Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  What a wonderful dream! To know she still possessed that indefinable something that made him smile. She’d felt it. Seen the moment he had felt it also, when it seemed the years had rolled away and they were once more young and carefree. For a moment, she had gloried in knowing she was the one he sought. For a moment she had luxuriated in the memory of their long-ago kiss: the warmth, the passion, the heady joy of desire; the feeling of home found in his lips. For a moment she had even thought it possible he might truly smile at her, as if he’d never needed to forgive, and they could be happy, together at last.

  But such wonderful dreams had slowly dissipated in the night, stalked by heavy shame.

  Oh, she should never have gone! Should never have gone alone.

  His mother knew, Lord Carmichael knew, Julia, Lady Milton—oh, the shame!

  And he knew. Her heart caught, remembering afresh the moment he had realized who she truly was. Had made it obvious he’d known, shock and disgust writ large in his blue eyes.

  Oh, she should never have gone!

  The recriminations circled, the doubts, the worries pecking at her like a foul bird. What would people say when they discovered what she’d done? What would Mama? What would her aunt? The general? Now she truly was scandalous, a liar, a deceiver, brazen, and sunk far below respectability. Her heart clenched. Lord, forgive me—

  A knock came at the door. “Miss?”

  She dredged up a smile as Bess appeared. “Good morning.”

  “You’re awake bright and early. I suppose extra sleep does help.”

  Guilt cramped her stomach. “It usually does.”

  “Oh, are these your gloves? I must have missed them yesterday evening.”

  “Um, they actually belong to my aunt. I … I borrowed them.” That was not a lie at least.

  “Shall I give them a clean? They look a little dirty.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  “Of course. Will there be anything else?”

  Her cheeks heated. Bess could not see under the bed. “That will be all.”

  “Very well, miss.”

  Throughout the morning she was in a welter of nervous anticipation, waiting for Aunt Drusilla to leave her room, waiting for the maids to clear away, waiting to return the clothes, waiting for the knock at the door signaling the new gossip surrounding her. For she felt sure Lady Milton would feel it her duty to report to her neighbors just what she’d seen.

  She shivered. And then there was the problem of Julia.

  Coupled with her personal shame were other worries that had crept up in the night. What was Julia playing at? What did Hale want? Toward him she felt a mixture of gratitude and trepidation. He had come to her rescue in a most gentlemanly way. And he obviously cared for Julia … but why had he seemed so sad? Why was he angry with Mr. Carlew? Something had estranged them, but what? How could she meet the major today without knowing more of the facts? She couldn’t.

  Catherine sighed. She would have to forgo his visit until she made another.

  She would have to visit Julia.

  “I do not want to see her.”

  Jonathan eyed his half sister as she crossed her arms and sat on the drawing room settee. The servant’s message that Miss Winthrop had called and wished to speak with Julia had taken them all by surprise. Julia’s reaction had startled even more.

  “But, Julia, she is your friend.”

  “No, Mother. I will return to my room should you continue to harangue me.”

  Mother looked anxiously at Jon. He could only offer a small shrug.

  “I will see her,” said Carmichael. “I must compliment her on that gown she—”

  “You will do no such thing. I will speak to her.”

  “Jonathan? You look so serious. Is something the matter with Miss Winthrop?”

  “I hope to find out,” he grated.

  “Now I know it was a silly thing to do, going off to a masque, but I must admit to a degree of admiration,” his mother said. “I did not think she possessed such …”

  “Courage?” suggested Carmichael.

  “Foolhardiness,” Jon muttered.

  “Gumption,” Mother said with a nod. “Anyway, I’ll wager she was not recognized by any but we.”

  “Lady Milton knows.”

  “What? How? Oh, that is unfortunate.”

  “Indeed.” How to make a scandal worse: have Lady Milton as witness.

  “Will your conversation require my presence? Sometimes an older lady’s guidance can be helpful in such matters.”

  “Thank you, Mother, but that will not be necessary.” He had a fair idea his mother’s presence would prove more a hindrance than a help.

  Carmichael shot him a quick look before turning to the ladies. “Lady Harkness, perhaps you can tell me your opinion on my arrangement of this neckcloth. I confess to having more faith in your opinion on such important matters than that of your son.”

  Jon glanced once more at his sister, whose burning eyes chilled him, then made his way to the study. “Miss Winthrop.”

  She turned as he entered the room. Her eyes were shadowed. “Mr.—Lord Winthrop.”

  Her sop to his title withered any sympathy within. “I see you are alone. Again.”

  She seemed to shrink in her chair. “S-sir, I know it was wrong—”

  “Wrong? Wrong was going to a ball in the first place. Have you forgotten you are in mourning?”

  Catherine flushed, shook her head.

  “But to go to a masque, unaccompanied.” He drew out the last word, making it seem more question than statement. Would she own to her relationship with Hale?

  She said nothing, her dark eyes pleading.

  “What were you thinking?” he barked.

  He noticed her jump. Her eyes grow shiny with tears. He felt a moment’s regret then hardened his heart. How would she ever learn until she felt so ashamed she would never dare again?

  “I … I wanted to remember.”

