by Candice Hern
And, of course, her allowing it only encouraged the wretched man. He spoke as if he actually had serious intentions, asking if he was unworthy. But how could he possibly think otherwise? She was the granddaughter of a viscount. He was a lowly gardener. Just because her sister had allowed herself to form a horribly ineligible attachment did not mean that Catherine was so lost to good sense. What could he be thinking?
But she knew what he must be thinking, and she despised herself for it. She hated how she responded to him so easily, that with so little effort he was able to make her forget—forget about Lord Strickland and his fortune, forget about Flood Street. Worst of all, he made her forget he was just the gardener. It both frightened and angered her that she should be so susceptible to him. She simply would have to avoid him. That was all there was to it.
She would not let him kiss her again. She would not. She never wanted to see him again.
Good Lord, how could she have allowed this to happen?
If only it had been Lord Strickland who kissed her like that. But he was a gentleman and would never do anything so improper. But she wished he would. She wished he would kiss her senseless and make her forget all about the head gardener.
Catherine took the earl's proffered arm and they strolled with the others along the lake's edge. After a short while, he steered her slightly away so that they walked alone. They conversed on inconsequential subjects for a few moments, and then he began to speak of Epping, his primary estate in Northamptonshire. It was a topic that encouraged Catherine's hopes of an offer. He seemed so eager that Epping should please her—as if just about anything outside of Chelsea would not please her. He told her of the estate's history, of the original architecture of Inigo Jones and the more recent renovations by Wyatville, of the size of the stables and the number of tenant farms.
"You will be pleased, I think, to know that Epping boasts some rather fine gardens," he said. "I must confess, though, that they always appear somewhat less impressive after a visit to Chissingworth."
"I do not doubt it," Catherine replied with a smile, "though I am sure the gardens at Epping are very fine. I suspect many of us will leave Chissingworth only to find our own homes suddenly less grand." Especially those of us who return to homes on Flood Street, she thought. "Tell me something of the Epping gardens," she prompted, hoping to keep him on this subject for a while longer.
"Well, let me see. There is a—"
"Excuse me, my lord, Cath."
Catherine turned at the sound of Susannah's breathy voice. Her hand was locked tightly in the crook of Captain Phillips's right arm. "Captain Phillips and I wondered if you and Lord Strickland might like to share a boat with us on the lake. The captain assures me they are quite safe," she said, gazing fondly up into his eyes.
"If Lord Strickland does not object," Catherine said, "I think that sounds quite—Sukey! You are wearing your spectacles!" Catherine was astonished at the realization and unable to quell her reaction. Almost the only claim to vanity that could ever be assigned to her beautiful sister was her aversion to wearing spectacles in public. She had always been very self-conscious about it. And here she was wearing them boldly for all the world to see.
Susannah blushed prettily and nestled closer to the captain. "Roger . . . Captain Phillips, that is, convinced me of all that I have been missing by walking around half blind." She gave the captain a dazzling smile, and he smiled warmly down at her in return. "He made me see that I was allowing my vanity to get in the way of the more important things in life."
"Besides," the captain said, "Susannah is just as beautiful with them as without." He gazed down at her with such love in his eyes that Catherine's heart almost broke at the sight of it. "Nothing as insignificant as spectacles could ever detract from such beauty."
Susannah blushed again, and Catherine thought she had never looked more beautiful, spectacles or no. "And the wonderful thing is," Susannah said, "I can finally see all the beauty of Chissingworth. What a shame it would be to have been here and yet not have seen it."
"You are to be congratulated, Miss Forsythe, on your good sense," Lord Strickland said. "The captain is quite right. There is too much to be missed. Especially while boating on the lake. Shall we?" He indicated that the other couple should lead the way, and all four headed toward the boathouse.
The earl allowed the other two to get ahead a bit. "I have known Phillips for years," he said, his voice lowered so the others would not hear. "He is an excellent man. Solid, dependable, no nonsense. You should have no reservations on your sister's behalf."
Catherine wondered if he realized how much she had objected to their attachment. Was he trying to warn her—as a certain other had done—that she was wrong to insist on a fortune? Well, he need not bother. She could see that Susannah was in love. And though it would have been just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man, there was nothing to be done about it now.
"And if you do not mind my saying so," the earl continued, "your sister looks positively radiant. I do not mean to imply that she has ever looked less than lovely. She is a very beautiful young woman. But just now, even with the spectacles," he added with a smile, "she is almost glowing."
They both watched in silence as the couple smiled at one another and then laughed together. Catherine thought about the man at her side and wondered if he could possibly ever make her glow like that. But she thought not. There seemed to be only one man who could do that, and he was not to be considered. She looked up at the earl as he watched the happy couple and wondered what he was thinking. Was he asking himself the same question—whether or not Catherine could ever gaze at him the way Susannah gazed at the captain? And would it matter to him if she could not?
The earl turned, caught her eye, and smiled. "Just as a point of fact," he said, "your sister is not the only one smelling of April and May. Phillips looks equally smitten. I believe they must be in love." He looked ahead again toward Susannah and the captain. "I know the look well," he said, a wistful note of sadness in his voice.
