He half smiled, moving to stand beside her in the doorway.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, savoring his nearness, savoring his scent. If only she did not feel this wretched lightheadedness, this feeling like she might topple at any moment.
“I have come to enquire of your welfare, ma’am.”
“Welfare? What does it look like? Oh, stop standing in the hall. I’ve no mind that all might know my business.”
He followed Catherine into the room, closing the door behind them. “Forgive the intrusion, ma’am, but your failure to arrive at Winthrop caused no small alarm. I have spent the past five days searching, until a small village boy recalled seeing a group arrive at this, er, establishment.”
“We remain hardly by choice!”
“Naturally, ma’am.” He glanced at Catherine, a questioning look in his eyes.
“Mr. Nicholls has broken his leg and cannot be moved,” she said softly.
“Mr. Nicholls?”
“Our coachman. He was injured in the accident.”
His eyes widened, compelling her to explain. “We were returning from Bath when the horses were startled in the storm and the carriage overturned, injuring both poor Mama and Mr. Nicholls. We have been here since, unable to relocate, although we have sent word of our predicament.”
He turned to her mother. “Ma’am, I trust you are not severely injured.”
“No, but …”
When Mama’s complaints finally wound to a halt, Catherine insisted she rest. She closed the door and continued her story in the hall. “The doctor has been once, but has not returned.”
“So who has been caring—? Surely not you.”
She drew herself up. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Of course not. Again, please forgive me.” His lips twisted. “At times I do not express what I mean to say, I’m afraid.”
“Well, what do you mean to say?” She winced at her snappish tone. Had exhaustion eaten away all semblance of politeness?
He opened his mouth, closed it. Drew her to one side as the maid finished wiping down the mess and placed the broken china in a wooden pail. “We were concerned when you failed to return as indicated by your letter. Then when we could not find you—”
“I sent word.”
“None appeared.”
Frustration tightened her chest. The little scamp must have run off with her money! She pressed her lips together, hiding her gaze by examining the stain marring her skirt.
“Miss Winthrop, do you need to change your gown?”
That would require reentering her mother’s room. She shook her head no.
“Then may I suggest you go downstairs to the private parlor?”
“But the innkeeper—”
“Knows I have reserved it. You will be safe from prying eyes.”
Her fingers clenched, as again that ball of frustration tightened across her chest. How had he managed to do what she could not?
He glanced at her hands, offered a rueful looking smile and his arm, and escorted her downstairs to a comfortably furnished room. He closed the door, leaving her alone, but not before she heard him order two meals to be brought directly.
She sank onto the chair, feeling her body relax for the first time in days. Her head sank to her hands, elbows propped up on the table, careless of the impropriety. Nobody could be as tired as she. She closed her eyes, half wishing she could fall asleep, yet a new skein of tension wound thick in her chest. For while Mr. Carlew had proved all that was kind, his solicitude also served to remind her that this was only for the briefest of interludes; his heart belonged to another.
But … oh, to be so cared for, looked after. Her eyes filled with tears.
The door opened and the aroma of rich beef stew preceded the maid’s entrance. Mr. Carlew followed immediately. She hurriedly wiped her eyes, and sat up, pushing her hair behind her ears. No doubt she looked a mess, but without a looking glass she could not know—not that such things mattered, anyway.
“Please eat,” he said.
So she did.
He watched her for a moment then ate, too. The room was silent for all but the scrape of metalware against bowls. Eventually he placed his fork down, his gaze so piercing she could only look up.
“You said you sent word?”
“I … I gave a note to a post boy, but I gather he did not deliver it.” He frowned.
Her stomach twisted. Did he doubt her?
“And you’ve been run off your feet.” He shook his head. “I spoke to the coachman. It seems the horses took fright and took you far away from the main road. It’s only by the merest chance I came here.”
“Or the good Lord,” she murmured.
His strained features suddenly softened as he laughed. “That, too.” His smile faded. “I still wish you had thought to tell me. Why did you not send word again? Or hire another hack to get you home?”
She swallowed. Swallowed again. How to explain her lack of finances? “I … I thought I could manage.”
“For how much longer? You’re exhausted as it is.”
Her eyes blurred again. She bit her bottom lip to stop the tremble, shifting her gaze to hide her tears as she massaged another layer of goose grease onto her forearm.
He sighed. “Forgive me. Perhaps it is best if I leave you to finish your meal in solitude.”
Catherine nodded. Turned so she could see the lower part of his face, but not his eyes.
“I should not speak so harshly.” His lips turned wry. “I suppose this is what you wished to avoid?”
She dipped her head in acquiescence.
“Very well. I shall speak with your mother and then the coachman. You shall not be disturbed by my presence any longer.”
