. Happily, the darkness of the night masked her sickness. She would show Thomas no weakness to support his concept of her as a juvenile. She stumbled as she made her way down the gangplank. Thomas caught her arm. Hailing a coach, he lifted her bodily inside, shouting an address to the driver before shutting the door on her and swinging himself on top.
A quarter of an hour later they had arrived at the Castle Inn. Only then did the irregularity of her situation occur to Cat and she looked for support where support had always been given, slipping her hand in Thomas’s as they paused at the entrance to the inn. Exhausted and weak as she was, her voice sounded plaintive to her own ears.
“All our careful schemes are sure to be for naught now, Thomas.” She tried a sophisticated smile. “Someone is going to remark my unchaperoned condition. Even if it’s the manager, or a chambermaid, my reputation shall be in shreds by dawn. Ah, well, ’twas an adventure.”
The skin beneath her eyes was purple with dark shadows. Her pale forehead gleamed with moisture, and her fingers trembled in his clasp.
“Don’t fret, m’dear,” he said. “It’s been taken care of.”
He led her into the lobby and seated her in a deep velvet settee before going to the front desk. A liveried youth scurried up the broad staircase, and Cat clasped her hands in her lap. The image of a steaming tub beguiled her weary mind. Closing her eyes, she swayed back against the thick, tufted cushion, allowing herself to let go of the anger, the sickness, the hurt.
“Cat!” a familiar voice exclaimed.
Her eyes flew open. Her half brother Marcus stood before her.
“Marcus!” She held up her hands and he grabbed hold of them, gripping tightly, and settled himself next to her. “How is it you are here?”
Marcus’s grin turned wry. “I’ve been sitting in Brighton, twiddling my thumbs, for nearly a week. Montrose sent word I was to meet you and Great-Aunt Hecuba here. He couldn’t give me an exact time but urged me to be here to meet any incoming ships from mid-month on.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Quite adamant he was, too. Must have sent the damned—excuse me, Cat—dratted thing before he even left the country. Good heavens, Cat, I am glad to see you.”
His obvious joy warmed her. Of all her variously sired siblings, Cat had always been closest to Marcus. Most probably because she fretted so over him. He seemed to feel the irregularity of their family, as well as their financial situation, so keenly. He took his responsibilities so seriously. There was too little time in his young life for the pleasurable pursuits of most young men of his age and station. So typical of Marcus, to fly from Bellingcourt to make sure he had fulfilled Thomas’s instructions to the letter.
“Thank you, Marcus,” Cat said, her obvious pride making him blush.
“Not at all, Cat. My pleasure. But where is my great-aunt? Preaching to the serving girls already?”
“Not exactly.”
Marcus sobered immediately. “Is she all right? A strenuous journey such as you have just undertaken might well render the heartiest physique ill.”
“No, no,” Cat said hurriedly. “She’s fine. I think.”
“You think?” Marcus’s brows rose. “Oh Lord, Cat. Don’t tell me she remained in France to carry the Church of England’s word to Napoleon’s hordes!”
Cat laughed. “Oh, Marcus! Quite the reverse. Hecuba has eloped with a French marquis. She had hied herself off to the border when last I heard.” Her giggles erupted anew as Marcus’s expression became one of stunned incredulity.
“Never say!”
“I swear to it.” She solemnly raised her hand.
He stared at her a moment and then threw back his blond head, laughing. “The old faker!”
“I believe that is exactly what I said.”
They smiled at each other in fond approval a moment before Marcus said, “You must be done in, Cat. I admit, after hearing all the reports of your social success in Paris, I am a bit confounded to think French mode insists on that black wool thing sagging around you.”
Cat haughtily tilted her chin, staring at Marcus as though through a lorgnette. “The reports of my success were, no doubt, underemphasized. And this is bombazine, not wool, and it is about to be revived as the epitome of au courant fashion.”
“No wonder I have never wanted to go into society.”
She laughed and looked down at her dress. Soaked in perspiration from her bouts with seasickness, it had wilted. She became distinctly aware of an unpleasant aroma. “I am a fright.”
“Yes.” The fondness of his tone robbed it of insult. “And I am a boor to keep you hanging about a public lobby while a bath awaits for you in your suite upstairs.”
“A bath? A suite? How?”
“I heard Montrose ordering the manager to see to it immediately. The suite has been held in readiness for days.”
Cat’s head swung to where she had last seen Thomas. He was not there.
Watching Cat’s reunion with her brother had been a harmless, vicarious pleasure. The animation so absent during the past twenty-four hours—no, Thomas corrected himself, so absent from his life for the last seven months—had reappeared. Her eyes gleamed with a teasing light. Her laughter rippled like low, throaty music across the lobby.
She had looked like this any number of times in the few short weeks during which he had instructed her. He had made her laugh like that. He had provoked the devilish gleam in her eyes. He had drawn out the quick wit, the naughty observations. It had all been for him.
He was jealous of Cat’s gangly eighteen-year-old brother. If it weren’t so damned laughable, it would be sad. As sad as watching her slip from his scope like a woodland sylph disappearing into the dawn mists, leaving only her laughter to taunt her mortal lover with a taste of eternally denied pleasures.
He turned to sign the various registration papers the manager had slipped beneath his hand. At least he had done his honorable, chivalrous, damned duty by her. She was properly delivered to the inexperienced hand of her brother, Viscount Eltheridge. She could sail about Brighton under the perfectly acceptable auspices of his protectorship, such as it was. What matter if Marcus was even more a boy than Cat was a girl? The two of them ought to have a grand time of it, tweaking society’s nose.
I am acting like a sulking schoolboy. He forced himself to amend his evaluation. The lad did not seem the nose-tweaking sort, and Cat? Well, Cat was circumspect. Practical. Canny.
In point of fact, Cat needed male guidance and pro
tection less than any woman Thomas had ever known. It had taken an impending war to offer him a chance to be of use to her, and even here he was not at all certain she wouldn’t have escaped and made it back to England quite as well without his aid. Cat was self-reliant, independent, and wholly desirable. And he would go mad if he pursued these thoughts.
Thomas had never indulged in regrets before, considering them to be emotionally destructive. He had always accepted what he had been. Which is why he was damned if he could figure out why his objectivity had deserted him now. Why now his past taunted him with details he had thought long forgotten.
Any excuses he came up with for hanging about Brighton were fabrications he built for the single purpose of being near her.
The manager broke through Thomas’s absorption, asking if he, too, required a room. Thomas looked back to where Cat sat, her hands closed tightly around one of her brother’s, her head tilted at an inquiring angle. How could he leave her?
However could he stay?
Chapter 27
Thomas’s influence was evident in the alacrity with which the staff of the Castle Inn sought to make Cat’s stay as pleasant as humanly possible. A maid and a footman were miraculously employed by the following morning. Her suite was the most opulent the hotel had to offer. Exotic, out-of-season hyacinths and roses perfumed the air. Fine-textured linens were daily replaced on the huge canopied bed and the driver of a private hack stationed himself at the entrance to the lobby, her destination his sole concern.
But Thomas had disappeared.
Over the next several days he sent a few notes, as often addressed to Marcus as to Cat. They were brief, impersonal inquiries as to their health and requirements. These notes so infuriated Cat with their remote politeness that she tore them up, consigning them to the flames in which she wished to send their author.
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