Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  When she returned to his side, he looked down at her and smiled warmly. "Then, let me be among the first to wish you happy," he said as they crossed hands and stepped in a circle with the other three couples. "I am very pleased for you, Miss Forsythe. You deserve all the happiness and good fortune he will bring you."

  She darted a glance at him as he swung her around behind him. There appeared to be a distinct twinkle in his eye. Did he know about Stephen? That he was the estate gardener? And was he making a kind of teasing reference to Stephen's lack of fortune? And the fact that she had thrown away the chance to share his own fortune? Was there contempt behind that smile?

  The steps took them apart again for some minutes and she was swung around by each of the other gen­tlemen before finally returning to face the earl. "You must be very pleased with how things have been set­tled," he said, grinning in an almost mischievous manner she would never have expected of him. And what did he mean by that remark? "To find yourself so well situated, after all," he continued.

  He knew! He must know. Well situated, indeed. He knew she had betrothed herself to the gardener and was making fun of her. So, he was not so complacent about her refusal as she had believed. He was making it clear what he thought of being thrown over for a mere gardener. Catherine's cheeks burned with shame and outrage that he should say such things to her. She kept her jaw clenched and her chin high throughout the remaining movements of the quadrille, but said not a word to the earl. How dare he tease her about Stephen. How dare he presume that he was a better catch just because of his title and fortune. When the music stopped, she made the oblig­atory curtsy to the hateful man and turned to walk away. She spied Aunt Hetty seated along the opposite wall with Lady Malmsbury and headed in their direc­tion.

  And suddenly, the din of conversation throughout the entire ballroom came to an abrupt halt. What had happened? Catherine wondered as she looked around the room. It must be something very horrible or very momentous, for the silence was deafening. It then oc­curred to her that the duke must have arrived, for she could think of nothing else, short of an appearance by the Prince Regent, that could so thoroughly silence such a gathering. She sincerely hoped it was the duke, for then she could soon make her escape.

  She followed the general gaze and movement of the crowd, and her eyes fell upon Stephen, strolling blithely into the ballroom.

  What on earth? Stephen!

  She stared at him, dumbfounded, as he walked to­ward her. She had only ever seen him in casual work clothes, comfortable and informal and usually rum­pled. But she was dazzled just now by the sight of him in evening dress, and could not take her eyes off him as he moved through the room. He looked mag­nificent in a dark green velvet coat and white satin waistcoat embroidered with green and gilt. His hair was combed off his face. She wondered how long it would be before that one errant curl dipped over his brow. Good heavens, but he was gorgeous. Catherine experienced a sudden burst of pride that this beauti­ful man was to be her husband. He looked as elegant as a prince and walked as proudly. And he gazed straight into her eyes as he approached. But what was he doing here?

  He should not have come. He was not supposed to be here. Catherine noted people whispering and gawking as he approached. Good Lord, he was going to make a spectacle of himself. And of her, for he was so obviously headed straight for her. The crowd seemed to part at his approach, as if he were some sort of dangerous or repulsive creature. As if they wanted nothing to do with him.

  Oh, Stephen! What ever possessed you to come? Why are you doing this?

  He reached her side and smiled. Good Lord, he looked so splendid she almost forgot what a spectacle he was making of them both.

  "Will you take my arm, Catherine?"

  He did not give her a chance to reply, but took her hand and placed it on his arm. He turned her toward the orchestra dais where the duchess now stood, wearing a huge smile.

  "Stephen!" she hissed. "What are you doing?"

  "Trust me, my love," he whispered. "It will be all right."

  But it was not all right. The entire ballroom stared at them. What was he doing? Why was he embarrass­ing her like this? She looked up to see the duchess still smiling and was more confused than ever. Surely Stephen must have been a valued family retainer for a long time. But she could not imagine that gave him the right to walk so boldly into his employer's ball, uninvited. And yet, he continued to lead her straight toward the duchess.

  Catherine felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her and wanted nothing more than to escape. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he held it firmly in place and smiled down at her.

  She had not thought it could get any worse, but then he led her onto the dais. She stood there before the entire ballroom and was mortified. The duchess raised her hands for quiet, as if it were not already uncomfortably silent, and Catherine suddenly real­ized what was happening.