  All at once his memories flooded in, sweet times, when they’d been so akin in every thought he’d grown so sure of his decision. Another ball, another masque, a night when hopes had blossomed into actuality—before true reality set in.

  He bit back a groan, forced his attention to the present. “You should not have gone.”

  “You seemed glad that I did.” Her voice was soft, cutting him to the quick.

  Yes, he had enjoyed their interactions, had imagined if things were different … He shook his head, cleared away his doubts. Forced steel into his voice. “What about your intended?”

  Catherine swallowed. “The general and I—”

  “What about Hale?”

  She blinked, as if taken aback at the bite in his voice. As was he. He forced his fingers to unclench—he had to calm down.

  “I c-came to speak with you about him.”

  “Oh, you did?” Hale’s words from Christmas rose again, stirring his anger. Hale had wooed her, obviously won her. How could she? “So this wasn’t a visit of repentance.”

  “I … I beg your pardon?”

  “You are not here, begging forgiveness for your misdemeanor?”

  For a moment her lips parted, as if she were taken by surprise. Then her chin lifted. “I understand that my actions last night might have been misinterpreted—”

  “You were seen, with Hale, running off in a dark alley to goodness knows where.”

  She blanched. “This is what you think?”

  “Me. And Carmichael. And Julia. Oh, and let’s not forget Lady Milton.”

  Her chin quivered, there was a distinct flash in her eyes, but she said nothing.

  “Yes, Lady Milton. There’s never a whiff of scandal that woman does not know about! And because of that, as head of the family—”

  “It’s a fine time for you to talk so well,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  Her voice sharpened. “Talking as though you are responsible for all Winthrops when you are not even aware of what is happening under your nose.
”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where is Julia? It is Julia I wished to see.”

  “She is with my mother. She does not wish to see you.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Then she is angry with me, too. She does not understand—”

  “Understand what?” Frustration, mingled with personal disappointment, urged his anger on. “That you are not the friend she thought? That you say one thing then do another? That you lead a man on only to laugh in his face?”

  She gasped. “I did no such thing!”

  “You did! Three years ago! You have not changed. You lead the poor old foolish general around on a string, when really he is your insurance while you have a little fling.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You are mistaken, both about the general, and about three years ago—”

  “Am I?”

  “And it seems I am sadly mistaken about you.” She rose, eyes smoldering, hands trembling. She gripped the back of the chair, but still he could see her agitation. “Yes, I won’t deny I attended the masque, that I went there alone. I know it was wrong; I knew it at the time. And neither will I deny that I saw Major Hale. He kindly offered his protection for my homeward journey.”

  Guilt stabbed. Something he should have done.

  “He seemed most concerned about your sister—”

  “Leave Julia out of it. You are not responsible for her.”

  “She is my cousin, and my friend, and as such, I do feel responsible for her.” Her voice was soft, yet contained an iciness he’d never heard before, a coldness matching her glacial expression. “And if you take your responsibilities as head of your family seriously, might I suggest you start with those living under your roof!”

  He clenched his fists. Inhaled. Forced his breath out slowly. “Are you quite finished, Miss Winthrop?”

  “No. Your allegations against me are as baseless as any of Lady Milton’s lies. I might have forgiven your behavior in the past—”

  “My behavior?”

  “But I cannot forget the words you have expressed just now that show how deep your hate for me truly is.” Moisture trickled from her eye. She swiped it away. “I do not like you. I do not want to see you. You are too quick to believe falsehoods and not listen to fact. You are not the gentleman of honor I once lo—” She swallowed. “Thought.”

  His conscience pricked. “Miss Winthrop. Catherine—”

  “I do not want to speak with you again. I am but your third cousin, so any sense of familial obligation is meager to say the least. So I remind you, Lord Winthrop, as far as my mother and I are concerned, you are not responsible for us, not responsible for me at all!”

  She turned, moving to the door.

  He hastened around the desk to hold the door closed. “You return home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will send for the carriage.” Her chin lifted. “Oh, pray do not be concerned. I do this simply to protect your reputation as a lady.”

  Her eyes narrowed. He stood so close he could hear her agitated breathing.

  “Very well.”

  He barked commands at servants, whilst she moved to stand at the window, as far from him as possible, twisting the ribbons of her reticule until he could see they’d be destroyed, her back poker-straight with indignation. He’d never been more thankful than when the footman finally announced the coach’s readiness.

  The short journey was silent, her gaze averted, the air seething with resentment. He escorted her to the door, managed what he hoped was a pleasant expression for the butler, offered the startled aunt the excuse “Miss Winthrop went to visit my sister,” then departed.

  Upon arriving home he barked another order for his groom, then rushed upstairs to change into riding dress. He would need a long ride to rid himself of the heat of his words. The ice of hers. The hurt cramping his heart.

  He was buttoning up his topcoat when a knock at the door caused him to turn.

  Carmichael leaned against the doorframe, brow knotted. “Old man, are you quite all right? We heard shouting, then you were gone. And now you’re back.”

  “Your powers of observation do you credit,” he gritted out, picking up his hat and gloves.

  “I sense violets shall remain unpicked?”

  “Shut up, Carmichael!”

