Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  "Oh, but he makes her happy. Have you ever seen our Sukey so vibrant? I believe she is in love. Let her be, Catherine."

  And so Catherine had accepted the burden of com­plete responsibility for securing a fortune. She had turned the full force of her charms upon several of the other gentlemen. Sir Bertram Fanshawe had shown a marked interest. He was plain-faced and balding, and he tended to laugh rather too loudly. But he would do. Lord Warburton had also been somewhat atten­tive. He spoke with a pronounced lisp and wore his shirt points so high that he could not turn his head. But he would also do. Other possibilities included Lord Alfred Knowland and the elusive Mr. Phipps.

  Her most constant admirer, though, appeared to be Lord Strickland. He was also the most promising in terms of fortune. Catherine had determined to en­courage his interest almost exclusively. There was not time to cultivate a circle of admirers and choose among them. The best plan was to focus on one gen­tleman, using all her energies to bring him up to scratch. Since the earl had shown the most marked in­terest, he became Catherine's prime target.

  "Do you not agree, Miss Forsythe?"

  Catherine realized her mind had wandered away from Miss Neville and she had no idea what the girl had been saying. Something about bonnets, no doubt.

  "Naturally, Miss Neville," she replied, hoping she had not just agreed to anything untoward.

  "Excuse me, ladies."

  Catherine turned at the familiar voice of Lord Strickland. "My lord," she said, flashing her most bril­liant smile.

  "Could I tempt you both with a stroll on the ter­race?" he said. "It is a beautiful evening."

  "I would love to, my lord," Catherine said, almost too quickly, she realized. "Miss Neville?"

  "I think I will excuse myself, if you do not mind," she said. "The night air does not agree with me, I am afraid. But you go along if you wish, Miss Forsythe. I shall join my sister Caroline in charades."

  "Let me send someone for a shawl, Miss Forsythe," the earl said. "I would not wish you to be chilled."

  As he turned away, Miss Neville placed a hand on Catherine's arm. "I hope you do not mind me desert­ing you like that. We can make up some excuse for you before he returns, if you like."

  "That will not be necessary. I do not mind strolling with him in the least."

  "You are much too good, Miss Forsythe. And he is much too old and too stodgy. I prefer the younger gentlemen myself."

  The earl returned with a Norwich shawl and he es­corted Catherine to the terrace on the southern front, facing the formal gardens. Others strolled along the balustraded walkway as well as in the lighted garden paths below. It was a beautiful evening, with stars bright and clear in the summer night sky, the scent of box and jasmine, honeysuckle and rose perfuming the air.

  It was a very romantic setting, and Catherine deter­mined to let the night weave its spell, if the earl was so inclined.

  "What a lovely evening," she said. "Chissingworth is such a beautiful place, is it not?"

  "Indeed it is. So, you are enjoying your visit?"

  "Oh, I certainly am. And you?"

  "Yes," he said after a brief hesitation. "I have al­ways loved it here."

  "But?" she prompted.

  He turned to her and smiled. "I suppose I am sim­ply missing my daughters. I have never been away from them since . . . well, since their mother died."

  "They are quite young, I understand."

  "Amy is five and Caro is not quite three."

  "And do they have their father wrapped around their little fingers?"

  The earl chuckled. "However did you guess?" He went on to tell her of some of their childish exploits, and as she listened, Catherine thought she under­stood why he would take time away from them to join the duchess's party. He needed a mother for his daughters.

  She hoped he was seriously considering her for the position. And she hoped she measured up. She loved children and believed she would be a good mother. And a good wife to the earl. It was a perfect arrange­ment. She needed a fortune and he needed a mother for his children. Each could provide for the other.

  He was a very nice man, if a bit on the dull side. He brightened considerably, though, when he spoke of his daughters. Catherine suspected the quickest way to his heart was through his children, and so she would make a point to show an interest in them. It would not be a deceitful interest, she reasoned, for the benefit of the image of Mr. Archibald's contemptuous green eyes that had intruded, unbidden, upon her thoughts. She did indeed like children.