  The duchess was going to announce her betrothal to Stephen. The way she grinned and beamed at both of them, it was obvious that was what she was about to do. The gentleman gardener—for he was surely a gentleman—must indeed be a valued retainer if the duchess condescended to make such an announce­ment.

  Such a notion pleased Catherine. Perhaps he was not so lowly as she had believed. He looked anything but lowly this evening. Even so, she was thoroughly embarrassed and wished this were not happening. She recalled the earl's spiteful teasing and wondered what the others' reactions would be. Not really want­ing to know just at that moment, she kept her gaze skewered to the floor.

  She wished the duchess would simply get on with it, for Catherine was feeling flushed and warm and did not know how much longer she could maintain her composure.

  Chapter 20

  Stephen was perversely enjoying Catherine's dismay. He did not know what it was about her that provoked him to such deviltry. But ever since he had tripped over her in the garden, some imp of mischief had urged him into all sorts of badness. There was no ex­cuse for it, except that he could not remember when he had had so much fun.

  But just now, she must think him the worst sort of bounder, to drag her up on the dais with the duchess, every eye in the ballroom directed at them. He could feel her fingers trembling slightly where they rested on his arm. Poor thing. She was embarrassed. Stephen grinned and laid his hand over hers. She jerked her gaze from the floor and looked up at him. He gave her a look that he hoped told her all would be well. Her response was to stare daggers at him. Stephen grinned.

  Good Lord, but she was angry. For some reason, that only increased his amusement. He could not wait to watch her mouth drop open when she figured out who he was. If he was not careful, he would soon be giggling like a fool. His reputation as the mad duke would be secure.

  He composed himself, lifted his chin, and waited for his mother to speak.

  "My dear friends," she began. Stephen noticed Catherine's gaze had dropped once again to her feet, and a deep blush colored her cheeks. She no doubt wished a chasm would open in the ballroom floor and swallow her up. Good Lord, she looked like she wanted to die. Stephen had only a moment to con­sider that this might not have been such a good idea, after all.

  "I am so pleased," his mother continued, "that you are all able to join us tonight at our annual summer ball. Of all the balls we have held over the years here at Chissingworth, this one is the most special to me. For tonight I have the greatest pleasure to announce to you the betrothal of my son, Stephen, His Grace the Duke of Carlisle, to Miss Catherine Forsythe."

  Stephen's wicked amusement was eclipsed by a moment of sheer pride and profound joy. He loved this woman and wanted all the world to know it. He beamed down at Catherine while gasps of surprise and delight floated up from the crowd.

  She lifted her head ever so slowly and glared at him with huge eyes in a look of positive horror. Her dark brows crept up toward her hairline, and her mouth hung open, slack with astonishment. Stephen smiled down at her in reassurance. But she only stared at him with those big gray eyes. A
nd suddenly, those eyes rolled up, her head fell back limp upon her neck, and she collapsed in a swoon at his feet.

  "Catherine, my darling, are you all right?"

  Her eyes fluttered open and she felt momentarily disoriented. What had happened? Stephen, in all his evening finery, bent over her with concerned eyes. She felt his arm around her shoulder and sank grate­fully against it as she allowed her head to clear. She looked up to see her aunt and Susannah hovering nearby, and the duchess shooing away a crowd of cu­rious onlookers.

  "She will be fine," the duchess said. "She was merely overcome by the heat of the room. Please stand back and give her room to breathe."

  And then she remembered.

  Oh, my God. Stephen was the duke. The man she loved, the man she believed to be the head gardener was in fact the duke. The owner of Chissingworth. It was incredible. It was bizarre. It made no sense. But it had to be true. The duchess had called him her son and announced their betrothal to all the world. Good Lord, the man she had agreed to marry was the Duke of Carlisle.

  She wanted to wring his aristocratic neck.

  "You blackguard!" she whispered.

  Stephen cocked a brow and grinned. He lifted her so that she was sitting upright.

  "Why did you not tell me?" she said, keeping her voice low even though she wanted to scream at him. She had no wish to cause any more of a scene. Good Lord, she had actually fainted up on that dais, in front of the whole assembly. How thoroughly mortifying.

  Stephen gently helped her to her feet and into a nearby chair. He pulled up another chair and sat be­side her. Someone handed him a glass, and he put it in her hand. He kept his own hand around hers to steady the glass.

  "Drink this," he said. "It is only water."

  She obeyed him and took a swallow.

