by Lucy Muir
Her sister-in-law glared at Catherine with an expression akin to loathing. “Very well sister, but that will mean you must depend upon others for your keep for the rest of your life, for surely your portion is not adequate to allow you to live in your own establishment as a single woman. If you plan to stay here at Rosemont when John inherits, Catherine, you must learn to deal more gently with my children. And there will be no filthy hares or other vermin living in my home.”
“Aunt Catherine is in trouble, Grandfather,” young John proclaimed in a self-satisfied voice as Lord Trevor, having heard the raised voices as he passed in the hallway, entered the drawing room to see what was amiss.
“We saw Aunt Catherine kissing Lord Edgecombe yesterday, Grandpapa,” Marie piped up. “Is that why she is in trouble?”
With a sinking feeling, Catherine realized she was back where she had begun five months previously. Except, she assured herself as she quit the room with an apologetic glance at her aunt, she did have one advantage she had not had then: self-knowledge. She knew now that although she might admire the address and appearance of a gentleman such as Lord Edgecombe, her aunt had been correct that she would have been better to have looked closer to home for a gentleman who added compassion to those qualities, a gentleman who, additionally, understood her character and accepted it.
Was it too late, Catherine wondered as she walked down the hallway to her usual refuge of the walled garden and William. Had she turned Lord Woodforde down too many times? Had all his offers been lightly made she would have said it was not too late, but the memory of his last offer, the one made in his library the day after her brother’s family had arrived…that one had undoubtedly been sincere, yet she had received it as lightly as all the others. Perhaps it had been the proverbial straw, perhaps Lord Woodforde would now have no wish to have her as wife, and would seek another, although she need no longer fear that other would be Miss Louisa Ellsworth.
Reaching the walled garden, Catherine unlocked the door and entered, kneeling on the grass as she always did. William hopped over immediately and put his head down on her knee, inviting her to stroke him. A vivid memory of Lord Woodforde kneeling in the very place, hand outstretched, holding a piece of apple, flooded Catherine’s mind. Such a gentleman was worth any risk, even that of being rejected as she herself had rejected him so many times. She must have the courage to inform Lord Woodforde of her change of heart. It was up to her to find out if he could ever consider her as a wife again; to let him know she was now free and willing to accept the offer he had so often made to her. If he said yes, his admirable qualities made it better for her to marry him to be a mother to his child, even if she could never live up to the memory of his first wife, than to marry someone like Lord Edgecombe, who, though charming and passionate, would not give a home to her hare. Mr. Cowper, she reflected, would agree with her decision.
Catherine decided to act while she had the courage, and left the garden to find her maid. With Flora’s aid, she dressed in the same clothes she had worn for the card game the previous day, feeling she had been lucky when wearing them and that she needed all the luck she could find. They were not riding clothes, but she could take her landaulet with another horse instead of Damask.
Flora set the matching low-crowned, wide-brimmed, dark green velvet hat upon her mistress’s fair curls and Catherine felt she was as prepared as she ever would be. She ordered her landaulet brought around, climbed in with the groom’s assistance, and drove through the bare-branched woods and winter-dry fields to Woodforde Park.
Woodforde’s groom, who was accustomed to Catherine arriving on horseback, looked at her curiously as he helped her down from the small vehicle. Catherine took a deep breath to steady herself and walked up the wide stone steps to the front entrance. Please let Woodforde be back from his morning rounds of the estate, Catherine thought, for she was not certain how long her courage would last if put to the test.
“If you will wait in the drawing room, Miss Trevor, I shall inform his lordship you are here,” the butler said as the footman closed the front doors behind her.
Catherine stepped into the drawing room that opened off the front hallway and advanced to a gilt-framed mirror hanging above a small occasional table. She checked her appearance, tilting her wide-brimmed hat slightly to give it a more fashionable jaunty look. The dark green set off the fairness of her hair, while the deep gold of her skirt reflected it. At least she looked well, Catherine thought. She needed all the confidence she could draw from that in order to complete her errand.
“Miss Trevor,” Lord Woodforde greeted Catherine, who quickly turned away from the glass. “I am happy to see you again so soon. I trust you have called to see Anne?”
“I should like to speak to Anne later, yes, but it is you I wish to see,” Catherine replied boldly, facing the marquess. “Is there somewhere we might speak in privacy?”
Lord Woodforde looked at Catherine in surprise, but made no demur. “Joseph,” he said to the liveried footman who waited silently by the door, “I shall be in the library. Please see that I am not disturbed.”
“Very good, my lord,” Joseph replied impassively as Lord Woodforde and Catherine left the drawing room together and mounted the stairs to the library.
Once in the library Lord Woodforde offered Catherine one of the wing chairs to the side of the library fire and took the other himself. “Now, how may I help you, Miss Trevor?” he asked.
“Do you remember…” Catherine faltered and then spoke more firmly. “Do you recall telling me that if I discovered the Marquess of Edgecombe to be unkind you would marry me? And do you recall the day here at Woodforde Park you suggested I might do better to accept a gentleman whom I knew well in marriage rather than one of whom I knew nothing?”
