A rueful smile lit Glenaire's austere face. "I've had an easier time managing conversation at diplomatic dinners with the Prussians and French."
"I'm sorry, Chadbourn. Returning here will take some adjustment," Lord Arthur said.
"No apology necessary," Will said.
"Indeed not. I found the discussion about your research fascinating," Glenaire added. Will couldn't tell if the marquess was serious, but the remark, and the relief it brought to Lord Arthur's face, gratified him.
"My Catherine isn't used to this, but she managed it well."
"Your Catherine would grace any dinner, Lord Arthur." Will meant it. Her breeding showed in the very line of her wrist when she ate, in her tone of voice, and in her instinctive good manners.
The old man preened.
"Harrow for the Michaelmas term, is it?" Glenaire asked.
Lord Arthur worried his lower lip. "I fear so," he said at last.
"Don't fear it. It will serve them well," Glenaire answered.
"I can't tell you how relieved I am to send Charles off with his cousins. I went alone, and the first term felt like Hell." He and Glenaire caught eyes and let a happy memory pass between them.
"Friends matter. I agree," the marquess said. "You are blessed, both of you, to send them off with ready-made allies."
The conversation veered easily into remembered teachers, shared love—and distaste—for various subjects, and some of the happier times at school.
Will sent a footman to tell the boys they could join the family, and the three men rose. The earl felt satisfied with himself, until he put his hand to the door to the family parlor. Lord Arthur froze. He definitely had memories of the room they were about to enter, as he had made clear the last time.
Yes, now for the hard part.
***
Catherine enjoyed a private smile. One moment Sylvia stood, rigid and uncertain, near the doorway. The next, her son accosted her with a hug and an enthusiastic kiss. The duchess couldn't hold back a warm smile, but her expression reflected puzzlement and confusion. Charles grinned back and pointed up. Those mischief-makers hung mistletoe where it will catch anyone coming in the door.
Randy came in behind Charles. He looked apprehensive, but he stood on his toes to place a quick kiss on the duchess's cheek. "Joyeux Noël, Your Grace," he said, blushing furiously.
Freddy did the same, and the duchess allowed it.
Amazing.
Sylvia spun around, looking at Catherine as though to ask if the world had turned upside down. Before Catherine could speak, however, Glenaire came through the door.
Does a lady accost a gentleman under mistletoe? No power on earth could push Catherine to approach the aloof marquess. Her father followed behind, however, and she couldn't resist. "Happy Christmas, Papa," she said, with an affectionate kiss. The old man beamed back at her. "Happy Christmas, Daughter."
The sound of loud throat clearing came from the hallway. Lord Arthur stepped out of the way, to enable Will to enter. Catherine started to take a step back, but a firm hand took her wrist.
"Oh, no, you don't. Mistletoe rules," the earl laughed.
His mouth covered hers in a kiss that heated her to her toes, but managed to stay chaste enough for the audience. Catherine felt her world spin.
"Merry Christmas, Miss Wheatly," the earl whispered, searching her face. "I hope it is the happiest you've ever known." He released her hand, but not her heart. His eyes held hers. What an odd thing to say.
She felt relief when Will turned his eyes away to look at the dancing faces of three boys, and suggested they open gifts.
Songbird Cottage's modest gifts, framed watercolors, were well received. The duchess appeared touched by the pair of goldfinches in hers. "Chadbourn must have told you they are my favorite," she said.
"Actually, it was my idea," Charles said, proudly.
Will opened his gift to reveal a drawing of a humble English robin, head high. "I will treasure this," he murmured. Even the marquess seemed impressed with his painting of a sleek, black raven.
Once Lord Arthur thanked the earl and duchess for his pen set, all eyes turned to Catherine. "I can wait," she said. "I'm not sure the boys can."
The next moments were a riot of paper and exclamations. Freddy went into spasms of joy over a set of cavalry figures sized to match the miniature army in Charles's nursery. Randy grinned over a leather-bound copy of A Guide for Young Shepherds. Charles opened a copy of The War of the Roses and wrapped his uncle in an impulsive hug. Catherine initially suspected the duke could expect more luxurious gifts over the next twelve days, but doubt plagued her when Sylvia spoke.
