Finn surely hadn’t known, otherwise he wouldn’t look so quietly thunderous at the back of the room. The guilt swamped her again. She could only imagine how it had looked: Channing’s golden head bent to hers, Channing’s hand cupping the sweep of her jaw. It had probably looked quite stunning to the viewer if it had borne even half of Channing’s usual grace. But it had meant nothing.
Finn was the first of the adults to arrive, the music room crowd heralding the coming of the tea cart, her parents among them. They’d come over in the afternoon while everyone was still at the lake. Her father sidled over to Finn and Finn’s expression seemed to soften. They bent their dark heads together, engaged in conversation, Finn bringing up his hands every so often to make a point. She wondered what they were talking about. Her father had always liked Finn, always said he had a good head on his shoulders.
‘You’re staring,’ Channing said at her ear. He hadn’t left her side since the kiss. Apparently his test had been passed. But not hers.
‘I was just wondering what could be of such interest to the two of them.’ Catherine shrugged, looking at Channing as if seeing him for the first time. He was unquestionably handsome, but what else was he? He hadn’t sailed the tributaries of the Orinoco, or walked the depths of the rainforest. Tonight, Channing Deverill came up lacking by comparison and by extension—so had the dream.
‘Flowers or crops would be my bet.’ Channing laughed, entirely unaware of her inner thoughts. ‘Not exactly topics of scintillating conversation to the rest of us. I guess it is good they have each other to talk to.’ He smiled, his blue eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. ‘Speaking of conversation, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’ He led them apart from the crowd, over by the window. Finn’s window, although it was silly to think of it that way. It was anyone’s window really. No one owned that space.
‘What is it?’ Catherine asked, a bit breathless, but not for the reasons she’d imagined at the prospect of Channing pulling her aside.
‘Will you save me a waltz tomorrow night at the Yule Ball? I have it on good authority from my mother there will only be three.’ He made an exaggerated moue of disappointment. ‘I told her there should be more; everyone dances the waltz these days. But she’s surprisingly old fashioned when it comes right down to it. Anyway, I wouldn’t want yours to be filled up before I could ask.’
‘Of course I’ll save you one.’ She favoured him with a warm smile. Was that a flicker of relief? Was the handsome and sought-after Channing Deverill relieved that she, Catherine Emerson, daughter of the local gentry, had accepted a dance? It was enough to make her think the world had turned upside down. But she was not naïve and there was one question she had to ask.
‘What about Lady Alina?’
Channing’s smile faded ever so slightly. ‘There are three waltzes; I couldn’t possibly dance all of them with her, could I?’ he answered with a glibness that didn’t quite match his expression. ‘Besides, I want to dance with you. You left for Paris before we could have a proper dance together.’
Catherine couldn’t argue with that. She’d been fifteen when her great-aunt had sent for her. She’d not been old enough to attend the local assemblies and more grown-up parties. ‘I would be glad to dance with you then, as long as I’m not upsetting Lady Alina.’
‘Don’t worry about her. It’s not what you think.’ Channing paused, appearing to debate something in his mind. ‘She’s been out of society for a while. You could say I’m helping her reintegrate.’ Channing’s voice dropped, his pressure on her hand tightened. ‘She has no claim on me that matters, Catherine, nothing beyond the duties required of being a good host.’
The implied message was staggering. Catherine rummaged her brain for an appropriate response. What was it her friend Vivienne, who had never lacked for male attention, had always used? Ah, she had it. ‘Then I am most honoured,’ Catherine said softly.
Channing raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘It is I who am most honoured.’ His blue eyes held hers for a long moment. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me? I need to see to the guests. Mother will skin me alive if I dominate the prettiest girl in the room while old Mrs Anderson goes languishing for lack of tea.’
Finn was gone when she looked around the room. He was no longer standing with her father when she went to join him and her mother, nor was he with anyone else, although Catherine sensed she wasn’t the only one hoping to spy him. Lady Eliza seemed to be looking for him as well. Catherine sipped her cup of tea, thinking Finn might reappear after running some hosting errand for his mother. Finally, when it became apparent he wasn’t going to come back, she broke down and asked, ‘Was Finn feeling unwell?’
Her father shook his head. ‘He had some things to see to in the library.’ In the library? In the middle of a house party? Only her father would not find such an excuse odd.
Catherine couldn’t help but ask the most obvious of questions. ‘What things? What could be so important Finn had to see to them right now?’
‘Lord Swale,’ her mother corrected softly, but Catherine didn’t miss the insistence in her voice. Catherine stared at her mother, not quite digesting the comment. Who? Oh, Finn.
‘You’re not children any more, Catherine. It’s not seemly to use his first name. He’s the heir.’
‘He’s always been the heir,’ Catherine said testily simply for the sake of argument. What did that have to do with anything anyway?
Her mother gave her a reproving look. ‘You’re grown up, it’s different now.’
Catherine smiled an apology. She was just being peevish and it wasn’t fair to take it out on her mother. ‘I’m tired from the long day outdoors. I think I’ll go up to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.’ She kissed her mother on the cheek.
‘Sleep well, darling. I hear there’s shopping in the village tomorrow for last-minute Christmas presents and the ball tomorrow will make a late night.’