  And he rushed down the stairs into freedom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SİX

  SHE SHOULD NOT have gone. She should not have gone either to the masquerade or to his house.

  He despised her.

  Water filled her eyes, pain gnawing hungrily across her chest, as it did every time she remembered the incident of three days ago. His words. His contempt. His fury. Sometimes the pain felt so intense she might almost buckle under its weight. How could she count this joy? How could everything have turned so badly so quickly? Somehow this felt even worse than his previous rejection. At least she’d been shielded by the impersonal nature of the letter. Now she had nobody, no shield, and no hope.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror. Dark, dank hair scraped back into a simple chignon. Bess was too busy to attend to Catherine, so her toilette had simplified to the basics; dressing hair was not part of her regime. She peered closer. Shadows underscored her eyes, smudges that never went away, smears of weariness that highlighted the extreme pallor of her skin. Even her eyes, which he had once said were her best feature—as dark and mysterious as an enchanted wood—her eyes looked so tired, more haunted than a graveyard at midnight. She looked what she was: an old maid. Was it any wonder he preferred Miss Beauchamp to herself? Once upon a time he might have considered Catherine’s looks appealing, had indeed encouraged her to liveliness, to hope and dream; now he only looked upon her to disapprove.

  Despondency washed over her again, thick, weighty, bearing down on her soul as iron.

  She breathed in. Out. Rose from her dressing table to make her way downstairs to the drawing room where Mama sat with her sister reading correspondence. Mama glanced at a letter before tossing it aside with a sniff and a dismissive “Solicitors. What would they know?” She eyed Catherine with a frown. “Catherine, you are not looking at all well.”

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “Perhaps you should put on some rouge.”

  “No.” Better to look dowdy than to look painted.

  “Is something the matter? Do you need to see a doctor? I know Cornelia Milton swears that Dr. Janus is a godsend, and I’m prepared to overlook her patronage of the fellow if it would do you some good.”

  “Elvira, leave her. I’m sure Catherine is merely tired.”

  “Tired? I don’t know what she has to be tired about. Save for that visit to Julia Carlew she hasn’t gone out for days.”

  To avoid her mother’s piercing gaze, Catherine picked up her tambour and stared at the needlepoint pattern. What should she say? She didn’t want to lie. Was withholding all of the truth a lie? What if it was to protect someone else? If she exposed her suspicions about Julia, wasn’t that merely contributing to more gossip, more speculation? How could she meet with the major? She’d said she would, and she hated not keeping her word. Fresh regrets clawed at her, like a thousand bats circled within. She rubbed her head. What was she to do?

  A gasp drew her attention to her mother’s shocked face. “Oh my!”

  Oh no …

  “Catherine! Can you explain this?” Her mother flapped a letter under her nose.

  “Mother—”

  “This … this baseless report, containing the most alarming allegation I have had the misfortune to read.”

  Catherine swallowed. Which allegation?

  “Can you tell me why people are saying you were seen in the company of a certain man?”

  She could. She chose not to. “The general is not my only friend, Mama,” she hedged.

  “But apart from Mr. Carlew, the only other is that young Carmichael man, and I cannot like you spending much time with him. He seems too smooth a man.”

  Memories rose of hi
s unexpected visit in this very room. “I think Serena agrees with you.”

  “Oh, Serena!” Her mother groaned. “That girl is an enigma to me. She always has been, with those cool looks of hers.”

  As her mother and aunt discussed the difficulties of Serena, Catherine thanked God for her sister’s unwitting role in turning Mama’s attention from her elder daughter. Her thoughts returned to her other problems. How could she speak with Hale? She’d been prevented three days ago, their meeting aborted first by her thwarted visit to Julia, then by her mother’s scolding upon Catherine’s distressed return. But she must speak with Hale. He should not carry on in this secretive manner with Julia.

  Her heart snarled some more. How could she make things right with Julia? She had to know her actions were wrong, falling for a man her family deemed unsuitable. But how to speak to her … Catherine’s scrawled note yesterday had been returned, unopened. She would do almost anything, but—risk his censure, risk his condemnation? That she simply could not do. Her eyes blurred. No. God would have to provide the opportunity because she would never darken his front steps or speak to him again.

  Ever.

  GOD SEEMED TO have heard her prayer for the next day, on her visit to the circulating library, Catherine saw her. Julia saw her, whitened, turned away. Catherine hurried after her. “I must speak with you.”

  Julia moved as though to go. Catherine touched her arm. “About Hale.”

  She stopped. Turned. Her eyes were like shards of blue ice. “I do not wish to speak with you of him.”

  “Please, Julia. I assure you, he does not care for me, and only wishes to see you.”

  The younger girl’s face contorted like she might cry.

  Catherine’s heart writhed. How well she understood such agony. “Julia.” She swallowed. “I … I wish to explain, but we cannot speak here.” There were too many curious faces, too many hushed whispers.

  Julia blinked rapidly, her gaze dropping to study the toe of her slipper, peeping from the flounce of her skirt. “Perhaps … I could persuade Mother of the benefits of a stroll near the rotunda in Sydney Gardens this afternoon. Around three?”