He laughed, a deep rumble that triggered warmth in her chest. How well, too well, she remembered those days when she could make him smile.
Her smile faded, and she nudged Ginger into a canter, determined to shake off the shadows of the past. Today, this day, she would enjoy.
For the rest of the day she fought to stay relaxed, to revel in the freedom she remembered from years ago. Freedom to be herself, to not merely conform, but to smile and laugh as she had with Serena as children, freedom to not hide behind opinions not her own. So when Julia exclaimed over the greenness, wondering if Somersetshire was greener than the land surrounding Winthrop, she did not hesitate to disagree. When Mr. Carlew mused over what bird call it was, thinking aloud that it sounded like a meadow pipit, Catherine could quite happily contradict and call it a red-flanked bluetail, pleasure filling her at being proved right when they spotted the flash of red on its wings as it fluttered away.
The ruins of Farleigh Hungerford Castle lived up to Julia’s hopes, her delight at the ivy-clad rounded towers and Gothic exterior matched by her pleasure at the wild and windswept gardens. “Oh, isn’t this romantic?”
Mr. Carlew glanced at Catherine before saying, “Rather, I’d say overgrown.”
Catherine chuckled at Julia’s crestfallen face. “Oh, don’t mind him, Julia. You know your brother delights in being practical.”
“I’m sure he does not possess a romantic bone in his body.”
Catherine glanced away, fighting the fire flooding her cheeks. How well she knew Julia’s assertion to be blatantly untrue. But she would not stir up such feelings. She took a step, two steps away, eyeing the surrounding landscape. “There seems to be something of a walled garden over there. Should we—?”
“Oh, yes!” Julia scampered past, leaving Catherine to walk at a more sedate pace with Mr. Carlew. She dared glance up at him; was surprised by the red tingeing his cheeks under his tan. Surely he didn’t remember—? No. She shook her head at herself. That way heartache lay.
“Oh, Catherine …”
Julia’s voice drew her through the archway, and she stopped on the mossy flagstones, drinking in the scene. The beds might be terribly overrun, but she could see how lovely the garden would have been, centered by something that looked like a mulberry tree. Rosemary peered through clumps of weeds, primroses clumped pale yellow, and old-fashioned flowers—spring snowflakes, and lungwort, and narcissus—gave promise of spring.
Catherine breathed in the surroundings, that oh-so-elusive happiness warming her at last. “Oh, this is beautiful.”
Mr. Carlew drew near. “It has retained the beauty and charm of times past.”
Catherine dared not look at him, his words reminding how she—unlike this lost garden—had kept neither beauty nor charm. She swallowed, and moved closer to Julia, whose initial look of pleasure had drooped to something more pensive. “Julia? Is something the matter? You seem a little sad.”
Julia sighed, peeking over her shoulder to where her brother stood, several yards away. “This is so lovely. I just wish—” She bit her lip.
“You wish?”
“Tell me, Catherine,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “have you seen anything of Major Hale in recent weeks?”
Catherine blinked, perplexity slowing her words. “Why, yes.”
“And how did he appear to you? Was he well?”
“He appeared so, yes.”
Julia opened her lips as if to say more, but closed them, as a cracked twig and her brother’s approach sent her scurrying to the far end, where a stone seat curved into the wall. Catherine glanced up at Mr. Carlew, his nearness and the traces of what seemed to be a smile soon chasing all thought of Julia away.
“I am glad you could come today, Miss Winthrop.” Warmth kindled within, mingled with surprise. “Julia enjoys your company.”
Implying he did not? She forced down the hurt. “She was kind to include me.”
“You did not think you could escape one of Julia’s plans, did you?” His lips tweaked to one side. “Once she gets an idea in her head, she proves very difficult to dissuade.”
“I understand this outing was a promise you had made her some time ago.”
“One she would not let me forget.”