He departed quickly, before the protest on her lips could be uttered. She did not find his presence disturbing, rather the opposite. His appearance had immediately eased some of the burden from her shoulders, for she knew he would do all in his power to comfort and protect her.
Even if only from a sense of duty.
A rawness refilled her eyes, filled her throat. She pushed away the half-eaten bowl. Propped her head in her hands. Closed her eyes, locking in the moisture.
If only he did not still despise her.
After hurried interviews with both Lady Winthrop and the coachman, during which Jon soon learned the depth of their indebtedness to Catherine’s quick thinking and strenuous efforts, and was duly horrified to realize she was sleeping on a pallet in her mother’s room, he visited the innkeeper, who assured him he had offered them his best care.
The large woman frowned at her husband. “Do you take ’im for a fool? Anyone can see what kind of establishment this is.”
“I cannot think how you thought it permissible for a baron’s wife and daughter to be forced to endure such rough conditions.”
The man’s eyes rounded. “Baron’s daughter, did you say?”
He sighed. Trust Catherine’s modesty to not shout her antecedents.
“I don’t know no baron who can’t afford to pay for better accommodation.”
“Cannot afford?”
Suddenly it all made sense. Fresh guilt washed over him. If only he’d arrived sooner, if only he hadn’t been so stubborn, if only … “Unfortunately it is too late to remove them today, so they will need to remain another night. As will I.” He groaned, envisaging the flea-ridden night ahead of him. “I shall need a bedchamber.”
Jon left and returned to the room, a parlor in name only. He knocked then pushed open the door. His heart thudded loudly at the sight. “Catherine!” He rushed to where she sat, her head resting on one arm splayed across the table.
He bent closer, gently shook her shoulder. “Catherine?” She was sleeping, a deep slumber no words, no shaking could disturb.
His heart softened. Shadows lined her eyes, her hair curling in tiny tendrils around her small, perfect ear. Her hands were chapped, smudged with dirt, her displaced sleeve showing the red mark o
n her wrist from the earlier burn. Exhaustion might hold her, but he minded not. She was beautiful.
His gaze tracked to her lips, slightly parted. Were they as soft as he remembered?
His heart thudded. He leaned close—
The door squealed opened. “Oh! Excuse me, sir. I came for the plates.”
Jon shifted away, aware of the speculation in the maid’s eyes as she collected the bowls and utensils. He moved to the window. In the distance the hills smudged blue on the horizon.
“Sir, your bedchamber is ready. It’s just down the hall.”
“Thank you.”
The maid shot him a wide-eyed look and then pulled the door closed.
Jon moved back to the table. Tried shaking her awake, to no avail. “Catherine?”
He could not leave her here. And he could not in all good conscience let her sleep on that pathetic pallet. She would not sleep effectively, especially at the beck and call of her mother, and it was obvious she craved rest. Perhaps …
Moving close, he wrapped one arm around her shoulder and one around the back of her knees and gingerly lifted her. She sighed. His heart thudded painfully. She smelled clean, with that subtle sweetness he associated wholly as her own. He carried her to his bedchamber, pushed open the door, laid her on the bed.
The door opened wider. “Sir, I—oh!” The maid blushed, retreated. “I came to see if you needed anything—”
“Will you please look after Miss Winthrop? I … I should not be here, but I feel sure she would rest better here than upstairs.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Perhaps another room can be found for me?”
“I will find out, sir.”
So he retreated to the parlor, and sank into the seat Catherine vacated, telling himself not to stir up memories. But she had felt so good in his arms again, like she belonged, her scent curling desire, fueling dreams …
He groaned and flung his head in his hands.
CHAPTER THİRTY-ONE
CATHERINE SIGHED. ROLLED over to the other side of the bed. The soft, comfortable bed. She opened her eyes. Studied the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar bedstead, the male clothing atop the corded trunk in the corner. She gasped, panic banding her chest as she studied the bed’s left side. The covers appeared undisturbed but …
What had she done?
A knock preceded the maid’s entrance. “Good afternoon, miss. You slept the day away.”
Afternoon? Catherine shifted up in the bed, noticed she still wore her gown from yesterday. The heat of embarrassment flushed her skin. What must everyone think of her? She could not meet the maid’s gaze. “What day is it?”
“Thursday, miss. There is a fresh gown here for you. Shall I help you into it?”
She nodded. Where had this helpfulness come from?
The maid was swift in her ministrations. “Would you be requiring something to eat now?”
“Th-thank you.” Just the thought made her stomach growl.
“If you’ll go into the parlor next door, I’ll be in shortly.”
Catherine entered the room and sat at the table. She should probably check on her mother, but at the thought of all those stairs, a fresh wave of weariness washed over her.
“Miss Winthrop?” The deep voice compelled her attention to the door. “I trust you slept well.”
