Lust and love were two different things, however, and Aubrey vowed, that he would not give her the chance to misunderstand him. He’d loved Anne. He could not, therefore, love Callie Prophet, who was so different from Anne that they might be members of different species altogether.
Callie was boisterous and exuberant, healthy and hardy. Anne had been quiet and reserved, frail and fragile. Callie was buxom. Anne had been tiny. Aubrey’s heart hurt when he recalled their lovemaking. He’d always been so gentle and careful.
It might actually be a relief to bed someone who didn’t look like she might break every time he touched her.
Instantly, he felt he’d been unfair to Anne.
Because his emotions were in such an abysmal turmoil, he decided to postpone any proposal until he got them under control. It wouldn’t do to rush into something as permanent as marriage and discover after he’d tied the knot that he’d made a hideous mistake.
Therefore, he went to his library office in order to mull over the matter. He must have paced in front of his desk for miles before he decided he was going to do it. Before he dared trot upstairs and confront Callie, however, he thought he’d better practice. He hadn’t had much experience with this sort of thing.
“Miss Prophet, I have come here to ask you to marry me.”
No. That sounded stuffy and too dutiful. Even if he couldn’t offer her love, he ought at least to sound as if he wanted to do the thing.
“Miss Prophet, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Gad, that was even worse. He had to say something that would get across the point that, while his heart had been Anne’s for years and would continue to reside with her, he intended to do Callie justice. If justice was the right word.
He couldn’t think of another one at the moment and didn’t want to get distracted, so he dropped the subject.
“Miss Prophet, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye.” An understatement at best, but true. “However, I believe that you would make a good mother for my little girl.” Good. Play on the woman’s sympathy. Aubrey had no idea what Callie thought of him, although he had his suspicions, but he knew full well that she loved Becky. “Therefore, I would be honored if you were to agree to marry me.”
Better. Not perfect, but better. Aubrey practiced several more variations on that theme before, after delaying as long as he dared, he told himself to brace up and get on with it. He sucked in a deep breath, decided it was now or never, and marched out the door and up the stairs.
Pausing before Becky’s door, Aubrey raised his hand and would have knocked, but he recalled the possible lateness of the hour before he did so. Pulling his watch from his vest pocket, he squinted at it and took note of the time. “Eight forty-five. She’s probably asleep.”
He released a gust of relief before he reminded himself that his duty was not just yet done. Blast. Why was Becky asleep? It might have been easier to propose in front of his daughter. At least Miss Prophet couldn’t have berated him if Becky were there. Unfortunately, Becky was undoubtedly dead to the world by this time.
It had, after all, been a tiring day for a newly turned seven-year-old. A smile flicked across his mouth as he tucked his watch away. Then he stood and pondered some more.
If Becky was asleep, it was probable that Miss Prophet had gone to her own room next door. Would it be proper for him to knock at her door?
Stupid question. Of course it wouldn’t. After berating Mrs. Bridgewater for spreading false and malicious rumors, he couldn’t very well go and prove the demon woman right and barge in to Callie’s bed chamber, could he?
No, he could not.
Damn it, so what now? A quick glance down the hall reconfirmed Aubrey’s impression that no one else was about. Fortunately, Bilgewater’s room was in the other wing of the house. Therefore, unless she was snooping, she wouldn’t show up in this wing any time soon. He sucked in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it out with a whoosh.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he muttered as he turned away from his daughter’s bedroom and walked to the next door down the hall. He squared his shoulders, tugged at his vest and coat, made sure his tie was straight, and lifted his fisted hand, intending to knock softly---very softly—at Callie’s door.
Callie sealed the envelope, addressed it to Becky, and sat on her bed with a thump. Her head ached and she felt drained and exhausted. And guilty. She must never forget the guilt that was her ever-present companion these days, This evening, however, she was especially tired.
“Too much excitement,” she murmured, glancing around her room seeking Monster. But Monster wasn’t there. Apparently, he’d taken her sharply spoken words of a while ago amiss; she didn’t see him anywhere. “Blast the cat.”