His eyes seemed to search hers, as if trying to convey a deeper meaning, but what she did not know. She dropped her gaze, moving to where a purple sweet violet valiantly bloomed against the wall, noting with surprise that he kept in step. A tug of her glove and she caressed the flower. She peeked up, to see him watching her still, and released the stem, fumbling for something to say. What could she say that would be deemed innocuous?
“I always thought Winthrop could support a walled garden.”
“There would be space were the yew hedge at the back removed.”
“Oh, I wish it were! It’s such an ugly, decrepit hedge that takes up far more space than it should. And a sunken garden located there—”
“Would receive the morning sun in winter—”
“And planted correctly could make a wonderfully cool retreat in summer.”
“And walls would make it completely private.”
“The perfect escape.” She sighed. “Can you imagine how wonderful it would be?”
“Yes.”
His smiling gaze connected with hers, and again she felt the tug of attraction. Oh, he was handsome. Oh, if only every day could be like this, sharing moments of perfect accord, and dreams for the future …
“Catherine? Jon? Why are you staring at each other in that funny way? Surely you must be as famished as I am.”
“Y-yes.” Catherine pulled her gaze away, sure her cheeks must be fiery red.
The rest of the day did not see the return of the earlier ease, but neither did it hold the cold tension of previous weeks. Instead, something akin to tentative steps towards renewed friendship was unfurling slowly in her heart, bolstered by Julia’s banter over luncheon at the small coaching inn, and Catherine’s small victories in the silly races they engaged in on the ride home. She felt almost … carefree.
Until they arrived back at Gay Street and stiff, sore legs refused a graceful descent from Ginger’s back. She had no wish to be considered missish, but …
“Catherine? Are you quite all right?”
Her cheeks heated at Julia’s words. “I think I’m too out of practice.”
“May I assist?”
Seconds later, his hands were on her waist, holding, lifting, causing that familiar feeling of breathlessness. The heat of his closeness, his scent of bergamot and musk, assailed her senses, swirling emotion within, before she stepped from his clasp and schooled her expression to neutrality. “Th-thank you.”
Hours later, she could still feel the pressure of his hands, could still smell his delicious scent, could still hear his laughter blending with hers. Emotions clashed within, a thousand renewed regrets swooping in like bats at midnight. She pushed them aside, focusing on the day’s joy. And as she went to sleep that night, she knew she would forever look back on today as one of the golden days of her life.
Through the drawing room window Jonathan caught a glimpse of blue hills. His heart picked up pace as it had every time he thought back to that perfect day last week.
Her laughter. Shared smiles. The sense of years peeling back to younger days, to uninhibited innocence, to love. Had his reference to retained charm been too oblique? He’d never been one for an overly romantic turn of phrase, but she had always drawn such fancies from him, just as she’d drawn him to pocket the purple flower she had touched, even now hidden beneath the covers of his Bible upstairs.
He hated feeling this way. Hated how he dreamed of her. Hated his envy of the old general. Hated this feeling of duplicity, engaged to one, when his heart had always been engaged by another.
And now he had to see her. Offer felicitations for her birthday, as he might a mere acquaintance. His hands clenched.
A knock prefaced his butler’s entry. “Excuse me, sir,
but Lord Carmichael has arrived.”
“Carmichael?”
“The one and only,” said the viscount, gracefully pushing past the butler, who withdrew, closing the door.
“We were not expecting you. Is Major Hale with you?” asked Julia eagerly.
Carmichael glanced at Jon before returning his attention to Julia. “I’m afraid not, my dear.”
Her face fell. “Have you spoken with him?”
“Not for some time now.”
Julia’s face darkened. “I bet we all know why that is.” She shot Jon a look of fire and stormed from the room.
Carmichael eyed him with raised brows.
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m not sure I need to. Poor petal. Has big brother proved a little overprotective?”
“She needs someone to keep her in line.”
“I thought Bath was supposed to be doing that all by itself?”
“One would think a town filled with the gouty and half infirm would do that.”
