by Cheryl Holt
She gasped with affront. “That’s your justification?”
“Yes.”
“What a typically male sort of reply. How about after you’re wed? How about after you’ve taken vows?”
His cheeks flushed with chagrin because he would never be faithful to Priscilla. He’d always viewed himself as principled and ethical so it was a reprehensible admission.
He could have explained his reasoning to another man, and any fellow who’d ever witnessed Priscilla’s antics would have understood and commiserated. But he couldn’t explain it to a woman, and he most especially couldn’t explain it to Catherine. Not when she was facing him down and courageously demanding answers he couldn’t supply.
“I’m sorry.” He kept repeating that he was, but the words had no effect.
“I was so fond of you,” she said.
“And I’m very fond of you. It’s why I hate to have you so upset.”
“I thought you liked me.”
“I did! I do!”
“I thought you would change my life, but you were lying about everything.”
“I’d give you the world—if I could.”
“Seriously? You would?” Her tone was very snide.
“Yes, I would.”
“Then hurry over to the picnic. Find Mr. Bolton and inform him you’ve reconsidered. Tell him you can’t wed Priscilla because you’d be so miserable. Tell him you’ve found someone else, someone you could love, someone who will make you happy all your days.”
He couldn’t believe the spurt of joy that rushed through him. Could he shuck off the money he’d been so desperate to receive? Could he wallow forever in genteel poverty without two pennies to rub together? For a woman he’d only just met?
His engagement to Priscilla wasn’t a capricious or abrupt decision. His older brother, Richard, had been betrothed to her when he was a boy. The family’s intent had been that her fortune would stay in the family, that it would never be shared outside it.
When Richard had perished, Mr. Bolton had briefly toyed with buying an aristocrat for Priscilla, but he couldn’t land one. So he’d written to Christopher and recommended he substitute himself for Richard. Christopher had scarcely reflected before he’d agreed. One of the Wakefield-Stanton sons had always been destined to be Priscilla’s husband. It had been Richard, and now it was Christopher.
The arrangement had been contracted by their fathers decades earlier, when Priscilla was in the cradle. Could Christopher renege? Could he simply announce he’d rather pick a different female merely because Priscilla wasn’t the fiancée he’d like to have?
He didn’t think he was that reckless, and he’d been obsessed with Catherine for what? Two weeks? They’d shared a few fleeting kisses, and their attraction was so scandalous they couldn’t mention it aloud. It had all been furtive and secret.
He hadn’t learned about her past or her ancestors. She’d never even been willing to confide in him about her parents. Although he suspected her father would prove to have been a man of substance and station, she hadn’t bothered to describe what that station might have been.
So while it was thrilling to ponder walking away from his responsibility to Priscilla and his own kin, while it was intriguing to imagine himself selecting a bride for the sole purpose of being happy, it was a ludicrous prospect that was too outrageous to contemplate.
“I can’t do as you’re asking,” he murmured.
“Of course you can’t.”
Suddenly, she burst into tears, and he couldn’t bear it.
“Oh, Catherine,” he said, her woe washing over him, “don’t cry. It wounds me to see you so sad.”
“I was counting on you.”
“I can still be your friend. We can still be close.”
“No, we can’t. You’re deranged, Christopher. Absolutely deranged.”
At hearing her use his Christian name, he was ecstatic. Evidently, he was in the process of being forgiven. He pulled her into his arms and held her to his chest as she sobbed her heart out. Her weeping eventually subsided, and she drew away and gazed up at him.
“When I return to London,” she said, “I’m going to quit my job. I can’t watch you march toward your wedding. It’s too cruel to expect it of me.”
“You’re making this too difficult, Catherine.”
“I want you to promise you won’t try to interfere or to locate me later on. And we can’t be alone with each other ever again.”
“I won’t agree to that.”
“You must agree. I’m devastated by your perfidy, and you have to give me the opportunity to heal. Any other conduct would be too malicious to abide.”
“Don’t ask me to stay away from you. That can’t be our ending.”
“It must be, and you have to accept it.”
She pushed by him and ran off, and he actually grabbed onto a nearby bush to steady himself, to keep from chasing after her like a lunatic. As it was, they were lucky no one had sauntered by while they were chatting.
No, he wouldn’t chase after Catherine, but she would be at Bolton House for four more days, and there would be plenty of time to work on her dour mood before that period was over.
Then after they were back in London, he would begin his seduction anew. She thought they were parting, but she had no idea how determined he could be in getting what he wanted, and he wanted her very, very much.
He continued on to the gazebo, his mind awhirl as he calculated how he could force her into his presence. Poor Catherine Barrington didn’t stand a chance.
* * * *
Gertrude had spilled punch on her dress so she’d snuck up to her room to change. Her maid, Bertha, was with her. She was in a hurry to return to the festivities. Herbert and Priscilla were too pretentious to act as the hosts they were. She was the only one who had the necessary manners.
She couldn’t guess what made her glance out into the garden. It was mostly deserted but for a couple who was having a very intimate discussion. She hadn’t meant to spy on them, but she couldn’t resist.
