Twice the Temptation

by Beverley Kendall

  She turned to Catherine, her expression anguished. “Miss Rutherford, m-my apologies. You have al-always been kind to me and you did not deserve to be pr-propositioned in this manner.” The girl’s chin began a violent trembling.

  A wave of despair locked up Catherine’s throat that nearly brought her to tears. “Miss North, you owe me nothing. It aggrieves me greatly that you had to witness this.” If there had been another way, a kinder way to expose the true character of the viscount, Catherine would have gladly employed it one hundred times over. But her experience with Miss Claremont and others had shown this to be the most expeditious and effective method.

  “I beg you, Miss North. It is not what you think.” Apparently willing to risk further repudiation, the viscount extended his hand toward her in another attempt to be heard.

  Far from being swayed by the beseeching gesture, it appeared to harden Miss North’s resolve, for her spine snapped straight and her pointed chin angled up. Without turning her red-rimmed eyes toward him, she brushed aside wisps of light brown hair that stuck wetly to her cheek. “You are a pitiable excuse of a man and I pity the woman who has the misfortune to land you.”

  With that, she made her way back to the ballroom, the lace bordering the hem of her satin gown dragging along the cold flagstone. Olivia, who had stood mute throughout, gave Catherine a barely perceptible nod. She maintained her silence and followed Miss North back inside to begin the real work—trying to placate her.

  With their departure, a silence as thick and noxious as the fear that undoubtedly had Lord Landry by the throat descended. Catherine wanted the full import of what he’d done and what he’d just lost to penetrate and marinate. Indeed, let him stew.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and her tone calm. She looked him directly in the eye but maintained a good distance. “You thought me the kind of woman who would trifle with another woman’s betrothed? You thought me the kind of woman who would be content to be some man’s mistress?”

  The viscount flushed a dull red and averted his gaze.

  She had trained her voice not to convey any residual hurt or resentment that had plagued her the past six years she’d mingled with the upper ten thousand. She utilized this skill with cutting precision now. “While my blood may not be as blue as yours and my illegitimacy broadly scorned, make no mistake, my lord, I am more a lady than you are a gentleman. Not only does Miss North deserve better than the likes of you, so do I, and every woman of my acquaintance.”

  His regard snapped back to her, his blue eyes narrowed and his lips parted, appearing poised to respond to her condemnation of his character. Then as if he thought better of it, he snapped his mouth closed.

  Unable and unwilling to suffer his presence a moment longer, Catherine followed the path of the last two women to take their leave of him. She was nearly at the terrace doors when a softly spoken expletive ended the viscount’s silence. Her stride didn’t falter nor did her conviction waver. Whether he cursed her or himself, she didn’t much care.

  Three days later, the three friends had returned to the country. That Wednesday they met at Winsgate, the Duke of Wiltshire’s estate in Berkshire. Olivia, the duke’s daughter, played hostess.

  Catherine had not been seated a full five minutes before agitation brought her abruptly to her feet. “At this rate, no young lady will likely marry. Including Miss North, we have a total of four broken betrothals in the span of six months.” Her lavender skirts whispered and swirled as she spun on her heels and began pacing the parquet floors of the parlor.

  After Miss Claremont had approached her the year past, Catherine had told Olivia and Meghan what she intended to do. They had not simply been supportive of her decision to help dear Miss Claremont but had both insisted on helping in any way they could.

  Jubilant in her successful outcome, Miss Claremont had then begged them to help a friend of hers. Unable to refuse her tearful entreaty, it had been decided that Meghan—who was more to the gentleman’s preference—would take on that assignment. Soon she and her friends found themselves testing one gentleman a month, sometimes even two.

  Meghan stilled in the process of stirring two cubes of sugar into her tea and lifted pale green eyes to follow Catherine’s progress. “That could only happen if all the women were aware or cared to utilize our services. There are many who could care one way or the other if their husband remains faithful.” Her shoulders shook as she huffed out a laugh. “There are even some who prefer that he do not. After the children have come, it saves them from duties they would prefer to avoid.”