And suddenly, a double-edged pang of guilt twisted its way into Catherine's stomach. Not only had she eagerly and brazenly encouraged the earl while allowing herself to enjoy another man's embraces, but she knew she would never be able to offer him the sort of love shared by Susannah and the captain.
But she could not allow such niggling doubts to interfere with her plans. The earl was a widower who understood the realities of life. He had given no indication that he believed she was in love with him. For that matter, he had never hinted that he was in love with her. Theirs would not be a love match. He would not expect it to be.
Then, why did she feel so guilty for not loving him? Why did the look of sadness as he watched Susannah and the captain cut her to the quick?
As the earl handed her down into one of the row-boats, she chastised herself for such maudlin reflection. She must not dwell on such matters or she was doomed to fail in her objective. Financial security was infinitely more important than the absence of love.
Thoughts of returning to Flood Street and certain poverty were enough to renew her resolve to follow through with her plan. And she would.
But no one ever told her it would be this painful.
Chapter 13
"Mind your own business, Mother."
The duchess watched as her son rifled through a stack of scientific journals, taking wicked pleasure in his nervous discomposure. It was a good sign. He tossed a few copies onto the floor and gathered up two or three others that he took back with him to his desk. It was then she saw the painting. Sweet violets, delicately painted in watercolor on parchment. The duchess smiled. Another good sign.
"But, Stephen, I do not like to think of you upsetting one of my guests."
"Who says I have upset her?"
"I happened to be strolling in the woodlands with Sir Quentin Lacey the other day."
"Lacey? Is he your latest cicisbeo, Mother?" he asked, flashing
her a lopsided grin.
"Impertinent boy!" she said, dismissing his question with an imperious wave of her hand. "We were having a lovely stroll in the southern wood near the Grotto pond."
"Ha!" He gave her a knowing look. "I have no doubt you were deliberately lurking nearby. Was it not you who insisted she must go to the Grotto to paint the damned rose? The same rose that flourishes in the rosarium and a dozen other places near the house?"
"But you must admit, it looks loveliest there against the Grotto wall, in all its solitary beauty." He quirked a brow, and she shot him a quelling look. "The point is, I caught a glimpse of Catherine as she ran through the wood, and she seemed very upset to me. I would swear she was crying."
"Was she?"
"What did you do to her, Stephen?"
"I kissed her."
"Oh, but that is wonderful!" The duchess clasped her hands at her breast and beamed at her son. This was promising, indeed. "You actually kissed her? How marvelous!"
"It was, actually. But she ran away, and you say she was crying. She will not give in to her attraction for me."
"You believe she is attracted to you?"
"Mother," he said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, "I am not a complete slowtop. I do have some experience with women, you know."
She did not know, in fact. But was glad to hear it.
"But she believes I am only the gardener," he continued in a more sober tone, "and will have nothing to do with me. Told me she never wants to see me again."
The duchess noted the hint of discouragement in his voice, and her heart constricted in her chest. He must not give up yet. Failure could result in his complete withdrawal from the world. She was determined he would not lose this battle. She was determined not to lose her son.
"Perhaps it is time to reveal to her your true identity," she said.
"No," he answered quickly. "Not yet. She would cling to me like a mealy bug on rosemary if she knew I was the duke. Just as she's doing with Miles. The poor chap doesn't have a chance. She is after a rich husband and will let nothing stand in her way."
The duchess brushed aside a stack of old newspapers and sat down in the chair across from the desk. "Stephen," she said, reaching out to touch his hand, "I think you are being a bit unfair. You have known only wealth and comfort your whole life. You cannot know what it is to want. But those two girls are in a desperate situation. When Hetty told me how they have been forced to live, it almost broke my heart."
"But she told me they were the daughters of a baronet and the granddaughters of a viscount."
"Yes, they are," the duchess said. "But their father was a gamester and a speculator. What he did not lose at the tables he squandered away in foolish investments. His last scheme ruined him completely. He lost everything. Apparently, he . . . he could not face the shame. He shot himself."
"Good Lord. I had no idea."
"And left his two daughters with little more than the clothes on their backs. The creditors swooped down and took everything. Hetty, who had little enough herself, took them in. The three of them have been squeezed into her tiny house in Chelsea these last two years and more. They have sold off nearly every stick of furniture just to make ends meet."
Stephen looked up at her, his brow knotted, a glint of sorrow in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but only shook his head and said nothing.
"Can you blame her, my dear," the duchess said, "for wanting to protect herself and her family?"
Stephen hunched a shoulder and looked down at the papers on his desk.
"Besides, she is not unlike all the other young girls on the Marriage Mart. Every one of them is seeking a title and fortune, or at least their parents are. How is Catherine so different?"
Stephen's head jerked up and his eyes were dark with an anger his mother did not understand. "Because she is so cold and calculating about it all," he said, his voice tight with contained emotion. "There is no pretense at all. Just pure greed. It is heartless and despicable."