She was so weary after supervising Becky’s birthday party and dealing with her tumbling emotions that she didn’t feel like searching for the stupid animal. Instead, she undressed, scarcely finding the energy to hang her dress in the wardrobe. Then she donned her flannel nighty, brushed out her hair, and crawled between her sheets. For about a minute, she contemplated conducting a more thorough search for Monster.
“Bother Monster, Let him sleep wherever he wants to. What can happen to him indoors, anyhow?”
She was so tired, she later couldn’t even remember rolling over and plumping her pillows before sleep claimed her.
*****
“Dash it,” Aubrey mumbled. He’d been tapping at Callie’s door for what seemed like hours. It had probably only been a minute or two, but it was a nerve-racking business, attempting to propose to a lady. The least this one could do was answer her dashed door.
But did she? No. In true Callida Prophet form, she did not offer the least assistance to him in the matter. She let him stand out here in the hallway, in full view of anyone who cared to walk by, knocking at her door. “Damn her,” he growled under his breath. Every other second, he peered around to make sure he was alone in the hallway. He was.
Being alone in the hallway, however, didn’t solve the problem of the recalcitrant Miss Callida Prophet not answering her dashed door. He knocked slightly more sharply. Damn. This knock, which had felt rather timid when he did it, sounded like thunder in the silence of the huge house.
Tension was making him twitch. “One more time,” he grumbled. “Then quit for tonight.”
He feared that if he didn’t accomplish his purpose tonight, he’d lose his nerve.
Damnation, he never used to be a coward.
He’d never asked anyone but Anne to marry him, either, though, and his nerves were quivering as if they were attached to electrical wires. He and Anne had understood each other from the first moment they’d met. Proposing to her hadn’t had this unsettling effect on him.
He rapped sharply twice and dropped his fist to his side. If she didn’t open the damned door now, he’d just have to brace himself to spend a miserable, anxious night without having accomplished his purpose, and try again tomorrow.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Terrific. That meant the whole dashed family, including Becky, Miss Prophet, Mrs. Granger, Figgins, and Delilah, would attend the little Santa Angelica Methodist church. He’d see all the mothers who’d attended Becky’s party and have to be sociable to Callie’s brother and sisters. And he wouldn’t have a moment to be private with Callie for hours, He wouldn’t be able to ask her to marry him until the afternoon, after the midday meal, which was the big one on Sundays.
He didn’t think his nerves would last until then.
When Callie’s bedroom door opened, he was so startled he nearly jumped out of his skin. Callie stood, blinking, before him, her strawberry-blond hair tumbling around her shoulders, her eyes puffy with sleep, and her cheeks flushed from her pillow, She stared at him and uttered, “Mr. Lockhart!” in a groggy, shocked-sounding voice.
“Miss Prophet,” For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say after those two words. All that practicing, and here he stood, tongue-tied as an adol
escent boy at his first dance.
This was ridiculous. Aubrey took a breath.
“What is it?” Callie was holding her wrapper tightly closed at her neck, but she seemed to be waking up fast. All at once she looked frightened. “What’s happened? Oh, what is it?”
“Er, nothing’s happened,” he said. Hell and damnation. He’d practiced for what seemed like ten years and now, when he was at the point of declaring his intentions, all of his carefully rehearsed words had flown right out of his head.
Callie took a step toward him, and Aubrey backed up an equal distance, berating himself even as he did so. This was no way to get the woman to marry him, dash it.
Looking up and down the hallway, Callie said, “Is it Monster? Has he done something awful again?”
“Monster?” What the devil was she talking—? Oh, yes. Aubrey remembered. Her damned cat. “Er, no, it’s not Monster.”
She stepped back until she stood just inside her room and stared at him some more. “What is it, Mr. Lockhart? Is something the matter?” Her eyes widened, and an, expression of dismay visited her face. Her hands tightened on her wrapper. “Mr. Lockhart . . . ?” She licked her lips and looked scared.
Good God, Aubrey recognized that expression. She thought he’d come here for some sort of immoral purpose.