The woman shoved herself away from the man as if he was too hot to touch, and Gertrude chuckled until she recognized her to be Miss Barrington. She stepped to the window and studied the man, being stunned when she recognized him to be Kit.
She hadn’t known Kit and Miss Barrington were acquainted, yet clearly they were. She wished she could hear what they were saying. She’d give a hundred pounds to find out.
“Bertha,” she said to her maid, “come here a second. There’s a sight I’d like you to see.”
Bertha tromped over. She was big, burly, and competent, and they’d been together for years, with Gertrude promoting her out of the ranks of housemaids toiling away in the kitchen. That elevation had paid off in a thousand quiet ways. She was incredibly loyal, and in a life where few people had been kind to Gertrude, she viewed Bertha’s fealty as a gift.
“Look down in the garden,” she said.
Bertha scanned the area and noticed the furtive pair. She assessed them, then sucked in a shocked breath.
“Isn’t that…Mr. Stanton?” she carefully asked.
“Yes.”
“And he’s with…Miss Barrington?”
“He certainly is.”
They watched for another minute until Miss Barrington stormed away. Kit stared at the spot where she’d been, and it appeared as if he might run after her.
What the devil could it indicate? Nothing good, that was for sure. Gad, were they having an affair? Right in Mr. Bolton’s home? Right under Priscilla’s nose?
Gertrude understood that Kit was handsome and virile and would have dalliances outside his marriage to Priscilla. When shackled to a shrew like Priscilla, a husband would be prone to misbehave.
But if there was an illicit liaison occurring between him and Miss Barrington, it would ultimately blow up into a huge disaster. With Herbert already spending so much money on the wedding, she wasn’t about to let a minor cala
mity arise that would have Priscilla demanding to call it off.
She bristled and Bertha did too, both of them rippling with unspoken comments.
Finally, Gertrude said, “I’d like you to keep an eye on Miss Barrington for me.”
“I think I’d better, Miss Bolton.”
“Don’t be too invasive. Just…I’d like to be apprised if she has visitors or if she goes off on her own. For example, if she would absent herself from a picnic or a supper, I would be interested to learn where she is.”
“I believe the housekeeper placed her over in the other wing of the manor. She’s in an isolated suite.”
Gertrude sighed. “It would be difficult to devise an excuse to move her out of it.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you could take over the cleaning of her room for me. I realize it’s beneath you, but could you manage it? Would it be too much of an inconvenience?”
“It’s no inconvenience at all, Miss Bolton.”
“Thank you.”
The pair had vanished so the spectacle was over.
She headed down to the party, Bertha trailing along behind, but Gertrude was frothing with worry. She couldn’t get past the notion that tragedy was about to befall them.
What would it be? Where would it leave them?
The possible answers to those questions were too disconcerting to consider so she pushed them away and focused on her guests instead. After all, it was one of the many reasons Herbert needed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Are you enjoying your party? Is it as fun as you were hoping?”
Catherine peered over at Gertrude as she replied, “Yes, it’s very fun.”
She looked so dour it was difficult to guess if she was telling the truth. She wasn’t exactly effusive, and it couldn’t have been easy to live with Mr. Bolton and Priscilla for so many years. She went out of her way not to make waves or be noticed.
It was a surprise to Catherine that she’d thrown such a large gala. The picnic she could understand. It was Mr. Bolton’s gesture to the neighborhood, but the birthday party was Gertrude’s idea, and it was all about her. It was odd that she would choose such extravagance.
As with the picnic, there was abundant food and liquor. Servants flitted to and fro with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Card games were being played, and people were sitting down to eat. The formal dining room was large enough to double as a ballroom, and it had been emptied of furniture so there could be dancing. The musicians were up on the dais, the first set about to begin.
Mr. Stanton and Priscilla were over by the door, greeting guests. Since he’d grown up in the area and was a member of a prominent family, everyone was acquainted with him. They all seemed to like him, and he acted much as he had with her in London: charismatic, cordial, chatty.
It was painful to watch him so she stole only a few furtive glances. She was trying not to let his presence matter, but she supposed she would always experience a twinge of mortification and remorse whenever she recalled what had happened.
Gradually, she’d calmed her emotions and rearranged her view of the situation. Their encounter in the garden had been too humiliating, and she wouldn’t debase herself again. She’d allowed him to observe her woe. She’d wept on his shoulder!
Had she no pride? Had she no sense of her own self-worth? She was the daughter of the Earl of Middlebury. She was superior in rank and station to every other person in the room. In reality, Christopher Wakefield-Stanton was naught but a paltry country farmer.
She’d been wooed by a scoundrel and had become smitten, but he was actually a libertine and rogue. She was lonely and naïve so she’d swallowed his smooth lies, but she wouldn’t blame herself for her stupidity. He was much too fast for her, and she hadn’t stood a chance.
There were three days remaining of their sojourn in the country. On Wednesday, she would return to town and commence the arduous process of quitting her post and finding a new job.
