by Cheryl Holt
She debated over their party, and she even picked up a pen as if she might send out letters to cancel, but the conversation with Priscilla had been particularly horrid. Her comment about Gertrude being a spinster—the word hurled like an epithet—had Gertrude putting the quill back in the jar.
What was it to her if Priscilla raged and made a spectacle of herself?
Gertrude really and truly couldn’t care less.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Christopher walked in the front door of Mr. Bolton’s home, the party was in progress. The meal was over and guests were scattered in the various parlors for cards, conversation, and dancing.
Earlier, Gertrude had informed him that she’d invited a new batch of Mr. Bolton’s acquaintances so they could meet him, and he was glad for the warning. He had nothing in common with Mr. Bolton’s business associates and no patience for socializing with dullards.
He realized he was being very rude, but he was seriously debating the wisdom of his visit to the Boltons. He’d done it because of Catherine, hoping they’d get to fraternize occasionally, but their curt discussion the previous evening had yanked him to his senses.
He was so fond of her that he’d been behaving like a lunatic, but she would never agree to be his mistress, and he had to stop believing he could convince her. He had to sever the cord that bound them so tightly.
He’d had a satisfying day. He’d opened up his London apartment so he could once again carry on like the bachelor he was. Nicholas had joined him and had shown up with two actresses. They’d had a fun and invigorating afternoon of flirtation, and he’d hated to have it conclude.
They weren’t the sort of females he was looking for in a paramour, but they’d reminded him that there were many available strumpets out there in the world who would be delighted to enter into an illicit alliance. He had to hurry and select one of them.
Many issues had become clear. He would proceed with the wedding to Priscilla as he’d promised he would, but the only way he could force himself into it was to spend as little time as possible with her before the ceremony.
He would pass a tedious hour socializing with the Boltons and their guests, then he would pull Gertrude aside, offer his apologies, and tell her that pressing conflicts were calling him back to the country. In the morning, he would leave, and he would stay away for the remainder of the summer.
If he was very, very lucky, he’d creep in and out without ever bumping into Catherine.
A footman greeted him, but none of the family was there to raise a fuss over his arrival. He dashed up to his bedchamber to wash and change his clothes, then he descended down the rear stairs that led to the kitchen and out to the main parlors in the house.
Yet as he was strolling through the deserted room, Catherine was there, leaned against the baker’s table and gulping down a tall glass of wine. The sight of her was so unexpected that he had to blink and blink to be certain she was actually there.
Instantly, all of his carefully plotted notions of escape from his mad infatuation flew out the window. He was immediately ensnared, and he had to physically restrain himself so he didn’t rush over and draw her into his arms. The effect she had on him was potent and extraordinary, and he simply couldn’t figure out how to deflect it.
She saw him the same moment he saw her, and she began with, “What are you doing here?”
Her tone was surly and grouchy, her words a bit slurred. Was she foxed?
“I returned for the party,” he said.
“No, I mean what are you doing here, in the kitchen?”
“I’m late so I’m sneaking in.” She snorted with what could have been disgust or amusement, and he asked, “What are you doing loafing in the kitchen?”
She pointed toward the pantry. “My bedroom is down that hall. At the end.”
“They didn’t make you sleep in the attic with the housemaids?”
He posed the question as a joke, desperate to lighten the awkwardness of the encounter, but she wasn’t in any mood for jesting.
“Yes, Gertrude was particularly generous,” she sarcastically crooned. “I have my very own room. Aren’t I special?”
There was a bottle of wine next to her on the table, and she grabbed it and refilled her glass. She took a long swallow that drained most of the contents.
“I assume you’re hiding,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why are you drinking?”
“Because I’m so unhappy. Why would you suppose?”
“Are you much of a drinker, Catherine?”
“Not usually, but I’ve decided I should start. I’m already feeling much better.”
“Why are you unhappy? Might I hope that it’s because you’ve missed me?”
“No, you might not hope that.”
“What is it then?”
“I tried to resign.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Gertrude wouldn’t let me. I’m contracted through September, and if I quit before then, she’ll visit Mrs. Ford at my employment agency to guarantee I never work again.”
“That’s a tad harsh.”
“I hate all Boltons.” She raised a caustic brow. “Aren’t you a distant cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Then I hate you too.”
“No, you don’t.”
“We saw you this afternoon.”
“Who is we,” he asked, “and what are you talking about?”
“We is Priscilla, Libby, and myself while you were getting out of your carriage with Mr. Swift and your two lady friends.”
“Ah…”
“Were they actresses or opera dancers or just plain strumpets with no career behind them to explain their loose morals?”
“They were just plain strumpets,” he lied.
“Last night, you were besotted and begging me to be your mistress, and today you’d moved on to another.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know. You are the most fickle, disloyal cad in the world.”
She lifted the glass to down more of the wine, and he took it from her.