  The earl spoke of the girls' accomplishments, how Caro was already learning her letters and how Amy was quickly becoming a fine horsewoman on her moorland pony. And he spoke of how inseparable the girls were.

  "It was the same for Susannah and me when we were younger," Catherine told him. "We were a bit older when we lost our mother—I was ten—but we still clung to one another even so. We still do, in many ways. Amy and Caro are lucky to have each other. A sister is a very special thing. When I was small, I used to think how lonely it would be without my sister."

  "Yes, I am grateful they have each other," Lord Strickland said. "I grew up with two brothers and a sis­ter. I used to pity children who had no siblings to play with. I remember when I first met the Duke of Carlisle. We were in school as boys. I used to pity him because he had no brothers or sisters, even though he was a duke. But I never told him so," he added with a grin.

  "Ah, Lord Strickland, Miss Forsythe." Lady Gatskyll moved to join them. "Is it not a lovely evening?"

  "Indeed," the earl replied. "And did you enjoy the abbey this afternoon, my lady?"

  "Immensely," she replied. "What a noble structure it must have once been. But I really came over to have a brief word with Miss Forsythe."

  "Of course. Ladies," he said as he swept them a bow and backed away to leave.

  Catherine looked daggers at the plump dowager, who was garbed head to toe in brilliant orange that could not have suited her less. Even the ostrich plume that rose almost two feet above her head was dyed or­ange. The harsh color only served to further inflame Catherine's antagonism for the woman who had in­terrupted as she had been making great progress with the earl.

  "Oh, but you needn't leave, Strickland," Lady Gatskyll said. "I shall only be a moment."

  Catherine was relieved, but she had no idea why Lady Gatskyll would wish to speak with her. She had spoken no more than a few words to the older woman during their brief acquaintance here at Chissing­worth. She could not imagine what the woman could possibly wish to say to her.

  Lady Gatskyll laid a hand on Catherine's arm and leaned close. "I wanted to speak with you, Miss Forsythe," she said in a hoarse whisper, "to let you know that you have not fooled me."

  Catherine's stomach seized up into a knot. Oh, no. Not again. What had this woman discovered? What did she know? Whatever it was, she was about to re­veal it in the presence of Lord Strickland. Catherine could see all her plans about to be shattered into bits. She bit hard on her hp to keep from crying.

  The dowager smiled conspiratorially and patted Catherine's arm. "You may have the others fooled into thinking you have no more consequence than being Sir Benjamin Forsythe's daughters. But I know better."

  Catherine clasped the shawl tightly to keep her hands from trembling. What was this woman talking about?

  "You see," Lady Gatskyll continued, "I recognized at once the brooch your lovely sister is wearing tonight. You sly things! You must be very close to Lady Lonsdale for her to loan you her jewels. Very close indeed."

  Lonsdale! Good heavens, was that not the name of the household from which MacDougal's sister's hus­band's cousin's wife, or some such relation, had 'borrowed' the jewel case? Catherine closed her eyes and tried not to groan aloud.

  "I have seen the marchioness wear that brooch only once or twice," the dowager went on to say. "But I re­member it, nonetheless. The filigree work is quite dis­tinctive."

  "Y-yes, it is," Catherine stammered. She did not dare look a
t the earl.

  "Do not worry, my dear," Lady Gatskyll said. "Your secret is safe with me. I shall not say a word." She gave Catherine one final pat on the arm. "Not a word," she added with a wink as she turned to go. In the next moment, she had reentered the house through the terrace doors, one tiny orange ostrich tuft floating to the ground in her wake.

  At the sound of laughter, Catherine turned to find Lord Strickland smiling broadly.

  "Well, Miss Forsythe," he said, "your credit has just risen several notches in the eyes of the ton tabbies if they believe you to be connected in some way to Lady Lonsdale."

  "Oh."

  Catherine was not sure if she should be elated or terrified.

  She decided to be relieved instead. Another near miss had been avoided.

  But how many more would she have to endure be­fore the month was out?

  Chapter10

  He was actually spying on his own home.