"I've never known such a night in this house. Mistletoe, Chadbourn? Gifts?"
Pity filled Catherine. Could it be, this woman had never had a holiday party? Her father's next words wrung her heart.
"There never was a night like this. M'father didn't believe in celebrating. Church service, yes, but 'no pagan nonsense,' he would say." Lord Arthur sounded bitter. "I think the old man didn't want to spend a groat on family. It took my Mary to teach me how to make a family. Praise God for her." He smiled at Catherine sadly.
Silence greeted this statement. Even the boys looked at him, their expressions sad. Catherine couldn't find words. He had mourned her mother these five years, never more than at Christmas.
It was the duchess who spoke next. Her words startled Catherine. "Lord Arthur, you make her sound like a wonderful woman. Why did your father disapprove of her? Why was he so adamant we should avoid the pair of you?"
Lord Arthur glanced at Catherine and appeared to come to a decision. "May as well tell it all. Time to heal." He took a deep breath. Catherine saw Will and the marquess exchange glances.
Lord Arthur went on without noticing the others. "Mary had a child, of course, and wasn't married. She ran to Scotland when she knew she had conceived. She ran before I could stop her. It took me five years to find her, another four to set myself up to support her and Catherine, and a few more years to convince her. Would have stayed in Scotland, but all I had to offer, Songbird Cottage, lay right next to Eversham Hall. She hated coming back, but Emery let us be. Mary learned to love it."
Will spoke into the awkward silence, asking what they all wondered. "Lord Arthur, are you Catherine's natural father?" Catherine's heart cracked a little. She had wondered that very question much of her life. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, however, much less to find out in front of others.
Lord Arthur gave Catherine a look that widened the crack. "No. I wish I were. Emery forced Mary, the summer she turned sixteen."
The duchess gave a little cry. Catherine sank back into the settee. When Will came to sit next to her, she hardly noticed. Her attention belonged entirely to her father.
"Emery knew I loved Mary. He knew I planned to marry her. He did it to hurt me, but he almost destroyed her. M'father beat him when he found out what Emery did, but both of them wanted Mary gone. Wanted no shame on the Wheatly name, as if hiding her would cover what my brother did."
Catherine could not speak. When Will took her hand, she clung to his. She caught movement from the corner of her eye and saw Randy looking at Freddy as if asking for explanation. She had forgotten the boys were there. So, apparently had Lord Arthur.
All three boys had expressions filled with hurt and confusion. Concern for the boys brought Catherine out of her stupor. The boys obviously struggled to piece together what they had just heard. Someone would have to give them blunt explanations she would rather they never had to hear. She glanced up at Will and saw the same concern in his eyes when he looked at his nephew.
Charles broke the thick silence. He seized on a boy's simplest issue. "Does that mean Cath is my sister?"
"But she's our sister," Freddy insisted.
"We'll need some time to sort this out, but I think you're both right," She managed to sound reassuring.
"Interesting!" Charles exclaimed. "Having a sister will be good, won't it?"
The adults laughed nervously and assured him that it would be.
Sylvia rose and bustled to the bell pull. "I think we need refreshments," she said, with a tight smile. Catherine could see that her hands shook. As sick as Catherine felt about what her own mother endured, she regretted that Sylvia had to endure yet more pain over the behavior of her despicable husband. How on earth will I ever face her again? How can I face any of them?
"I don't think I can manage food," Catherine said, rising. "You will understand I've had a shock, and I feel unwell. I'll bid you good night." She spoke rapidly and tried not to run out the door.
Will caught her as she reached the doorway. "Catherine, I know this is a shock, but isn't it better to know?"
She nodded, fighting tears and trying to tug free.
"We'll manage this fine. When we're married, it won't matter in the slightest."
Married? Merciful angels! She pulled free then and ran. She ran like her life depended on it. Perhaps it did.
***
"I thought I might find you here." Glenaire spoke as he sank into a leather chair in Eversham Hall's study, a male bastion of dark leather, lingering cigar smoke, and unread books.
