* * *
Catherine had never seen such a pretty spot in her life, save at home in Devon. The Thames ran close by, and Richmond Park was filled with towering oaks that seemed to block out the sun. Lord Farleigh stopped in a green clearing, where a pavilion was already set up. She wondered for a moment if someone grand had been there before them, then realized that the pavilion with its table and chairs had been placed for them.
Footmen in livery served her a glass of wine as soon as her feet touched the soft, spongy grass. She turned to look at the vista that led down to the river. “We will walk there later, if you wish,” Lord Farleigh said.
“I would like that,” she answered, smiling up at him.
She wished in that moment that it was not the Thames but the river Lethe, that she might drink from it and forget she had ever met Alex. She wished that she might leave all this pain and love behind her as if it had never been. Then she was ashamed of herself. Love was not something one should forget, whatever pain it brought.
Her family arrived. Alex must have driven hell for leather through the country roads, for Mary Elizabeth tumbled out of the carriage at once, leading Margaret toward a great oak while Alex helped her mother down. Her mother winked at her, but then looked over her shoulder at the sound of fresh carriage wheels turning on the gravel road. Mr. Pridemore appeared, roses in hand, driving his own high flyer. He stopped his horses with a flourish, and waved his hat down to her mother, who waved back, a smile of joy on her face.
Catherine was not sure what Mr. Pridemore’s intentions were, but he certainly seemed to make her mother happy. Once she was safely married to Lord Farleigh, he could look further into Mr. Pridemore and see to it that his intentions were good.
Somehow, in spite of Lord Farleigh’s solicitous regard as he seated her at table, this did not comfort her as she had thought it might.
Alex sat down across the table from her, ignoring the wine the footman offered. Instead, he reached inside his coat and brought out a silver flask lined with leather, a flask that bore his initials. “Good day to you, Miss Middlebrook.”
“Good day, Mr. Waters. I do hope you enjoyed the drive.”
“Not as much as you did, I gather.”
She blushed, looking down at her own half-empty wineglass. She watched in silence as a footman filled it, feeling a strange thrill at the sound of Alex’s voice. If she did not know better, she would say he sounded almost jealous. To have such a beautiful, virile man show jealousy over her made her head swim. She took another sip.
Mary Elizabeth joined them, sitting between Alex and Mr. Pridemore. She started a lively discussion of fishing reels that all the gentlemen seemed entranced by, even Lord Farleigh. Only Alex did not listen to a word of it, but ate his chicken like a savage, ripping at the breast before him as if it were responsible for all the world’s ills. Catherine watched him surreptitiously, no longer happy with his jealousy but made miserable by it.
She wished before God and all His angels that she did not owe Lord Farleigh the mortgage on her father’s land. If she did not, she would run away with Alex that very day, and forget the consequences to her reputation and to her life. She would live beside a cold inland stream in the wilds of the north, freezing near to death each winter. She would even learn to fish if she must, if it would please him.
In that moment of pain, Lord Farleigh leaned over and offered her a bit of bread from the basket. She took it, and the butter he gave her, with murmured thanks. She might wish for the moon, but she would not hold it in her hand.
The man beside her was her future, and she would have to learn to live with that.
Twenty-eight
Alex could not get closer to his angel than across the table. Lord Loverboy, on the other hand, seemed always at the ready to ply her with wine, a fresh bite of bread, a tender morsel of chicken—once from his own plate. If Alex had ever seen such a shameless display among decent people, he could not recollect it.
He wished he were the one chasing her so openly. But she would not even meet his eyes.
Maybe Mrs. Angel was right, and Catherine had convinced herself to stay in London for the rest of her life. Perhaps she meant to marry the ingrate. Alex vowed that he would speak to her that very day, that she might know his mind, and thus change her own. He rose after the meal was through to take her on a walk down by the river, but Margaret ran off and Mary Elizabeth after her.
He was distracted for a moment, watching Mary Elizabeth hike up her skirts like any hoyden, and make the leap to the lowest branch of a great oak. The oak grew close to the water’s edge. Alex knew she could swim, but even his fearless sister was not immune breaking her neck.
“Mary Elizabeth, come down from there, for the love of God!”
She ignored him, as she always seemed to do of late. Margaret joined her on the lowest branch, after receiving a hoist from her newfound friend in climbing towering trees and descending high windows.
He looked away from his sister and her charge for a moment, searching out his angel. She was standing demurely beside the river, looking at a pleasure boat that was sailing by. It seemed to be piloted by someone Lord Loverboy knew, for he waved and called to them, and the gentleman at the prow doffed his hat and bowed to Catherine, who smiled and waved in return.
Alex took pleasure in the beauty of her body, in the clean lines of the green gown that matched her moss-colored eyes. He knew that she had made it herself. Unlike fool Englishmen and women of the ton, he liked a woman who plied a needle to make her own clothes, a woman who had practical skills to serve herself and her household.