  It made no sense. It was the height of absurdity. But that was precisely what Stephen was doing. He skulked in the depths of the box hedge near the south front terrace and spied on his mother's party.

  He had no idea what had made him do such a damned fool thing. No, that was not true. He knew exactly what had made him do it.

  Miss Catherine Forsythe.

  She had kicked him in the gut with her matter-of-fact revelations of fortune hunting. She had made him despise her. But instead of just forgetting about her, he had developed this insane notion of watching her 'in her world' to see if she was as cold and callous as she had sounded. Would she shamelessly throw her­self at every wealthy gentleman in attendance? Would she flirt and connive and seduce until she got what she wanted? Would she allow liberties and then claim compromise? Was she so single-minded in her purpose?

  It was somehow important that he find out. He could see her even now. She had been on the south terrace for some time. With Miles. The moon­light glinted off her blond hair and he realized he was seeing her for the first time without a bonnet. Had it been only that morning when he had imagined taking off her hat and letting her hair hang free? It was not hanging free, of course, but at least he could see that it was not cropped. It was pulled off her face and pinned at the back of her head in a riot of soft curls. He thought he would still like to see it hanging loose and free. But he had no business thinking any such thing, for he despised her.

  His eyes were drawn away from her hair, to her neck, to her throat, and to the expanse of bosom and the shadow of cleavage revealed by the low neckline of her clingy blue dress. He had most often seen her in the mornings, when she was usually buttoned right up to her chin. He had never, of course, failed to note the curves beneath; but as he saw those curves more fully exposed in the flesh, it was enough to stir a man's blood in a highly uncomfortable way. He won­dered how Miles was handling it, standing so close as he was.

  Though others strolled about on the terrace and the garden just below, she and Miles appeared totally ab­sorbed with one another. More than once, she flashed him one of her brilliant smiles—the same smile that had more than once singed Stephen all the way to his toes. Were Miles' toes burning? He could not tell, but the man was smiling. Dammit, but she had worked her wiles on his best friend; and stolid, upstanding, thoroughly decent Miles appeared to have fallen for it.

  Perhaps Stephen should warn him. Perhaps he should tell his friend what he knew about Miss Catherine Forsythe before she got her fortune-hunting claws inextricably into him. Though Miles had been clear that he wanted a wife merely to provide a mother for his children, he deserved better than this. He deserved someone who thought more of him than just that he was among the fifty richest men in En­gland under forty.

  But should he tell Miles? Was it really any of his business what either of them did?

  He watched as an older woman in a hideous orange dress approached them. As she spoke, a change seemed to come over Catherine. The warmth drained out of her smile in an instant, leaving behind a brittle, frozen mask. Her hands began to clutch at her shawl so tightly that even from his distant vantage, Stephen could see her knuckles were white. What was going on? What had distressed her so? And why was Miles still smiling as though nothing were wrong? Couldn't he see that Catherine was about to faint?

  Stephen was almost ready to jump from his hiding place to help her when the lady in orange departed. He watched Catherine's shoulders sag just as the frozen smile slid from her face. But Miles was laugh­ing. Actually laughing. Catherine offered him a weak smile and appeared to compose herself somewhat. But Stephen noticed that her hands seemed to tremble as she pulled the shawl tightly across her chest. Her earlier warmth was replaced by a sort of wariness, but Miles did not appear to notice. He chatted on, smil­ing, as he led her to a more distant corner of the ter­race, out of Stephen's view.

  It was not at all clear what Stephen had just wit­nessed. But it was very clear that something had been said to seriously upset Catherine.

  Catherine. When had he stopped thinking of her as Miss Forsythe?

  And when had he started caring that she might be distressed, when he had resolutely determined to de­spise her?

  Stephen did not care to examine too closely the an­swers to these questions. He certainly did not care to untangle the well of emotions that churned within him at the moment. If he once began to analyze the loathing and the admiration, the contempt and the re­spect, the indifference and the affection, he would surely go mad.

  As if he hadn't gone round the bend already, to be skulking in his own shrubbery.