“You’ve had enough.” He sounded like the worst scold.
“Give that to me. You’re not my father or my brother. You have no right to boss me.”
“You’ve admitted you’re not a drinker so I must warn you that you’ll be miserable tomorrow.”
“I don’t care. If Gertrude catches me, maybe she’ll fire me for being intoxicated.”
“I doubt you’ll be that lucky.”
He downed the wine, emptying the bottle so she couldn’t swill more of it. He always liked a woman more when she was inebriated. It lowered inhibitions, but he didn’t want her to quarrel with Gertrude. He’d caused her plenty of trouble, and he was finished hurting her.
“I’m so glad I met you,” he murmured.
“I’d say the feeling is mutual, but it’s not.”
“Let’s not bicker, Catherine. Not when I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Well, I’ll tell Mr. Bolton it’s to Stanton Manor and the country, but I have an apartment in the city.”
“What is your plan? Will you chase doxies until you latch onto one?”
“That’s an accurate description, but I wish you’d permit me to chase you instead. We’d both be happier.”
“You might be, but I certainly wouldn’t.”
She was so morose, and her glum disposition charmed him beyond measure. Would he ever cross paths with another female who tickled his fancy as she did? He didn’t think so.
He couldn’t resist her and hadn’t been able to from the very first. He dipped down and kissed her, and she kissed him back. It delighted him very much, but he didn’t keep on. A servant could wander in at any moment to fetch more food or liquor so the risk of discovery was very high.
After a short, quick minute of embracing, he st
epped away.
“You look so sad, Catherine.”
“I have no pride. You were probably kissing your trollop all afternoon, and now—a few hours later—I’m perfectly willing to have you kiss me.”
“I didn’t kiss anyone this afternoon.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He chuckled and tapped a finger on the tip of her nose. “I’ll miss you.”
“I guess I’ll miss you too.”
“I’ll always be at Vauxhall at the dances on Saturday nights.”
“I’m never free on Saturday.”
“And I’ll be there on Wednesdays too. I’ll be sure to attend for the rest of the summer.”
“I will never show my face at Vauxhall again.”
“Never is a long time. If you change your mind, find me there. I’d be thrilled to see you.”
He was anxious to tarry with her which was madness in the extreme. Their attraction sizzled as if magnets were holding them together so he couldn’t flee. But he had to yank himself away from her. There was no reason to linger or to hope.
“I thought you were fond of me,” she said.
“I was. I am.”
“Could you really pick someone else right away? Could you forget me that fast?”
“I won’t pick someone right away. I haven’t completely given up on you. I’ll delay for a bit in case you come to your senses.”
“I won’t.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Not to me.”
She gazed up at him, her blue eyes sparkling like diamonds, and he could read every emotion written there. He suspected she might be in love with him. He was constantly suffering from the same sort of heightened sentiment. If she was in love and he might be too, it seemed bizarre for them to part, but there was no other option.
“I’d better get to the party,” he said.
“Yes, you should. They’ll be watching for you.”
“Don’t drink anymore wine. As it is, you’ll have a terrific headache in the morning.”
“I don’t want to be sober ever again.”
“You won’t feel that way tomorrow.” He reached out and cradled her cheek in his palm. He studied her, cataloguing every detail so he’d have a clear picture in his memories of her.
“Is this goodbye?” she asked. “Is that what’s occurring?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“If I was ever in trouble, would you help me?”
“Absolutely, Catherine. I would be first in line.”
“I’m scared sometimes. I’m all alone in the world, and it can be frightening.”
“I will always stand your friend. Don’t ever hesitate to call on me.”
Behind him, footsteps sounded. He dropped his hand and moved away from her, and he glanced over to see Gertrude’s maid, Bertha, approaching. Was the blasted woman spying on them? Why would she be? They’d never conveyed the slightest hint that there was improper activity to observe.
A discomfiting silence ensued, then Bertha said, “Are you all right, Miss Barrington? Miss Bolton sent me to check on you.”
“I’m just dandy,” she saucily retorted.
“Hello, Bertha,” he said. “I was just pointing out to Miss Barrington that she might have had too much to drink. She downed some whiskey by accident, not realizing it was hard spirits, but she doesn’t usually imbibe so it’s having a riotous effect. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t allow her to return to the party.”
Catherine mouthed, thank you.
Bertha simply harrumphed. “It’s not up to me or you, Mr. Stanton, but I’ll have a word with Miss Bolton about it.”
“Yes, talk to Gertrude. I’m sure she wouldn’t force Miss Barrington to socialize when she’s under the weather.” He gave a jaunty salute. “Have a good evening, ladies. I’d stay and chat, but I must be off. My fabulous presence is required at the festivities.”
He grinned and started out, and Catherine said, “Mr. Stanton?”
He peered back. “Yes?”
“Priscilla is very angry with you. Be careful.”