“Yes, I recall those occasions,” Lord Woodforde admitted, “although in the first instance I believe it was you who stated you would consider my offer should the marquess prove to be unkind.”
“I have discovered that the marquess of Edgecombe is not kind,” Catherine forced herself to continue, “at least not to William, and we have agreed we would not suit.”
“Indeed!” Lord Woodforde said, scrutinizing Catherine’s face. “I believe there is much you are not telling me, Miss Trevor. Edgecombe is not the sort of man to relinquish what is his.”
“I played him for my freedom at vingt-un last night and won,” Catherine stated bluntly.
“Did you now! Begad!” Lord Woodforde exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair. “But how come you from asking to be released from one betrothal to desiring to enter into another with me, for I collect that is your wish?”
“You did say you would marry me,” Catherine pointed out, beginning to wonder if she was in fact too late, for Lord Woodforde did not appear at all desirous of forwarding his interest with her now that he knew she was free.
“So I did. Many times. And so I shall,” he promised. “But I wish to know why the sudden change of heart. I think you might honour that request given the number of times I have asked for your hand and been refused.”
“I have asked yours this time.”
“Nevertheless.”
Catherine hesitated. What would she say? Should she explain the whole of her actions over these past months? The enjoyment and excitement of her pursuit of Lord Edgecombe until she became the quarry? Her request to be released and his refusal? Her conflicted feelings over her duty and what she increasingly knew she desired? No—she could condense it to a few words.
“It is because of…of William,” she said simply. “You are kind to him. Lord Edgecombe was not. He did not understand my affection for my hare. I would rather you marry me to gain a mother for your daughter, even if I can never live up to her real mother, than marry a man who does not understand my attachment to William.”
Lord Woodforde brushed his hand over his neatly clubbed hair in a gesture of frustration. “The deuce take it!” he exclaimed, suddenly rising from his seat and pacing before the libra
ry fire.
Catherine looked at him in consternation, sure now that she had come too late.
“I understand what you have told me regarding William, Miss Trevor,” Lord Woodforde said in a calmer voice, sitting back down, “but I believe we have had conversations about my wife and daughter twice before, in this very room. Do you not remember me telling you that I do not wish to marry only to give Anne a mother, and that although I did—and do—love my late wife and her memory, I can still love another?”
“Yes, I remember you saying words to that effect,” Catherine acknowledged.
“Why is it then, Miss Trevor, that you do not appear to believe me? Have you ever found me untruthful?”
“No, I have not.”
“Then why will you not believe that I do not compare you to Lucinda to your detriment, but value you for who you are, and that I ask you to marry me out of more than a desire to give my daughter a mother?”
How could she say it? Feeling a blush rising in a wave of heat, Catherine blurted out the truth. “Because you feel no passion for me.”
“My dear Miss Trevor, wherever did you get that idea?” Lord Woodforde asked in surprise.
“You never kissed me, and excepting the last time, you always asked me to marry you as though it were a jest.”
“Miss Trevor—Catherine—tell me truthfully, how could I have ventured to tell you of my feelings then? How would you have responded to me had I touched you? You had no thought of me in any light other than that of honourary brother, had you?”
“No,” Catherine confessed.
“It would seem,” Lord Woodforde said slowly, “that I am in debt to Lord Edgecombe, for it appears that he has, by forcing you to search the depths of your heart, awakened you to feelings for me.”
Reaching forward, Woodforde took Catherine’s hand. “Come,” he said, rising and drawing Catherine from her chair. He led her to a sofa across the room. “Sit,” he commanded.
Catherine sat. Woodforde reached down and untied her hat, removing it from her head and dropping it upon a nearby table. He sat next to her and, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face up to his, placed his lips upon hers. Softly his lips caressed hers, and Catherine closed her eyes, the better to lose herself to the swirling sensations that flowed through her body. Lord Woodforde wrapped his arms around her, pressing her close. Catherine moaned and in a moment Woodforde shifted her so she could lie back on the sofa, his body covering hers. Catherine’s arms involuntarily encircled his back as she tried to pull him closer to her. “Please,” she murmured as she felt her insides turn liquid with desire, “Oh, please.”
“Not here, Catherine,” Lord Woodforde said softly, pulling away. “This is not the time or place.”
Suddenly Catherine’s eyes flew open and she sat up straight.
“It was you who kissed me at masquerade, not Lord Edgecombe,” she accused. “You were the cavalier.
“Yes, that was I,” Lord Woodforde agreed.
“Why did you not tell me?” Catherine asked. “It was because of that kiss I…I kept wondering why the other kisses from Lord Edgecombe were not the same. If I had known…Why did you not tell me?” she repeated, her voice rising.
“Because, Catherine, at the time you were hell-bent on marrying Edgecombe,” Woodforde defended himself. “I had heard you were to attend as a lady cavalier; it was general knowledge in Moreton and I guessed Edgecombe would also know. I persuaded the dressmaker to make me an identical costume. I had planned to use the freedom of the masquerade to kiss you, and if you responded I planned to beg you to marry me.