  “I think it would depend on the man,” Olivia said, smiling impishly. “For a man like Lord Westlake, I would demand my conjugal rights if he thought to withhold them. But a man like Lord Crawley would require a contractual agreement that he take two mistresses to save me the exercise.”

  Meghan nearly choked on her tea and peals of girlish laughter filled the room. Catherine laughed despite herself.

  Lord Westlake was excessively handsome but it was no secret he needed to marry an heiress, which unfortunately placed him in the fortune hunter column. Lord Crawley was simply odious.

  It took more than a minute for the women to bring themselves under control. Catherine’s tittering petered off to a sorrowful sigh. The reality of the failures did not amuse her.

  Her whole chest heaved with the next sigh. “But for the last four to fail?” She searched her friends’ faces for traces of the same hopeless despair that now consumed her. When she found none, she wondered if it was peevish of her to be a little resentful of the fact.

  “I’ve given up on ever marrying, but you both shall marry one day. Does it not concern you that, on the most part, men cannot be trusted? This experience has led me to believe a faithful husband is a grand illusion. A dream.”

  “But of course you shall marry,” Olivia scoffed.

  “Then your sister and sister-in-law are both living a fairy tale. Can you imagine, a husband who is handsome, titled, wealthy, and adores you?” Meghan enumerated the attributes on her fingers. “You’re right, my dear. It is the stuff of dreams.”

  “And you mustn’t forget Lord and Lady Armstrong. I believe she’s expecting again. Catherine isn’t this her third?” Olivia asked.

  Catherine nodded mutely. Yes, she was surrounded by happy marriages, doting husbands and loving wives. James and his two friends had married years ago, and all claimed not to have suffered one day of regret. Indeed, Charlotte had married her brother’s friend, Alex Cartwright, the future Duke of Hastings, to tie the whole affair into a lovely bow.

  “I’m beginning to despair they are the last of a dying breed.” Logically, Catherine knew there must be men out there like her brother and his friends, to whom fidelity wasn’t merely promises made to be broken. To whom fidelity would not be cast aside at the hint of a well-shaped ankle. Would not be considered expendable at the sight of a pretty face or a flirtatious smile. And would not be rendered useless to a pair of ample breasts.

  “You mustn’t worry overmuch with Miss North. Miss Claremont was correct in sending her to us. She has three things in her favor. She is young, pretty, and wealthy. She will recover. Lord Landry is far from the only man in London with a handsome countenance and pleasing manners. The next time she’ll find a man with integrity. A man who won’t succumb to temptations of the flesh.”

  Of course, Meghan was correct. However, the image that persisted in her thoughts was the sight of the poor girl curled up on the chaise lounge in the ladies’ dressing room, convulsing with every sob. She and Olivia had tried their best to console her, but no amount of consoling could mend a heart torn asunder by betrayal and grief. Only time and distance had that restorative effect.

  Catherine continued to wear the tread on the silk rug in front of the settee and sofa where her friends took their repose. “She is such a sweet girl. Eighteen only last month.”

  “Still very young. She has several more seasons to find someone else—though I hard
ly think it will take that time at all,” Meghan remarked. “By the end of the Season, she’ll forget the dratted man even exists.”

  “Truly Catherine dear, must you pace so? You’re giving my neck quite the crimp,” Olivia chided lightly but she appeared more intent on studying the pastries on the serving dish.

  Meghan dismissed her friend’s remark with an affectionate flick of her wrist. “Pace all you want Catherine. Perhaps it will put you in a better state of mind when I tell you you’ll be called on again and it will be as soon as tomorrow evening.”

  Catherine skittered to a stop in the center of the room, her gaze snapping to Meghan. “Tomorrow evening? Am I not permitted even a fortnight’s reprieve?”

  Playing the coquette did not come as easy for her as it did her friends. Like a well run dry, she needed replenishment of courage, hope, and faith. Which took time. She was much better at commiserating with the young women with soothing words and the offer of a shoulder to cry upon.