Carmichael chuckled, sinking elegantly onto a sofa, only to immediately rise again as Mother walked into the room, hands outstretched.
“Dear Henry,” Mother said, her smile widening as Carmichael kissed her hand like a medieval courtier. “Julia mentioned your arrival. To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“You need ask? It is always you, ma’am, who draws the bees as to the queen—”
“Says the drone.”
“Now, Jonathan. You know I like a pretty compliment, and this young man can certainly deliver them.”
“He certainly can,” Jon muttered.
“Now what is wrong, old man?” Carmichael asked. “Have you got the sullens as well as your sister?”
“Of course not.”
“Good, for I cannot abide staying with sullenly people.”
“You’re staying here, are you?” Jon asked.
“If you’ll have me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. Especially when one has previously murmured the words ‘open invitation’ to such as myself.”
“Did I do that?”
“If you didn’t, you certainly should have,” the viscount said with a grin. “Now tell me, is Miss Beauchamp in town?”
His defenses rose. “No.”
“But that is a marvelous idea, Harry!” Mother said, clapping her hands. “We should invite sweet Lydia and her Mama to come stay, don’t you agree, Jonathan?”
He couldn’t very well say no, so he said nothing.
Fortunately Julia chose to return at that moment, wearing a green pelisse and carrying a small gold wrapped parcel. “Are we leaving now? I thought you wanted me to change, Mother.”
“I don’t want you to change, dear girl.”
“Carmichael, stop embarrassing yourself.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible, but I will try.”
“Good, for we are going to Catherine’s birthday tea, and you should be on your best behavior,” said Julia.
“We are, are we?” Carmichael crooked a brow at Jon.
“Well, we have been invited.”
“Oh. Well I’m sure they won’t mind an extra, especially such a handsome, sophisticated extra as I endeavor to be.”
“Not to mention modest,” Jon added.
“No, we never mention modest.”
Jon’s reluctant amusement escaped in a chuckle, glad for the return of his friend whose spirits always boosted his own.
Carmichael grinned. “Well, I suppose if I’m to dazzle I should exchange these rags for something more apropos. My dear Lord Winthrop, will you kindly point me to my room?”
AN HOUR LATER, having tamped down his impatience as he waited for Carmichael to get dressed then buy a gift—“for the uninvited should always bring something to render their presence slightly more agreeable”—Jon finally entered the Gay Street residence. After waiting for his mother and sister to greet its residents and the general, he could at last present his own salutations, and offer Catherine a bow.
“Many happy returns.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Was it gladness? Disappointment? He studied her, and found himself falling into the fathomless depths of her dark eyes, remembering. His gaze slipped to her lips. Suddenly he wished his far more charming friend was not still waiting in the hall; wished the general far away. Wished he were free to say all he wanted to say—
“We brought you this.” Julia thrust their gift into Catherine’s hands to her murmured thanks. “But we also have a much larger surprise waiting outside.”
“A larger surprise?” The dark eyes flashed to him.
“A surprise to us all,” Jon muttered.
“The Viscount Carmichael,” the butler announced.
Jon watched his friend’s polished self-assurance on display as he greeted Lady Winthrop and was introduced to Catherine’s aunt and the general. His geniality was such that he seemed set to become best friends with the general, when he turned to greet the room’s other occupants.
“Good afternoon, Lord Carmichael.”
He blinked. “Miss Winthrop?”
“The very same.”
Carmichael shook his head and moved closer, grasping her hands. “No, not the same. Not at all!” He smiled, eliciting hers. “I must say, that color suits you admirably. I think you should make it your practice to never wear anything but lavender.”
Catherine gave a delicious gurgle of laughter, and Jon was struck with envy. If only he could be so at ease with her. If only she were free—
“Carmichael?” Jon cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I mentioned that Miss Winthrop has recently become betrothed to the general here.”
“What?”