“I mistakenly assumed that although you might at first confuse me for Edgecombe, the moment I took you in my arms you would know who held you. But even then you mistook me for Edgecombe! I suppose I was angry you did not know the difference between us and were still so enthralled by my rival marquess,” he finished with a rueful smile. “One has one’s pride, and you had already turned down my offers on a half-score previous occasions.
“But even so,” he continued, “I thought better of my pique the next day and went to speak to you at Rosemont that afternoon, planning to confess it had been I at the ball and to ask you to marry me, but you chose to walk with Edgecombe instead.” Woodforde shrugged. “There comes a point one must accept the obvious—you clearly cared for Edgecombe far more than you cared for me. I resolved to ask no more, and to search elsewhere for a woman who might wish to share my life.”
“You will not search for another woman now, will you?” Catherine asked, a sliver of fear entering her heart.
“Persuade me not to,” Woodforde challenged.
Catherine reached out to Lord Woodforde, and, pushing aside his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled him to her as she leaned back on the sofa. Woodforde buried his head in her hair for a moment, before once again capturing her lips with his. Catherine, lost in a maelstrom of desire, did not hear the footman enter the room, back up in haste, and close the door.
Epilogue
Christmas had come to Woodforde Park. Fires blazed cheerfully in every fireplace, and Lord Trevor sat beside one, happily lost in a new book on agriculture. Lady Manning sat at a large mahogany table fashioning bows of red and green velvet ribbon while Catherine, Anne, and Miss Hervey placed the completed bows among the sprigs of holly that decorated the windowsills.
“Oh, look at William, Mama Catherine,” Anne exclaimed, dropping her velvet bow and rushing to a chair where she snatched a bowl of nuts off the seat where William had hopped up for a sample. “I think he ate some. They will not hurt William, will they?” Anne asked anxiously as she tried to calculate how many almonds were gone from the bowl.
Catherine smiled reassuringly at her new daughter. “Almond shells are quite soft and I do not think he ate enough to harm himself, Anne, but remember when we have William loose in the house you must keep things out of his reach.”
“I beg pardon, my lady, you must not chastise Miss Anne, for I am the one who left the nuts there,” Miss Hervey apologized, taking the bowl from Anne and setting it on the mantel, well out of William’s reach.
“What is this about William?” Lord Woodforde asked, coming into the room with a stack of letters from the post.
“He was eating the nuts Miss Hervey left on the chair,” Anne explained, “but it is all right as he did not eat enough to harm him.”
“What do you have there?” Catherine enquired, looking at the pile of letters in her husband’s hand.
“In all the preparations for the Christmas celebrations I forgot to distribute the post that arrived two days ago,” Lord Woodforde explained, going through the letters in his hand. “Here is a missive from London—your sister Judith, I believe,” he said with a smile as he handed it to Catherine. “She must have forgiven you breaking your engagement with one marquess when you married another by special license.”
“Two marriages by special license in the parish within the same week, each to a marquess” Lady Manning commented. “It will never be forgotten in Moreton.”
Catherine smiled in remembrance. The marriages had indeed been the talk of the county, and she was glad that coming after the marriage of Mr. Ellsworth and Miss Stillington-Fyfe as they had, the two unexpected marriages had not eclipsed that young lady’s nuptials. Lord and Lady Ellsworth had been most proud to marry two of their children so advantageously within the space of one month, and her own father and aunt had exhibited the greatest satisfaction on Catherine’s marriage to their first choice of husband. But most pleasing to herself had been the two entries in December’s Gentlemen’s Magazine:
Nov. 21. By special license, Lord Woodforde, to the hon. Miss Trevor, daughter of Viscount Trevor.
Nov. 28. By special license, Lord Edgecombe, to the hon. Miss Louisa Ellsworth, daughter of Baron Ellsworth.
And in the same issue where Mr. Cowper’s poem “Epitaph on a Hare” had been printed. It had been most fitting.
“Here is another letter for you, Catherine,”
Lord Woodforde added, interrupting Catherine’s reminiscences. He held out a second missive addressed in a very elegant, flowing script. “It is from the very other marquess of whom your aunt speaks.”
Curious, Catherine put down her Christmas bows and took the letter, breaking the seals and unfolding it.
“It is a letter from Lord Edgecombe and his lady wife thanking me for the wedding gift I sent,” Catherine explained, knowing Woodforde would be wondering why she would receive any correspondence from her former betrothed. “I am informed they are very pleased with it, and Lord Edgecombe states he values it above all the other marriage gifts they received.”
“What did you send them?” Lady Manning asked curiously. “I had not known you had sent a gift separately from the one your father and I selected.”
“It was two canes from a rosebush,” Catherine replied. “A very special rosebush.”
Forgiveness and generosity were good for one’s soul.
The End
Graduating from being an avid reader to writer was a natural progression for Lucy Muir, who writes both nonfiction and fiction books and articles. Her first published book was a Regency, and ever since historical romance has been a part of her repertoire. Lucy particularly enjoys including historical characters in her stories and discovering interesting facts to share with her readers. Other activities Lucy enjoys include playing the harp, baking, and spending time with her many pet cats and rabbits.