‘I will.’ And she would sleep just as soon as she paid one last visit to the library.
* * *
Finn stared into the fire, a book open on his lap. He hadn’t read a page of it. In fact, he hadn’t done much of anything since he’d come in here. He simply couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Channing, watching him woo Catherine. More than that, he couldn’t stand to watch Catherine smile back at his brother as if she welcomed those attentions.
There was no ‘as if’ about it. Finn had seen the way she’d looked at Channing that first night. He’d seen the way they’d laughed together today on the lake, spinning in those ridiculous circles. And he’d seen the way they’d looked together when Channing had kissed her under the mistletoe ball.
Finn rather wished he hadn’t seen that. But he had and they had looked beautiful together. Then Channing had led her aside and they had talked and Channing had kissed her hand. Finn hated that move of Channing’s, who had been perfecting the art of hand kissing for years. His brother once told him he had a way of doing it where his eyes lingered just over the tops of the knuckles because women thought it was irresistible. Had Catherine thought that? Had she liked Channing’s mistletoe kiss? More importantly, had she liked it better than his?
That last thought was not well done of him. It reeked of jealousy and for no reason. He’d kissed women before and there’d been no need for validation. The door to the library opened a crack and a form slid inside in a susurration of gold-tissue skirts and matching slippers. This was the second visitor today. His private lair was becoming deuced popular.
‘There you are!’ Catherine’s voice was a loud whisper. ‘I wondered where you went when you didn’t stay for tea.’ Her voice was full of false cheer. She was nervous. There was some consolation in that unless she was nervous because she’d come to tell him bad news. In this case, bad news was defined as anything he didn’t want to hear. Finn managed a smile and manners. He gestured
to the empty chair beside his. He set aside his book and gave Catherine all his attention, which wasn’t hard to do. She’d had it before she’d entered the room.
‘Channing’s asked me to save him a waltz,’ Catherine began, taking extra time to settle her skirts. She didn’t meet his eyes and that ‘bad news’ scenario was definitely spot on. He no more wanted to hear about waltzing with Channing than he wanted to hear about the plague.
‘Your mother has requested three waltzes for the ball.’ She did look at him then, a little sideways glance and a quick half-smile on her lips, lips he’d kissed. He was afraid he would spend the rest of his life looking at those lips and thinking of that kiss. That one moment had now succeeded in dividing a lifetime into before and after.
‘I’m sure yours will fill.’ Why was she telling him this?
Her gaze was more direct now. She turned to face him in her chair, the firelight catching her hair and turning it the most wondrous shades of flame. ‘I’m sure they will too. I am certain Lord Richard will want one and that leaves just the other left.’ She paused and drew a deep breath. His usually confident Catherine was flustered, at least slightly. The next words came out in a rush. ‘I’m wondering if I should save it for you?’
He should hit himself in the head with the book he’d been pretending to read. He’d been obtuse. The man who’d sailed to the far side of the world and sought out indigenous plants never before seen to the English eye had missed this simple inquest. She wanted to dance with him. She’d sought him out. She’d only told him about Channing in order to propel him into action. When he hadn’t taken the hint, she’d been forced to be more direct. If she hadn’t been sitting right there watching, he’d have given his forehead a good smack. Now all he could do was reply in a fashion that wouldn’t embarrass them both.
‘I would like that very much. Thank you for thinking of me. Do you think you might save me the opening quadrille too?’ Then he added hastily, ‘Unless it’s already spoken for?’
Catherine gave a little laugh. ‘No, as far as I know, it’s still the custom to mark one’s dance card the night of the ball.’ An awkward silence sprang up. ‘Are you going into the village tomorrow? My mother tells me there’s a shopping expedition.’
‘I haven’t decided yet. There are preparations for the ball that might demand my attention.’ Ask me to go. I would come if you wanted it. He simply didn’t want to go and watch Channing’s pursuit of her.
‘You should come.’ It wasn’t quite worded exactly as he wished but it was a start.
‘Why?’
Catherine smiled. ‘Because the shops are full of Christmas treats and because I want you to, Finn.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘My mother thinks I shouldn’t call you that.’
‘Call me by my name?’
‘Yes. She thinks I should call you Lord Swale because we’re not children any more.’
‘But we are still friends, aren’t we, Catherine?’ He couldn’t imagine calling her Miss Emerson at this late date and he knew he could not tolerate Catherine of all people calling him Lord Swale. He didn’t want to be a viscount to her.
She reached between their chairs and squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll always be friends, Finn.’ To tell the truth, that wasn’t precisely what he wanted to hear. He couldn’t imagine being only her friend at this late date either. They’d crossed an invisible line today and there was no going back, not for him.
The conversation lagged awkwardly and she reached for the book he had left on the table between their chairs. ‘Is this what you were reading? Botanicals of the Rainforest?’ Her eyes perused the cover, coming to rest on the small gold letters at the bottom. ‘You wrote this?’ There was awe in her voice as she opened the cover.
‘It’s from my expedition with Viscount Wainsbridge, he and his family have permanently taken up residence in British Guyana to oversee British interests there.’