Will grunted and drained another glass of brandy. He reached for the bottle and found it empty. "Ring for another one. There's a good fellow."
"Rather rushed your fences back there."
"I made a mull of it. Tomorrow, I have to go back to the beginning and court her all over again. She never even opened her gift."
"What was it?"
"Silk gloves, useless on a farm. I meant to tell her there's more to life than Songbird. That probably wouldn't have gone well, either."
"Did you follow her?"
"To her room? What do you take me for? The lady wanted to be alone."
"Did you at least tell her you love her?"
Will choked. "The Marble Marquess suggests sweet words of love to court a lady? I thought you believed love matches disgrace the participants and taint noble families with weakness."
Glenaire shrugged. "You want what you think your parents had: home, hearth, and love of the land. You don't need a dynastic marriage."
"Like you do?"
Glenaire acknowledged the truth with an inclination of his head.
"Oh, God, Will!" Sylvia burst into the men's refuge and threw herself at her brother. He hardly had time to register that she had called him by his Christian name, when she told him, "He's gone. Charles has run off!"
Chadbourn calmed her enough to get the story. She went up to the nursery to say goodnight to her son. "I mean to do it every night now. Emery said it made him weak but—"
"Easy, Sylvia. You went up, and then what?"
"His bed lay empty. And I found this." She waved a scrap of foolscap.
Mother, don't worry. Catherine ran away, and it is my job to protect her. I will find her and bring her back.
Charles
Will looked at Glenaire. "Catherine bolted. I have to go after her."
"Charles is out there in the dark, Will. You have to find him," Sylvia cried, clutching his lapels.
The marquess pulled Sylvia away from Will. "Go," he said. "I'll look after Her Grace." Glenaire grimaced while the duchess wept into his pristine neckcloth. "Shall we ring for tea, Your Grace?" he asked.
***
Catherine hugged Charles to herself. They stood in Songbird's barn, where Catherine helped rub down Lady Guinevere.
"You were brave to ride here, Charles."
"I had to. I had to. I didn't care if I fell. You ran away, and I had to tell you I'm glad you're my sister. Glad. Please give it time, Catherine. I promise to be a good brother. Maybe it won't be so bad to be my sister. Truly." In the damp night, his voice sounded thick and desperate.
"You thought I left because I didn't want to be your sister?"
"My father wasn't a good man. He did bad things. I don't blame you for being sorry he's your real papa." He swiped at his cheeks.
"Oh, Charles, that part doesn't matter. Your uncle Arthur is my real papa in every way that matters, and he's a very good man. I have a good life here at Songbird Cottage."
"You don't have to live at Eversham Hall! I'd rather live at Songbird, too. Do you think Lord Arthur would let me?"
Catherine smiled into the gloom. "Your mama needs you, I think. You've begun to make her smile again. You can visit, though, whenever you want, and I can visit the hall, too." When Will isn't there. I won't be able to bear it when he is.
"But, Cath," he said, and her smile deepened at his use of the boys' affectionate nickname, "Uncle Will likes you too. I know he does. I heard him tell Lord Arthur he wants you all to visit Chadbourn Park. I thought maybe… that is… don't people's families visit when people are betrothed?"
Oh, dear. She sighed deeply, and when she spoke, she meant the words for her own heart, as much as for her newfound brother. "Listen to me, Charles. Your Uncle Will is an earl."
"You are the daughter of a duke," he said stubbornly.
"You're old enough to understand that children born outside marriage are not well received in society. I'm called 'baseborn.'"
The boy started to speak, but she silenced him with a finger to his mouth. "Besides that, I have no dowry, no property, and no consequence to bring to marriage. Your Uncle Will needs a woman who brings prestige to Chadbourn Park. I can't." The bigger problem stuck in her throat. He needs a woman who knows how to be a countess. I don't.
Charles started, as if a sudden thought struck him. "Is that why you ran?"
"I didn't run. I just missed my home."
"You ran," he accused. "Uncle Will says only cowards run."
The sound of a carriage rattling down the lane interrupted them, followed by the sound of several people scrambling out.