As his wife, she would not need them, but the fact that she had them pleased him inordinately. His mother would be pleased as well. She would forgive the fact that he had out-and-out disobeyed her, and married while down south. Born English herself, Lady Glenderrin could surely not fault him for falling in love with one of her former countrywomen.
Falling in love. It seemed a ridiculous notion. Until it happened to you.
He lost sight of his angel as she turned a bend in the river with her English swain. He was about to go after them, in case Lord Loverly thought to steal a kiss, but he heard his sister shriek, and he looked back to the great oak.
All he could see was Mary Elizabeth clinging to a high branch over the river. This did not concern him, but the odd fact that she kept shrieking did. She pointed down into the water, and it was then he realized that Miss Margaret had vanished.
The girl’s head bobbed and ducked with the water’s flow. She had not yet been swept into the main, shipping current of the river, the great tide that pulled large ships out to sea. He swore as he leaped into the river to fish her out, ruining a good pair of shoes in the process.
He soon forgot his shoes, for though he was a strong swimmer and the river warm with spring that was quickly moving toward summer, Margaret fought him like a cornered alley cat, not seeming to understand that he was trying to save her. She struggled against him and the river both, and he gave thanks to God that she had enough strength and enough bare ability to paddle so that he had time to reach her.
He was fighting against the current now, and Mary Elizabeth waved to him from the riverbank. She had pulled a length of rope out of the duchess’s carriage, weighted one end by tying a branch to it, and tossed it toward him. He swam not for the shore then, but for that branch, Margaret caught secure under one arm. The girl still flailed about, but much of the fight had gone out of her.
And there were fools who said that prayer was never answered.
If he had had only Mary Elizabeth to help pull him in, he would have floated a good ways downstream and out to sea perhaps, but Pridemore had seen the madness and come running. He anchored the rope, pushing Mary Elizabeth out of the way. Between Alex’s strong kicks and Pridemore’s strong back, they managed to haul himself and Margaret back to shore.
He dropped
the branch as soon as he had his feet under him, and carried the girl up the riverbank. He seated her on a dry rock in the sun, and then left her to the shrieking assistance of her mother.
Pridemore handed him a flask, for he had lost his in the river.
“Quick thinking,” was all the older man said.
“I was lucky, and you pulled us out.”
“I had help.”
They drank together in a moment of silence, and Alex took his measure.
“So,” he said, “I feel I must ask your intentions.” Alex had meant to couch his speech in some measure of politeness, but they were men of action. Pridemore did not shrink from him, as Alex had known he would not. The man simply smiled.
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“I’m going to marry my girl, if I can get her alone for the space of a heartbeat so that I can propose to her,” Alex answered.
Pridemore’s gaze fell on Mrs. Angel, who was even then trying valiantly to pat her daughter dry with her own shawl. Alex saw the other man’s gaze soften just a touch, but it was enough.
“I have asked for my lady’s hand. She has not yet answered me,” Pridemore admitted.
Alex did not speak again, as there was no more need for words between them. He sipped at his new friend’s whisky. He wondered if Pridemore was in a hurry to wed, as he was. Perhaps they might make it a double wedding.
He hoped Uncle Richard had sent the special license on from Westminster. The Bishop of London was no doubt a busy man, but never too busy for family.
Mary Elizabeth came to him then, looking as shamefaced as if she had killed a man. Pridemore strode off to comfort Mrs. Angel, and Alex faced his sister down, still dripping with foul river water.
“Alex, I am so sorry.”
He saw the pain in her eyes, and he patted her arm. He would have hugged her, but he did not want to ruin her pretty walking dress with his sodden embrace.
“It is not your fault she fell, Mary.”
“I should never have brought her up into the tree with me. She never would have climbed, and never would have fallen, had I not been here.”
“Well,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and calm, to head off the tears in her eyes. He had rarely seen his sister cry, yet she had teared up twice in two days. Could the Apocalypse be nigh? “She had the good sense to fall into the river instead of breaking her neck on the ground. That’s something.”
“Alex, I told Catherine I would keep you from her this day. That’s why I brought Margaret up into the tree. If you had to keep an eye on me, you would not hunt Catherine to ground.”
Alex sighed. “And why would you do that, Mary? I thought you liked her.”
“I do like her. A great deal.” Mary Elizabeth’s hazel eyes met his, and he saw the green that skirted her pupils. “I did it because she asked me to.”
Alex felt as if another cold, foul sluice of river water had been tossed over his head. But he stood on dry land, and his feet were firm under him. He took out his sodden handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his forehead with it. Moving water from one place to another on his person gave him something to do.
“You were being true to a friend, Mary. I will never fault you for that.”
Mary Elizabeth hugged him, her thin arms around his waist. She squeezed him hard, as he had always squeezed her when she was feeling down after a fight with their mother.
“I am sorry, Alex.”
He hugged her close, and kissed her forehead. “Don’t fret yourself, little sister. It will all come out right in the end.”
“She loves you Alex. I’m sure of it.”
He smiled down at her, feigning a confidence he no longer felt. “Sure and she does. What woman can resist a Glenderrin man?”