Aghast, he hurried to say, “Miss Prophet, I need to talk to you about—”
A piercing shriek ripped through the air. It was accompanied by a yowl that would have done a lion in the jungles of Africa proud. Both Aubrey and Callie jumped several inches.
Callie pressed a hand to her cheek and whispered, “Oh, my land!”
Aubrey snarled, “Bilgewater.”
Stopping only to pick up Becky, who had rushed to her own bedroom door and thrown it open, Aubrey raced toward the other wing of the house. He heard Callie racing softly behind him.
“What was that noise, Papa?” Becky rubbed her eyes and looked worried. “It scared me.”
“I’m afraid it was that dashed cat,” Aubrey said grimly.
He yanked the hall door open and barreled through the uncarpeted gallery. He and Anne had planned to borrow an affectation from British nobility and hang portraits of their families in this gallery, but they hadn’t got around to it. Aubrey hadn’t had the heart to do anything with the big, empty room since Anne’s death.
“Monster?” Becky’s eyes widened. “What did he do?”
“I don’t know, but he seems to have done it in your great-aunt’s room.”
“Great-Aunt Evelyn?”
“That’s the one, all right.” Aubrey’s chest roiled with indignation and fury. That damned cat ought to be flung out a third-story window.
“Oh, dear.” Callie was out of breath. “I hope that woman didn’t do anything to Monster.”
Aubrey, glancing over his shoulder, could scarcely believe that even Callie Prophet, of whom he’d learned to expect almost anything, had actually said that.
Chapter Fourteen
“Oh, get it away from me!”
Aubrey and Becky screeched to a halt at Mrs. Bridgewater’s door, which had been slightly ajar when they arrived. Aubrey had flung it open wide.
Pulling herself up right behind them and peering around Aubrey’s broad shoulders, Callie didn’t think she’d ever seen a more pitiful sight. She would, however, have been hard-pressed to say which animal looked more pathetic: Monster or Mrs. Bridgewater.
Monster sat hunched in a corner of Mrs. Bridgewater’s bedroom, his fur bristling, his yellow eyes glittering. Callie could tell he was upset, although she was pretty sure she was the only adult watching who felt sorry for him.
Mrs. Bridgewater sat in her bed, the bedclothes pulled up to her chin, her hair in wild disarray, the cap with which she’d covered it falling down around her right ear, and her eyes bulging. She was uttering tiny, gasping screams, interspersed with barely coherent words.
“The cat!” she cried, ending with a chuff of breath and another gasp. “The cat!”
Callie shoved past the stunned Aubrey, who still clasped Becky tightly in his arms, and dashed up to the bed. “What happened?” she cried. “What’s the matter?”
Mrs. Bridgewater took in several deep breaths, loosened the fingers of one hand from their grasp on her bedclothes, and pointed one of them, quivering, at the cat in the corner.
“That—that beast bit me!” She sucked in air. “On the ear!”
“Good heavens.” Callie turned around and looked at the cat. Realizing that her own wrapper was open, she fumbled for the ties dangling at her sides, and tied them without glancing at what she was doing.. “Monster.” She walked slowly up to the cat, holding out her hand in a soothing gesture. “What happened here, sweetie?”
“Sweetie! Sweetie! That animal bit me!”
Callie turned her head and frowned at Mrs. Bridgewater. “Yes, yes, we all know that by this time. But if you’ll please stop yelling, I’m sure this will be over much more quickly.”
She didn’t pause as she moved toward the cat, but she did hear Mrs. Bridgewater’s offended gasp. Too bad, Callie thought savagely. If the old biddy were a decent sort of person, Monster undoubtedly wouldn’t have sought her out to attack when he found himself wandering the halls in a bad-cat mood.
Aubrey seemed to regain his senses all at once. He took a step forward. Callie, who wasn’t looking at him, heard him because his tread was heavy. “The cat bit you? On the ear?” He sounded as befuddled as might be expected. “But, how . . . ? When . . . ?”
“It’s my fault,” Callie said with a sigh. “I should have looked for him before I went to bed, but I was too tired.”
“Monster never bites you anymore, does he, Papa? It’s ‘cause he’s learned to like you.”