  "Your girls seem to be doing quite well for them­selves, Hetty."

  Hetty took a long sip of tea and sighed contentedly. "It appears so, Isabelle. How can I ever thank you?"

  "Tsk," the duchess clucked. "It has been a pleasure. They are lovely girls. Susannah is positively stunning, of course. Catherine, though, reminds me a great deal of your sister-in-law, Eugenia."

  "Yes, she does favor her mother, does she not?"

  "Lord Strickland seems to have developed quite an attachment for her," the duchess said as she kicked off her slippers and flexed her toes. She stretched out on the chaise and pulled the merino shawl more tightly about her dressing gown.

  "Do you think he could be serious?" Hetty asked.

  "It is possible," the duchess replied. "It has been al­most three years since he lost his wife. It is time he re­married."

  "Wouldn't that be grand," Hetty said as she flexed her own toes, propped on the ottoman in front of her. "My little Catherine, a countess."

  The duchess silently considered that the girl just may be able to reach even higher, but she kept her tongue between her teeth for the moment.

  "And Susannah, I think, has formed an attachment of her own," she said.

  "Now that, Isabelle, is more problematic. Catherine, you must know, is not at all pleased with this connec­tion. Captain Phillips does not have the fortune she had hoped to secure for Susannah."

  "Perhaps not," the duchess said, "but she could not ask for a better man. Of course, Roger is very dear to me. But he is also as solid and dependable and good-natured as they come. A fortune isn't everything."

  "It is to Catherine."

  "Then Strickland is perfect for her. He is as rich as Croesus. But, happily, he is solid and dependable as well. I have always been quite fond of him. He has long been a friend of Stephen's, you know, for which he has my eternal gratitude. My son has so few friends." She heaved a weary sigh. "Now, if only Stephen could find a young woman for himself— someone as lovely and sweet as one of your nieces— then I should be happy."

  "If the duke keeps so much to himself," Hetty said, "then how can he ever expect to find a wife? Does he plan to place an advertisement and choose her sight unseen?"

  The duchess threw her head back against the mountain of pillows and laughed. "That sounds just like something he would do. Unfortunately, I fear he has no plans to marry at all. But, things can always change. . ."

  "What made him such
a recluse, Isabelle?"

  '"Tis a complicated matter," the duchess replied with a shrug of her shoulders. "It all began when his father died. Stephen was only ten, much too young to inherit a dukedom. Imagine being ten years old and suddenly being fussed and fawned over as one of the most important peers in the land. He hated it as a boy and he still hates it." She paused as she recalled the boy Stephen, an almost permanent scowl on his young face as he handled the duties of his title. "I shall never forget the time," she said in a soft voice, almost speaking to herself alone, "when he came to me and said that he knew no one would ever love him. They might love the duke, he said, but they would never love the boy Stephen, for no one would ever let him be just Stephen. I told him that I loved Stephen. But he said"—she paused as her voice choked and her eyes welled up—"he said I only loved him because I had to, because I was his mother. If I had not been his mother, I would love only the duke, just like everyone else. But not Stephen."

  "Oh, the poor child," Hetty said. "I never thought what it must be like for someone so young to carry such a burden."

  "It was painful to watch him, Hetty, for there was nothing I could do. He was right, you see. He was never allowed to be just Stephen. As a result, he be­came bitter and solitary and distrustful. He has never had many friends, and as for women . . . if he has had them, he has been discreet about it. There has cer­tainly never been any serious involvement. He is afraid to let anyone get close to him. That is why he keeps so much to himself. He is so seldom seen in public that most of Society would not even recognize him."

  Suddenly, Hetty began to chuckle. "My nieces had heard that the duke is kept locked away by his family because he is mad."

  The duchess brushed the dampness from her cheeks and burst out laughing. "Mad? Do they really say that? Just like the King, eh? How very droll." She shook her head and continued to chuckle at the no­tion of her son as mad as King George. "But, my dear," she said at last, "I believe at least one of your nieces has learned that the duke is not mad, though she may not yet realize it."