She would locate her sisters too—if she had to tear Mrs. Ford’s office apart in order to glean their addresses. After the horrid week she’d endured, she needed them more than ever. She would pour her heart out, and they would feel sorry for her. She’d get away from Kit Stanton and Priscilla Bolton, and she’d move on with her life.
“Three days, three days,” she mumbled to herself. She could suffer any torment for three days.
“What did you say, Catherine?” Gertrude asked.
“It was nothing. I was just woolgathering.”
Gertrude pointed to Mr. Stanton and Priscilla. “We shared many stories about Mr. Stanton, and you’ve finally met him. What is your opinion?”
Catherine could never offer a valid assessment. “I haven’t spent much time with him, but he seems quite charming.”
“Yes, he’s very charming. The Wakefield-Stanton men always have been.”
“Priscilla is lucky to have him as her betrothed. They’ll be perfect together.”
“Really? To me, they’re a complete mismatch.”
Catherine took a deep breath, tamping down all the words of agreement that were begging to spill out. “You don’t think they suit?”
“He’s so much older than she is—which her father deemed a benefit—but he was in the army for years. He’s used to living on his own and having his own way.”
“Isn’t that true of all men? I can’t deduce why any of them ever wed. They’re all so happy to be bachelors.”
“Priscilla is spoiled and immature. I can’t imagine how they’ll get on.”
There were so many pitfalls hidden in the remark that Catherine didn’t dare respond to any of them. Instead, she said, “Married couples figure it out.”
“Were you acquainted with Mr. Stanton before you came to the country with us?” Gertrude casually inquired.
“No”—Catherine kept her expression carefully blank—“not until the night we arrived and he stopped by to say hello.”
“You’re certain? I saw him talking to you, and it appeared as if you might have had a prior connection.”
“Oh, that.” Catherine waved away the comment. “When we were introduced, he looked familiar, but I swiftly realized I was mistaken.”
Gertrude studied Catherine meticulously, as if she knew Catherine was lying. Why would she be suspicious? She could only have learned about Catherine’s fleeting amour from Libby Markham, and Catherine had a few bones to pick with Libby. It was entirely possible she would have whispered gossip to Gertrude, and Catherine intended to demand an explanation for her duplicity.
The chords of the dance rang out, and she and Gertrude jumped as if jolted by the sound.
“Why don’t you grab a partner?” Gertrude said.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“What about Priscilla? I’d hate to irritate her.”
“Don’t worry about it. If she needs something, she’ll find you. It’s my party, and I command you to enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you. I will.”
She strolled away, but Gertrude’s eyes were cutting into her back. What had she heard about Catherine? Was she angry? Well, Catherine would be gone soon so whatever Gertrude’s grievance it wouldn’t matter.
Without her being aware, Mr. Stanton and Priscilla had left their perch by the door to lead off the set. He was a nimble dancer so there was no reason to watch him promenading by, but she definitely had to pay closer attention to his whereabouts.
She couldn’t let him approach her, and she didn’t want to be out on the floor while he was there too. So she wandered away and went to the room where the buffet was located.
She dished up a plate of food, then peered around for a place to sit. The servants had arranged tables so guests could gather in small groups, but the space was packed. She passed by a table where two young men were chatting animatedly. They were about twenty, and they were handsome and stylishly dressed.
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br /> One of them stood and gallantly gestured to an empty chair. “It’s so crowded in here. Would you like to join us? Or am I being too brazen?”
“I would love to join you,” she told him.
He waited until she was seated, then seated himself.
“I am Michael Fenwick. This is my good chum, Wesley Grey.”
“Hello, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Grey.”
“And who are you?”
“I am Miss Barrington. I am companion to Priscilla Bolton.”
They exchanged a quick peek, a thousand unvoiced remarks swirling between them. Did anyone like or respect Priscilla? She assumed she was popular because of her wealth. How would her ego stand it if she ever discovered the truth?
“You must live in the area,” she said to them. “Are you nearby? I’m from London, and this is my first visit. I don’t know all the neighbors yet.”
Mr. Grey said, “My family has a property just down the road. Actually, it’s my brother’s house, and we barged in while he was away.”
“Would he be irked if he found out you were there?”
“Yes.” Mr. Grey smirked as if their vexing his brother was a common occurrence.
“What brings you to Bolton House?” she asked. “Are you friendly with the Boltons?”
They exchanged another look, this one impish, then Mr. Fenwick leaned in and whispered, “No. We heard the servants at Grey Manor talking about a party, and we decided to simply sneak over. You won’t tell on us, will you?”
She chuckled. “My lips are sealed, and I doubt people will mind. At any gala, the females never feel there are a sufficient number of males to balance it out. I hope you can dance.”
“We dance like fiends,” Mr. Fenwick bragged. “It’s why we came. We had to be certain all the ladies are happy.” He noticed she didn’t have a beverage, and he motioned to Mr. Grey. “Wesley, get Miss Barrington a glass of punch.”
“It’s not necessary,” she said.
“I insist,” Mr. Fenwick replied.
Mr. Grey rose to fetch it, and Mr. Fenwick turned his potent focus on her. He was as young as he’d initially seemed, but there was a worldly air about him that made her suppose he could pretend to be someone much older.