His friend’s face wore such a look of comical dismay that Jon almost laughed. Almost.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners? Please, accept my felicitations.” Carmichael bowed to both parties, but as he glanced at Jon, his brows rose so high Jon wondered if they might meet his carefully disarranged hair.
Catherine drew forward the other member of the party, who had until now remained near silent. “I don’t believe you have met my younger sister. Lord Carmichael, this is Serena.”
The pair exchanged bow and curtsy.
“Miss Serena Winthrop, a picture as soothing as her name. Why have I not met you before?”
The younger Miss Winthrop gazed at him disinterestedly. “I attend a nearby seminary. Miss Haverstock’s.”
“Ah, yes. An excellent facility I’m given to understand.”
Jon bit back a smile. He would be willing to bet his last penny Carmichael had never heard of the place.
The cool-eyed sister seemed to agree, studying the viscount dispassionately before looking away, affecting interest in a vase of flowers. Jon smothered a chuckle at his friend’s blink of surprise.
Julia moved to examine the arrangement, too. “That is a pretty posy.”
“It is from the general,” Catherine said.
“No more mysterious bouquets?”
“None.” Catherine smiled. “Perhaps I should sicken again, and we’ll see if my unknown benefactor returns.”
“What mystery is this?” Carmichael asked.
As Julia told him, Jon felt a trickle of unease.
“And what flowers were they? I should like to know, in case I should ever see a misplaced posy on a doorstep on our return.”
“Violets.”
“Violets, you say?” Carmichael turned. Jon met his gaze steadily. “Well, well …”
“I think it time we forget such things.” Catherine’s aunt eyed Jon with not a small amount of speculation. “Now, shall we have tea?”
LATER, WHEN THEY had returned home after dinner, Mrs. Villiers’s unexpected hospitality extending to a meal, Carmichael’s ponderings remained. “I cannot understand why she has accepted that old man. He might have a sterling reputation from the war, and possess a degree of wit, but he is old.”
“She is scarcely in her f
irst bloom of youth,” Mother snapped. “I would have thought her grateful to accept his suit.”
“Yes, but is it a suit, or merely one of convenience? I detected nothing of the amour from either party.”
A sick, tight feeling filled his stomach. Was Carmichael right?
“Perhaps he reminds her of her father,” Julia said. “I know I still miss mine.”
“He is nothing like her father,” Jon muttered.
“When I was at the reading room today I overheard an old lady talking about them—”
“That is enough, Julia,” Mother said imperiously. “Come, I think it time we went upstairs. Good night, Carmichael. Good night, Jonathan.” She offered her cheek for a kiss that he performed obediently. She grasped his arm. “Do not let that man spend too long in idle speculation,” she urged in a low voice.
He forced a smile, and she left the room, dragging a sullen Julia in her wake.
Jon offered further refreshment; Carmichael accepted, lounging gracefully on the settee whilst Jon prepared his drink. Jon himself had nothing. He felt too raw, too jittery.
“Tell me, does your dear mater object to my conversation in general, or merely to that involving the winsome Miss Winthrop?” Carmichael eyed him with a half smile. “I rather suspect the latter, though I can’t for the life of me imagine why.”
“I’m sure it’s a challenge for you to imagine your conversation ever less than favorably received.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Carmichael said, his features tightening for a moment. “And perhaps you did not notice the fair Miss Winthrop’s equally fair sister give me what I imagine must be considered a cold shoulder?” He shuddered. “Thank goodness Miss Winthrop is not so unkind. She did look very pretty today, do you not agree, old man?”
He jerked a nod. Very pretty was an understatement.
“You will forgive my harping on the subject, but I cannot help wonder if your mother dislikes her. Why would that be?” Carmichael studied him, his air of insouciance at odds with those shrewd eyes. “You are being very quiet. No sardonic comments? No irony? Perhaps the new Lord Winthrop has been afflicted with a ‘mysterious’ disease?”
“Now you are being ridiculous. I wondered how long it would take to emerge.”
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