Mary Elizabeth laughed, but his heart was still black.
Twenty-nine
Catherine thought she heard a shriek from behind her, but Lord Farleigh did not turn back from their stroll, so neither did she. No doubt it was Mary Elizabeth creating a diversion of sorts to keep her brother happy and out of Catherine’s hair.
Catherine wished it were Alex walking beside her, and chastised herself at once for the wicked thought. This man had saved her family’s land, and had no doubt saved her family from ruin. It was a kindness and a debt that she would never truly be able to repay.
“I must thank you,” she said.
He quirked an eyebrow at her, and for a moment, he looked like a more exciting, rakish man. “Indeed? It is my pleasure to bring you here, and to give your family lunch. Even your cousins.”
She laughed a little at that, but would not be dissuaded from her course. “No, I must thank you for calling on Mr. Philips.”
“You were quite right about him,” Lord Farleigh said, taking her arm to assist her over a small branch that lay in their path. “Philips is a good man. I do hope your mother heeds his advice in future, instead of going her own way.”
Catherine felt her hated blush rise for at least the third time that day. Her humiliation rose from the ground to swamp her, and she wished the river might swallow her whole. He seemed to sense her mortification at once, and went to work trying to put her at ease again.
“Please do not trouble yourself. I know that you feel at a disadvantage, but please know that I am honored that you leaned on me.” He looked down at her, and stopped dead in the center of the well-trodden path. The river flowed beside them, offering a soothing sound that did little to assuage her frayed nerves. She stiffened before she forced herself to relax. It was time.
“I do hope that you will consider leaning on me for the rest of your life.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. Was that a proposal of marriage or not? He tried again.
“Forgive me. This was not at all how I meant to do this. I always thought that I would inquire after my future wife to her father, and then speak to her once the matter was settled. But as your father has gone on before us—” He must have seen the hint of tears that threatened to blind her, for he reached into his coat pocket and offered her a handkerchief.
She took it and wiped her eyes. It should have smelled like bergamot, but it did not. It smelled only of clean, fresh linen that had been dried in the sunshine. A pleasant scent, but not heady, not transporting. Very much like the man himself.
“I must apologize again. I had no notion of making you weep, save perhaps for joy.”
She smiled a tremulous smile, knowing that this kindhearted, good man deserved kindness from her. Her pain was her own business.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You are not weeping for joy,” he said.
Catherine breathed deeply, and her tears receded. She was a woman, and had made a woman’s choice. She knew what she had to do. She simply could not bring herself to do it.
“No,” she answered.
There was a long silence between them, broken only by the sound of birdsong, and of the river shushing by. Lord Farleigh stared at her a long time, as if waiting for her to speak. When she did not, he did.
“You love another,” he said.
The bald truth lay between them like an unsheathed blade. She wished to lie or, at the very least, to deny it with something resembling vehemence, but she did nothing. She did not weep, but stared at the ground, wondering if her future, and her father’s legacy, was about to go up in smoke.
She should have known that he would not press her. Instead, Lord Farleigh spoke as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, or something that had happened to someone else.
“You love another, and you cannot have him.”
“No,” she said. “In all honor, I cannot.”
Arthur Farleigh nodded and looked down toward the river. There were willows leaning into the water, their long branches trailing like braids of a woman’s hair.
“There w
as a woman I loved once, long ago.”
Catherine’s eyes were drawn to his face as if to a lodestone. “And she loved you?”
Arthur did not meet her gaze, but his face softened, and for a moment, he looked like a man who was not always careful, a man who felt deeply. Just not for her.
“She did,” he answered. “She loved me better than her own life.”
“Where is she now?” Catherine asked.
“Italy, I think. I lost touch with her during the war. I have not seen her nor heard from her for years now.”
“Is she dead?”
Catherine saw the pain on his face and wished her words back again. Lord Farleigh swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was muted. “I do not think so. But I do not know.”
Catherine touched his arm once, very gently, before drawing her gloved hand away. “I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry for your loss.”
He smiled then, and it was a shadow of the calm, bland smile she was used to seeing on his face. “Thank you. I do not tell you this to bring you pain, or to put you off. I tell you only because I understand you. There are times when those we love do not suit us, and we do not suit them. And we must choose whether to cling to them, or to go on.”
“You have chosen,” Catherine said.
“I have.” Arthur Farleigh faced her, and did not flinch from her. “I have chosen to go on. I hope you will do the same, and go on with me.”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said. “I’m not sure I can.”
“Believe me when I say that I understand.” Arthur pressed her hand between both of his. His touch was not importunate, nor was it grasping, but warm, like the touch of a friend.
“Do not make up your mind just now,” he said. “There is no hurry to have the banns posted. Take the time you need, and consider my suit. I think we would do well together. But it is not my decision to make.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a ring. It was a lovely old piece, no doubt an heirloom—three pearls nestled in a bed of silver. The ring gleamed in the sun, and she watched as if seeing it happen to another as he stripped off her glove and placed his ring on her finger.
How to Seduce a Scot Page 18