  "Do you feel better, my love?" he asked. "Would you like to go to your room and lie down?"

  She felt fine, but only glared at him and said noth­ing. How could he have done this to her. Good Lord, he was actually the duke? He looked every inch the duke in all his elegance. How had she failed to recog­nize the nobility beneath the rumpled exterior? When she thought of all she had said to him, thinking he was plain Mr. Archibald, she wanted to die. She had actually told a duke, an honest-to-God duke, that he was stupid and ignorant and she would have him fired. She winced as she recalled telling him that she had no interest in the half-witted Duke of Carlisle. Good Lord, what must he have thought of her? But she had also told him she loved him. She was not sure which was the more embarrassing.

  "Why did you let me believe you were only the gar­dener?" she said.

  "They are my gardens, you know."

  Catherine suddenly became aware of all the con­cerned faces watching her and realized she did not want to have this conversation in public.

  "I think I could use some fresh air," she said. "Would you walk with me in the gardens, Your Grace?"

  "Only if you promise to call me Stephen again."

  He put his arm around her shoulders as he led her from the ballroom, fending good wishes and congrat­ulations along the way. He led her down the Great Stairway, along the main corridor, through endless salons, onto the terrace, and down the steps into the gardens—all without a single word.

  Catherine used the silence to consider the situation. It occurred to her that Aunt Hetty must have known all along. She and the duchess were very close. And that unexplained laughter that morning must mean that her aunt had known. And Lord Strickland. He was not teasing her because she had refused him. He had known. The duke was his friend, as he had often said, so of course he had known. And he must have known that she did not know.

  Good heavens, was she the last one to find out that she was betrothed to a duke? Did Susannah know as well? Had there been some kind of conspiracy to hide Stephen's identity from her? So that she would have to admit to the ignominy of falling in love with a mere gardener? So that she would be forced to exam­ine more closely the priorities in her life? So that she would have to choose between love and money?

  When she considered how near she had come to making the wrong choice, Catherine shuddered with remorse and shame.

  Stephen kept his arm tight around her shoulders as they walked. Catherine gradually leaned closer into him, relishing the familiar comfort of his closeness. He led her silently through the formal grounds until they had reached the privacy of the Old Hall garden.

  It was only then that he spoke. "I'm so sorry, Catherine," he said as he pulled her into his arms.

  "Why did you not tell me?" she asked, burrowing her head against his shoulder. He may be the duke, but he still felt like Stephen, all warm and comfortable and with this one spot designed perfectly to fit her head.

  "I wanted to know that you loved me and not. . ."

  She lifted her head. "And not your fortune?"

  He nodded and she pulled him closer and nuzzled his shoulder once again. She should have been furi­ous. She should have been giving him a piece of her mind for putting her through such turmoil. And she should have been scared to death at the very notion of marrying a duke. Good heavens, she was to be a duchess! She had wanted a fortune, but she had never dreamed of reaching so high. But since she had ad­mitted her love for Stephen, none of that seemed im­portant anymore. She really should be thrilled at the prospect of the Carlisle fortune. But she was even more thrilled to be able to share it with Stephen. So what if he happened to be the duke?

  "I do love you, Stephen," she said, raining soft kisses upon his face. "I'd like to murder you for what you just did to me in the ballroom." She kissed his jaw. "And I may never forgive you for letting me think you were nothing more than the gardener." She kissed his throat. "And I have every intention of ex­acting revenge for such infamous treatment." She kissed his eyes. "But I do love you. Oh, yes, Your Grace. I do love you."

  And when she kissed his lips, he crushed her against him in a fierce embrace. She gave up a faint sigh of exquisite pleasure and opened her mouth to his.

  After a long and passionate interlude, during which they each whispered words of love and apology and understanding, Stephen pulled Catherine to her feet and twirled her joyfully in his arms.

  "Did I not promise you we would celebrate our be­trothal by dancing here under the stars?" he asked.

  "Hm," she murmured. Her cheek rested against his chest as he spun her around the garden in a shock­ingly intimate version of the waltz.

  "I will always keep my promises to you, Catherine. I told you, did I not, that we would live happily for­ever here, together in this garden paradise?"

  "Hm."

  "I intend for us to do just that, my love. Even if I have to build a one-room cottage for us to live in."

  And they laughed and twirled in their waltz be­neath the stars, each having discovered a fortune in the other's arms.