‘You needn’t be so modest, Finn.’ Catherine smiled at him over the pages. ‘My father writes books and I know good work when I see it. Are these your drawings as well? You’re a talented artist. I’m impressed.’
It felt uncommonly good to be praised. ‘Channing doesn’t appreciate the book.’
Catherine smiled and turned another page. ‘Channing thinks all flowers smell like roses.’
They both laughed then. It wasn’t meanly said and it occurred to Finn it had been ages since he’d had an inside joke with someone. That the person he should have one with was Catherine spoke deeply to him in a frightening but fundamental way.
‘Tell me about this.’ She held the book out to him, pointing to a peculiar flower.
‘That’s curare. It’s a deadly plant, actually. One wouldn’t guess it. It looks more like a weed than anything else. All the tribes have their variation of curare poison. We found out the hard way.’
Catherine tucked her feet up under skirts. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell me about it?’
Finn waved away the suggestion with a hand. ‘You don’t want to hear about it.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Catherine passed him the book. ‘Tell me.’
‘All right,’ Finn acceded, but secretly it was no hardship to tell her. It felt good to have an audience. His family listened to be polite. ‘Jack and I had been out for three weeks and we were deep in the rainforest, and five miles out from our current base camp.’
‘Jack?’
‘Viscount Wainsbridge,’ he explained. ‘We were set upon by natives who believed we were trespassing. Set upon isn’t quite the right word, we were ambushed. We never heard them coming. The natives move with enormous stealth and silence. One moment Jack was standing beside me and the next he was down. A tiny dart had hit him in the arm and the curare, the poison, worked that fast. The natives use it on their darts.’
‘What happened?’ Catherine was enrapt.
‘I took out my pistol and fired into the bushes. The noise scattered them. They weren’t prepared for gunfire. It gave me time to get Wainsbridge up. We took refuge in the bushes. There was no way I could outrun an unseen enemy with a wounded man on my shoulders. I hid us as best I could, primed my pistol and waited until dark. Then I made a run for it, dragging Wainsbridge with me every step of the way. He reacted badly to it—apparently he’d been hit with it once before. We had an antidote at camp, however, and he recovered, but it was a near thing. I didn’t know it at the time, but if we’d waited much longer he would have been beyond the antidote.’
‘You walked through the rainforest for five miles carrying a full-grown man?’
‘Dragged him part of the way—I didn’t say it was a pretty remove.’ Finn chuckled.
‘But you saved him at your own expense.’ Her eyes shone with admiration. ‘You’re an uncommonly good man, Finn.’
‘I didn’t do it to be a hero, Catherine. I did it because it was right.’ Finn shut the book, a little uncomfortable with the shine in her eyes. Is this what he wanted? Catherine Emerson to fall in love with him? Or he with her? Maybe it was too late to think he had any choice in the matter. In any case, it was too late to be caught in the library with her.
‘Shall I see you to your room?’ They rose together and Finn picked up a lamp to light their way. But when they reached the library door, Finn stopped. He couldn’t leave this room without knowing where he stood with her. If there was no going back, there was only going forwards. Finn set down the lamp. ‘Catherine, wait.’
She turned, finding herself between him and the wall of the door. There was nowhere for her to go. He bracketed her with his hands braced on either side of the door. Her breath caught. He could see the pulse-spot at the base of her neck leap ever so delicately, her sea-green eyes widen in desirous anticipation. She was not opposed to this.
He kissed her, hard and insistent, his mouth slanting over hers with determination. This kiss was different tha
n the one at the river. That kiss had been about surprise and exploration. But this was about claiming, about wanting. And it wasn’t enough. They were both breathless when they pulled away.
Catherine’s eyes held a challenge as they searched his face, his eyes for some explanation. ‘Don’t tell me that was another mistake. Once I might believe but not twice.’
‘That was no mistake.’ And just to be sure, he kissed her again.
Chapter Six
December 23rd, the day of the Yule Ball
‘You are so lucky!’ Jenny Brightly trilled as a group of them tramped through the snow to the village for shopping the next morning. Catherine smiled patiently. Jenny was eighteen and pretty and a bit man crazy but one could hardly fault her for all her exuberance. ‘If Mr Deverill had kissed me under the mistletoe I would have swooned. I just know it!’ The other girls with them agreed.
‘Do you think he means to court you?’ Another girl, Amanda Hardwick, put in.
‘Hardly.’ Catherine dismissed the idea with a wave of her mittened hand. ‘We are old friends and it was just a game.’ The air was crisp and the grey sky overhead promised a cold day.
‘I don’t have any old friends who kiss like that!’ Amanda gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Are you sure he doesn’t mean to court you?’
Catherine laughed away the notion, but she wasn’t sure there wasn’t some truth to it. After yesterday, she wasn’t certain of anything, except she was glad Alyson and Meredith had opted to come down in the sleigh rather than walk. Such conjecture about their brother and their best friend would be upsetting? Awkward? Both? She wasn’t sure what their reaction would be.
The village came into view, looking picturesque, as they started down the slope. Snow clung to the church spire and was piled in thick layers on the roofs of the shops. Catherine changed the topic of conversation to shopping.
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