“I haven’t been here all day. What could I have done to irritate her?”
“She doesn’t like your new friends, and she can’t wait to tell you all about it.”
“The girl definitely has a temper.”
He chuckled, then continued on. He hated to abandon her when Bertha was lurking and glaring, but he couldn’t figure out how to dawdle and make it seem appropriate. He walked toward the foyer, the noise from the guests growing louder as he neared.
With Catherine’s warning in mind, he supposed Priscilla was in a snit and would be eager to have a huge row, and he decided to find her and get the confrontation over with as quickly as possible. Afterward, he’d head upstairs to pack his bags.
* * * *
“Mr. Stanton!”
As he went by, Libby slipped out of the alcove where she’d been hiding.
“How have you been?” she inanely asked.
“Fine and you?”
“Fine.”
They suffered an awkward moment, and finally he inquired, “Is there something you wanted?”
“Yes, actually. I have a question.”
“About what?”
“We were shopping and…well…we saw you and Mr. Swift with two young ladies. Two very pretty young ladies.”
“What’s your point, Miss Markham?”
“I was curious about how you know them.”
“I don’t. They’re Mr. Swift’s friends.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t think of a single comment to add, and he sighed with aggravation. “Will that be all?”
“No, I was wondering how long they’ve been acquainted?”
“I have no idea.”
“Have you plans to meet with them in the future?”
The query was out of bounds and prodded at the limits of their odd relationship, but she was so distraught over what she’d witnessed.
Priscilla had been ranting all day about her betrothed and how horridly she’d been betrayed, but Priscilla’s upset couldn’t begin to compare with Libby’s. Months earlier, she’d picked Mr. Swift to be her own. She’d sneaked off with him on a dozen occasions when she shouldn’t have, and she’d participated in conduct no decent girl should ever consider.
Then, of course, she’d stolen those blasted rings for him, the rings that Priscilla had noticed were missing. Libby had pilfered them to prove her devotion, and she’d been positive he was developing an affection for her. He liked having her visit, and when he was with her he was so generous and happy.
He couldn’t have been merely trifling with her! She refused to believe it. They didn’t know each other well enough to be in love, but they were dedicated to one another. Weren’t they? If he’d been leading her on, she’d just die!
Yet she couldn’t explain all that to Mr. Stanton.
He leaned nearer and whispered, “Are you about to demand more pin money?”
“No!” she insisted.
“Because I’m finished playing games with you. It doesn’t matter to me anymore if you inform Priscilla what I’m really like. Have at it—with my blessing.”
“I don’t care about your stupid philandering.”
“Good.”
“I’m simply desperate to learn if Mr. Swift is attached to someone else. Is he sweet on someone and perhaps I haven’t heard?”
Mr. Stanton’s expression altered to pity and sympathy, and she was humiliated to realize he viewed her as a fool.
“I thought the two of you were simply having a spot of fun,” he claimed. “Don’t tell me you were counting on him.”
She wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. “I was counting on him. I absolutely was.”
“Oh, Miss Markham, I hate to discover that you could be so silly.”
“You’re not the only one who can’t abide the
Boltons. You never have to spend time here, but I’m trapped. I would commit any act in order to escape.”
He patted her on the shoulder. “If you assumed Nicholas was the rescue you needed, you have grossly miscalculated.”
“He’s fond of me!”
“I don’t mean to insult you, Miss Markham, but to put it bluntly he’s fond of any female in a skirt.”
“If I had gotten myself into trouble with him—I’m not saying I have, mind you—but if I had, would he come up to snuff? Would he make it right in the end?”
“Nicholas Swift? Behave honorably?”
“Yes.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “After I was with Mr. Swift today, he left town.”
“For how long?”
“For months or maybe forever if he can wrangle a better situation for himself. He’s always been miserable in London.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Scotland for now, but he may sail for Italy if he can muster the funds to book passage.”
“Italy! But…but…he never mentioned it to me.”
“Why would he have?”
It was the cruelest remark ever.
Once she’d moved in with the Boltons, she’d quickly deduced that she had to arrange her own future. Mr. Bolton never would. If she craved a husband and a home of her own, she had to find them for herself.
She was a regular at the public dances and matinees at the theater. She’d met scores of young men, and she’d selected Nicholas Swift. He hadn’t had much of any benefit to recommend him, but he was dashing and dangerous and interesting.
In light of the suffocating childhood she’d endured under her father’s pious thumb in the vicar’s rectory, she was determined to snag a wickedly debauched spouse who would provide excitement and adventure. She would never settle for a dull oaf.
She’d seen herself trotting through life at Nicholas’s side, living in the loose, unrestricted way he lived. She thought she’d been so shrewd, so cunning in her choice. He couldn’t have left! He couldn’t have traipsed off without any warning!
“What should I do, Mr. Stanton?” she asked.