"I think you are wrong," the duchess said in a soft voice, taking her son's hand between both her own and willing him to listen and understand. "It is not greed that motivates her. It is fear. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be for her to contemplate a life of poverty? It is security she seeks, not a fortune. And it is more than financial security she needs, though she may not realize it just yet. Stephen?" she said, looking deep into his eyes. "You care for her, don't you?"
He leaned back in his chair and heaved a great noisy shudder of a sigh. "I'm trying not to," he said at last.
"But you do," she said. "I can see that you do. You can help her, Stephen, to learn what she really needs." Just as she can help you, she thought, if only you will let her.
"How can I help her?" he asked, giving an exasperated wave of his hand. "Besides a fortune, I have no idea what she needs."
The duchess stood and brushed out her skirts. It was time for her son to make his own way through this muddle. There was nothing more she could do. "You will know," she said as she moved toward the office door. "Trust your heart, my son. You will know."
Stephen pondered his mother's words all that evening. It was very distressing to consider the life Catherine had been forced to live. He had had no idea it was as bad as all that. He was sorry she had suffered, sorry that her father had been such a fool. And it would be easy enough for him to resolve all her problems, and his own, by simply revealing himself as the duke. But he would not do so. For reasons too complex to explore, he was committed, now, to maintaining his charade. It was selfish. It was no doubt stupid. But there it was.
Stephen reviewed his mother's words, but was never really sure he understood her meaning. You will know, she had said. Know what? Why must women always talk in riddles? Why could they not be clear and direct, as any man would be?
But then, Catherine had been nothing if not clear. With him, at least, she was plainspoken. He was fairly certain that she was not quite so open with those of her own class. Miles was certainly oblivious to her motives. As the gardener, Stephen posed no threat; he was not worth the effort of equivocation. She wanted a fortune and would let nothing, not even her own desires, stand in the way of obtaining one. Yes, she had been very clear about that.
But there was one other thing—one other thing that was more clear to him than all the rest. And that was the way she felt in his arms, the way she responded to his kisses. She had felt so good. More than good. Intoxicating.
Which must explain why he was once again sneaking around his own estate, spying on his mother's guests.
Though it was early afternoon, they were enjoying a Venetian breakfast on the lawns flanking the Tempietto, a tiny pavilion tucked into a glade in the western stand, and backed up against a heavily wooded copse. It faced a long, rectangular reflecting pool, in the center of which stood an obelisk. Fanning out on either side of the pool were pristine rolled lawns. The Tempietto and its pool, installed by Stephen's grandfather in the last century, had been one of Stephen's favorite childhood haunts. He knew every inch of the tiny temple, including the hidden door in the unadorned rear wall that opened onto a storage closet used by three generations of Chissingworth gardeners to store equipment.
While the party guests dined on the lawns in typical grand style, Stephen prowled the rear copse. The trees butted up so close to the rear of the temple that no one ever came round to the back side, and so Stephen felt relatively safe. He was becoming very good at skulking soundlessly from tree to tree. Watching Catherine, even from a distance, was becoming an end in itself. But he wanted more. He wanted to hold her in his arms again, to steal one more kiss.
When the meal ended and the guests strolled about in all directions, he kept his eyes on Catherine, hoping she would wander closer to the temple so that he could try to gain her attention.
She did. But she was on the arm of Miles, damn his eyes. He could not allow Miles to see him. Or any of the other guests who might recognize him. Stephen
held his ground and waited patiently for the right moment.
It came sooner than he expected. Most of the other guests who had come to view the Tempietto began to drift away. Miles had his back to the temple as he spoke to Catherine. Stephen cautiously peaked around the rear wall and waved at her.
Catherine started when she saw him, but composed herself quickly and turned away. Stephen went back into hiding and waited. He watched as she strolled about with Miles, moving further away from the temple, pretending to ignore Stephen. The stiff line of her back, though, told him she was very much aware of his presence. Once, just once, she looked over her shoulder. Stephen waved again, and she turned back toward Miles, chattering and smiling effusively.
He grinned to himself and returned to the rear wall, leaning against it with one foot crossed over the other. She would come. He knew she would. And he waited.
About a quarter of an hour later, he heard someone coming, and calmly moved to open the door to the storeroom. When she came around the corner at last, he was leaning negligently against the wall.
"What is the matter with you?" she said without preamble. "Are you so determined to embarrass me in public? I told you to leave me alone."
"And I told you," he said as he grabbed one of her hands, "that I cannot." He swung her around, pulled her into the darkness of the storeroom, and gathered her into his arms.
"Let me go," she said, pounding his chest with her fists.
"I've tried, Catherine, but I can't. I can't let go of the thought of you. I can't get you out of my mind."
He bent his head and kissed her. She resisted at first, as he expected. But as he moved his lips over hers softly, tenderly, undemanding, he felt her melt into him. She wanted him. And that only further inflamed his own desire. He deepened the kiss, finally drawing her tongue into his mouth and caressing it with his own.