  Meghan’s smile possessed the brightness of the sun at its zenith. She cast her rays on Catherine now. “But my dear, it is springtime,” she said. “Courting and engagements are very much the thing. We will be much in demand now.”

  “Catherine, was it truly that much of an ordeal?” Olivia asked, wrenching her attention from the pastries. Then her posture went rigid and her gaze turned probing. “Is there something you didn’t tell me about your encounter with Lord Landry? Did he touch you inappropriately before I came on the scene?”

  Just thinking about the incident raised Catherine’s ire another notch. “The man propositioned me like I was a courtesan in search of a new protector. Good gracious, the announcement of his betrothal to Miss North had appeared in the newspapers not even a week past.”

  “Indeed?” Olivia appeared to visibly relax, her spine once again curving to mold the cushioned back of the seat. “The cad! He should have waited at least a week and done it properly at one of those positively lascivious house parties that real ladies have no knowledge of. Truly, the men in Society suffer from an appalling lack of tact. He best hope your brother never hears of it.” She then picked up a white, linen serviette and spread it neatly across her lap.

  Catherine’s mouth edged up in a reluctant smile as she observed the amusement in her friend’s eyes. For the most part, Olivia was not one to fret or fuss, rarely allowing words to offend her. Unwanted physical contact was another matter. No, to Olivia, life was meant to be savored and enjoyed precisely like the French pastry she chose with great care and proceeded to consume in three healthy bites.

  Black hair, pale skin and eyes—a color walking a precarious line between violet and blue—Olivia possessed the kind of exotic beauty that turned heads, broke hearts, and inspired dozens of amateur poets to put pen to paper. However, life for the beautiful daughter of the Duke of Wiltshire was quite different from the life of the illegitimate half-sister of an earl.

  “Men can be such wretched beasts can they not?” Meghan said lending her own indignation on Catherine’s behalf. “At least he didn’t corner you in one of the dusty rooms at the British Museum.”

  Collecting her skirts, Catherine swept around the rosewood table where their cups and saucers rested, to resume her seat beside Meghan on the sofa. “Good Lord, don’t tell me some gentleman was silly enough to attempt such a thing with you? Had he no idea who your father is?” Not only was the Earl of Stanhope rich, powerful, and a political force in the House of Lords, nothing rivaled how fiercely he protected his only daughter.

  Meghan turned to Olivia and asked innocently, “Does Lord Granville know who my father is?”

  Catherine’s head snapped in Olivia’s direction. “Your brother?” The question emerged unusually high, ending in a squeak.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Olivia snipped. “I have no control over my brother’s actions. Rhys is his own man. He listens to no one, including our father.”

  Catherine regarded Meghan. “But the two of you are…” She struggled to find the appropriate term to describe their interaction for she couldn’t call it a relationship. Cool, formal, and unfriendly were more apt terms.

  “Go ahead, say it, I don’t mind. We are the last two people you could ever picture together. He is a rake and I suffer rakes not at all. Every week the man has a different woman on his arm. I guess it was incumbent upon him to make the attempt, as I must be one of the few women in all of London who isn’t tripping all over herself to cross his path,” Meghan concluded with a disdainful sniff.

  Olivia’s brother, the Earl of Granville, was currently considered the catch of the century. Should any woman get him to the altar, she’d be lauded all over England. Aesthetically beautiful in a wholly masculine way, he was heir to one of the oldest, most respected dukedoms in England. And should charm be considered a virtue, he’d possess more than a saint.

  “Interesting,” Catherine replied softly. While the earl had always been mildly flirtatious, he’d never once crossed the line so she’d have reason to believe he wanted more. But for Meghan he had. So very interesting.

  Meghan wore a disgruntled look. “An obvious exaggeration, but I believe my point is made.”

  “And where was I when all this occurred?” Catherine asked.

  Meghan took a long drink from her tea before answering. “This was in the early days of Charlotte’s return. I didn’t burden you with it, as I knew it would come to nothing. True to his colors, Lord Granville ceased his pursuit after two months.”