This pointed question and comment came from Becky, and both were salient, in Callie’s opinion. “Of course, Monster doesn’t bite Mr. Lockhart anymore, Becky,” Callie said sweetly. “He only bites people whom he doesn’t trust.”
She heard Mrs. Bridgewater take in more air, and expected a flood of invective to follow, but Aubrey intercepted whatever comments she’d been about to speak. “Let’s just get the animal out of here and get everyone to bed, shall we?” He sounded ever so stern and disagreeable.
Callie’s stomach crunched up. Lord, Lord, she hoped he wouldn’t dismiss her after this incident. If she had to leave Becky—and him—Callie wasn’t sure she’d survive. Though she’d never say so. “Come here, Monster. Come on, boy. Let’s get you out of here.”
Monster, who was a very gentle beast except when biting people, allowed Callie to pick him up. He hung like a fur cloak or a dead bear from her arms. He probably weighed twenty pounds, but Callie didn’t even notice his weight. She turned, knowing she owed Mrs. Bridgewater an apology, no matter how little she wanted to deliver it. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Please try to forgive me. It’s all my fault for allowing him to wander around the house at night. He usually sleeps in my room, but I frightened him off earlier and then didn’t go in search of him.”
Mrs. Bridgewater stared from Callie to Aubrey, her lips working. Callie wondered how her eyes stayed in their sockets, they were starting so wildly. She certainly was in a state. The older woman’s frenzy suddenly irked Callie. “It’s only a cat, Mrs. Bridgewater. There’s nothing sinister in him.”
She saw Aubrey jerk his head to look at her, and she sensed he wasn’t pleased with her. So what else was new? She pressed her lips together and vowed she wouldn’t say another word unless goaded beyond endurance.
“I have never,” said Mrs. Bridgewater, her voice shaking, “been in such a house.”
“Well, you needn’t ever be in one again,” Aubrey pointed out reasonably.
Surprised by his callous words, Callie shot him a quick glance. He looked fairly callous, too. Good heavens, what did this mean?
Bilgewater took in air again. “Aubrey Lockhart,” she quavered, “I am appalled at your indifference, bath to the state of my nerves and to general
appearances. Anne would have been horrified.”
It was the wrong thing to have said. Callie saw it instantly, if Bilgewater didn’t. Aubrey’s eyes flashed fire. “Don’t you dare,” he said in a measured, deadly voice, “bring Anne’s name into this. If you were any kind of benevolent force in the universe, this would never have happened.”
That might not be strictly true, Callie thought, but she decided not to mention the fact that Monster did actually tend to bite people rather often. Most of the time, he was a darling, but he did seem to take dislikes to certain people. Not that she blamed him in this case.
“And now,” Aubrey went on before anyone else could speak, “let’s all get to bed, shall we?”
“I’m real sleepy,” Becky announced, rubbing her eyes again.
“Yes, sweetheart, I’m sure you are.”
Aubrey turned and left the room. Callie, glancing one last time at Mrs. Bridgewater, opened her mouth to offer a final apology, saw that her breath would be wasted, and lugged Monster out of the room. Although her arms were full of Monster, she took care to shut the door so that the cat couldn’t return if he decided to finish his meal and dine on Mrs. Bridgewater’s other ear. No sense in inviting further catastrophe.
She hurried to catch up with Aubrey and Becky, who were halfway to the gallery by this time. “Mr. Lockhart! Please, wait a minute.”
“I’m taking my daughter to bed.”
Oh, dear. His voice was cold and impassive, and Callie feared it boded no good to her. She hurried faster. “But, I wanted to say how sorry I am, Mr. Lockhart.”
She heard his sigh, but he didn’t turn around. “It’s quite all right, Miss Prophet. I’m sure this is no more than we’ve come to expect in the past few months.”
“That’s not fair, sir!” Or maybe it was. It stung, though, and Callie didn’t appreciate it.
He opened the gallery door and stood aside, holding it so that Callie could pass through before him. She did so, trying to look as dignified as possible in her nightgown and wrapper and with a fuzzy black cat dangling from her arms.
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