"The house is dark. Randy, you check it anyway," a familiar voice called. "Freddy, look in the garden. I'll check the barn."
Will! She looked around frantically. "Charles, go tell your uncle all is well. Tell him I just need to be alone. Do it now."
The boy ran as if to obey, but she had no more than sunk deeper into the shadows when his voice, muffled by the slats of the door, reached her. "She's in the barn, Uncle Will. She thinks she wants to be alone, but I think you need to talk to her."
Catherine scrambled up the ladder to the loft, scooted through the stored hay, and sat against the wall. She pulled her knees up protectively. I love him. God help me. I love him, but I can't face him.
She heard the door open, and Will's firm tread pace the length of the barn, lantern light marking his progress. Silence followed, but her heart pounded so loudly, it echoed in her ears. She dropped her head to her knees and closed her eyes.
"Catherine," a soft voice said, startling her with its nearness. Will's head looked over the top of the ladder. He lifted the lantern and put it in the loft. The light flickering off his hair lit up the golden highlights. "Did I frighten you so badly? Did I go too fast?"
"You aren't thinking," she replied. "You can't marry me."
"Why not?" He pulled himself into the loft and placed the lantern securely on a nail that extended from a beam. "I'm unwed. I'm in possession of all my teeth and body parts. I can support a wife." He stood several feet from her.
"I am the baseborn daughter of a country scholar, who knows more about egg production than formal dinner etiquette."
"It's easier for you to learn how to set a table than for some society chit to learn egg production." He took a step closer.
She tried to scoot farther back, but the wall at her back held her in place. She scowled at his attempt at humor. "Your best friend is one of the most powerful men in England. His mother—"
"—is the worst sort of society dragon. I didn't let the Duchess of Sudbury tell me who to befriend when I was twelve, and I'm not about to start now. Neither does Glenaire. She means nothing."
He came two steps closer. "I love you," he whispered. "I've dared hope you return the sentiment."
&nb
sp; "Of course I love you, you daft man. Who wouldn't? That doesn't signify."
"On the contrary, Catherine. It matters a great deal, so much, that nothing else does. If you can love my poor self, why can't you marry me?" In the lamplight, he looked like a puzzled boy, with tousled hair and a rumpled jacket.
His jacket! Her eyes widened when he removed it and tossed it on a pile of hay. She watched in fascination while he unwound his neck-cloth, tossed it the same way, and stretched his neck and shoulders. "That's better," he said, coming closer. "Why, Catherine? Tell me the real reason." He took one more step, so that he stood so close he could reach down and touch her.
"I can't be a countess," she wailed. "I can't. You're an earl, and I can't be your countess." She couldn't take her eyes from the spot at his neck where his shirt gaped open. When he went down on one knee in front of her, her heart beat erratically.
"What—"
He put a finger to her mouth. "Quiet," he said firmly. He took her hand.
"Miss Wheatly, having established that you cannot marry an earl, may I ask you to marry a farmer? I'm a much better farmer than I am an earl."
She stared, open-mouthed.
"I beg you, Miss Wheatly. My two thousand acres, my under-producing hens, and my fading rose garden need you. I need you. I need a companion. I need a partner. I need a lover. Will you marry me?"
She swallowed hard. "Under-producing hens?"
"Badly," he said, his eyes holding hers. Lost in those eyes, she couldn't find her voice. Neither moved, until at last Will growled, "Damn it, Catherine," and pulled her to him. The movement unbalanced both of them, and they tumbled into the hay. His mouth found hers, and he kissed her hungrily. She ran her hands into his hair, but couldn't pull him close enough. She wanted to crawl inside him. She wanted to touch him everywhere at once. She wanted… him.
When he tore his mouth away, she whimpered and tried to connect her lips to his. "Say it," he demanded, pulling his head to the side. "Say 'I'll marry you, Will.'"
"I'll marry you, Will," she murmured, moving in to kiss him. She could feel his smile under her mouth.
Voices drifted through the loft window. "We need to test the angel part again, Randy. Get the goat," Freddy called.
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