  Olivia remained silent, her expression indicating she refused to enter into a discussion about the exploits of the older brother she adored.

  It really wasn’t so surprising that Lord Granville would pursue her. If he was declared the prince of men, certainly Meghan couldn’t be less than a princess in her own right.

  Her friend’s dark auburn locks and exquisite features personified femininity and elegance in the most elemental way. And so that ordinary women could rail at the gods at the unfairness of it all, she had once caused two carriages to collide in Piccadilly Circle in the course of simply crossing the street. Men couldn’t help but stop and stare. Contrarily, the ladies would inspect her like a brood mare, desperately seeking some tiny imperfection so they could declare she couldn’t be the fairest after all. Their search would end in vain.

  “That is all in the past. Now they are once again, unfailingly polite to one another, are you not?” Olivia gave Meghan a pointed look, which was blithely ignored. “But truly, I’d rather we not speak about my brother when we have other matters at hand. Meghan you haven’t yet told Catherine who she is to test next.”

  Subject changed and discussion of the next man in their crosshairs now squarely in Meghan’s lap, Olivia touched the serviette to the corners of her mouth to wipe away any lingering evidence of the second pastry she’d just eaten.

  “But why must it be me?” Catherine normally would not have protested as her friends took on the majority of the assignments, but two days in a row was excessive.

  “’Tis Lord Billings.”

  Meghan’s explanation squelched any further objections Catherine would have made. A baron of modest fortune, adequate looks and temperance, Lord Billings had courted Catherine two years ago with no success. She’d been relieved to hear of his betrothal to a young American woman, who boasted a dowry of fifty thousand pounds.

  “Have you met this Miss Fairchild?” Catherine asked, picking up her cup to take a sip of her long-neglected tea. As expected, it was barely lukewarm.

  Meghan shook her head. “I will—we shall,” she corrected “—all meet her tomorrow evening at Lady Ever’s ball. Miss North says she’s quite the beauty.”

  “Does she wish to marry the baron? Given she hails from America, this has the look of one of those mutually advantageous arrangements. Coin for a title. A fair trade some might say.”

  Unless the legitimacy of your birth deemed you forever unsuitable a match. One must never forget that.

  “From what I
was able to gather, she may be looking for a way out of the betrothal. Should he pass muster, however, she will consider him,” Meghan said.

  Olivia nodded emphatically. “Clever girl. As you stated, Catherine, such gentlemen are few and far between. The odds are, she mightn’t find another like him again should he prove the faithful sort. I believe this will turn out to be all a numbers game.”

  Catherine had never fared well in games where fortunes were left to chance by the roll of a dice or capricious turn of a card. She fared even worse in the matters of courtship and love. Mr. Samuel, Lucas, and Lord Braddock, disasters, all of them.

  Her expression must have conveyed her thoughts for Meghan reached over and gave her hand a pat and a light squeeze. “Lord Braddock is a loathsome man.” Meghan’s voice was as venom-filled as the fateful day she’d learned of the incident. “A proper pounding is what he deserved for what he did to Jillian. I thank God every day you didn’t marry that pompous arse. You are too good for him.”

  “Truthfully Catherine, did you intend to accept when he proposed?” Olivia peered at her over the rim of her cup. Without waiting for Catherine’s response, she continued, “It’s just that I sensed a lack of interest, quite unlike the interest you had in Mr. Beaumont. We scarcely saw you the entire time he was in England.”

  Catherine sucked in a breath.

  Memories of him came unbidden, assailing her with such stark longing, her heart hurt. It had already been a year since his return to America. She missed him still. Truly, she tried her best to forget him, his touch, his kisses. But it was an exercise in futility as the most minute of things brought with them more memories of him. Yet every day, she would start the process anew, trying to thrust him permanently from her mind and other inconvenient places.

  Stifling those errant emotions, she stated, “Mr. Beaumont is in America and I am here.” Her tone was hard and final. Discussion of said American was irrevocably closed.