She felt a deep blush heat her skin. “Th-thank you, I did.” She could not look at him. What must he think of her? But she had to know. “That was your room.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“I arranged for your pallet to be shifted to Mr. Nicholls’s room.” Relief filled her as he continued. “I assure you, nothing untoward occurred. I would not have you think me ungentlemanly.”
“It is only that I have known myself to be”—she swallowed—“l-less than maidenly at times.”
“You?”
She looked up. Saw his incredulous expression. She bit her lip.
“When have you ever been less than what you ought?”
Surely he would not make her say it.
“I know what I accused you of back in Bath, but that was spoken from frustration and wounded pride. I am so very sorry, and beg your forgiveness for being such a fool.”
“You are forgiven, sir.” She dropped her gaze. “But that was not what I referred to.”
Floorboards creaked as he stepped closer. “Tell me what you mean.”
Her gaze could only ascend as high as his waistcoat, a serviceable navy color, one she remembered as bringing out the depths of his eyes. “I refer back to that time in London, when I,” she swallowed, “when I … kissed you.”
“When you kissed me?” The astonishment in his voice made her meet his eyes. His entrancing blue-gray eyes. “I thought I kissed you.”
Oh …
“I thought my actions had given you such an aversion to me that you complained to your father and that was why he drove me away.”
“No! Of c-course not. Did you not receive my letter?”
“No.”
He hadn’t? Breath hitched. Had Papa discovered it, and withheld it, and thus forced her to believe a lie?
“He told me you were leading me on, that you did not care.”
“No.” How could her father have said that? He truly had lied. “I-I thought you horrified by my abandonment of propriety.”
“How could I be horrified? Not when that was the sweetest moment of my life.” He smiled, the action coiling heat deep within.
For a moment she was transported back, back to when he used to smile at her like so, when the world felt so full of possibility. But—her gaze faltered—they could not go back. He was engaged. To a perfectly lovely young lady, who would make him a perfectly lovely young wife. Her heart wrenched.
“Miss Winthrop? You frown. Have I said something to upset you?”
She shook her head, trying desperately to think of a way to get this conversation back to neutral territory. But something niggled. What had he said? “Wait—you said my father warned you away? I did not know you spoke to him.”
“I know you did not wish me to, and I should have bowed to your wisdom. But I did not want to continue seeing you without his blessing.” His lips pushed to one side, his expression wry. “Needless to say, I did not get it.”
For some reason, his confession brought liquid to her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to remove the moisture. Her heart gave a tiny spurt of anger towards her father. Her devious, dishonest father. How could he pretend to love her? No wonder he’d tried buying her affection with gigs and earbobs. He must have realized the magnitude of his deceit.
She sighed. Poor Mr. Carlew. He had been blameless. He had loved her. But there was no point reminiscing. He was engaged to another. They should not linger in such memories. “Sir, I—”
“I almost think we would have been better following Julia’s example and running away, instead of asking permission to pay my addresses to you.” He stepped closer.
Catherine swallowed, attempting to clear the ball of emotion lodged in her throat. “Y-you don’t mean that, surely.”
“You don’t know how many times I wished exactly that. But I could never do something to hurt your reputation—or your chances at a better match.”
She could dwell in the past no longer! What had they been speaking of before recalling too-sweet memories of their yesterdays? She peeked up at him again. “Y-you gave up your room for me, for which I am very thankful.”
His lips twisted in a rueful expression. “It was apparent you would not sleep well whilst staying with your mother, and this so-called inn had no other rooms. How you managed any rest on that thing I don’t know.”
“I am sorry you were not comfortable—”
“I think only of you!”
His words hung in the room. She stared at him, wide-eyed.
He continued. “My comfort does not matter. And I’ll gladly relinquish that room for your use as long as necessary. Although I canno
t help but wonder why you didn’t avail yourselves of it to begin with.”
“We were not made aware we had a choice.”
“What?” He looked thunderstruck. “I cannot believe—”
“In Mr. Nabtree’s defense, we were somewhat bedraggled, and did not present as though we had means—”
“That is no excuse! Surely the laws of hospitality should have—Did your mother not say who you are?”
“I’m afraid Mother’s complaints have been so numerous, Mr. Nabtree was not particularly mindful,” she said wryly.
His lips pursed. “And you, being meek and humble, did not wish to force the issue.”
Meek and humble, or weak and helpless? It did not matter now.
He was silent for a long moment. When next he spoke his voice seemed deeper, huskier, somehow. “You cannot have any idea what trials we’ve been going through, wondering where you were, what had happened.”
“After the inn costs, I could not afford to send word again.”
“But surely you would have known I would reimburse at the end.”
“They demanded funds beforehand. And I … I could not presume.”
“Presume? Do you think me some kind of monster who would deny you? I cannot stand that after all these months you still think so poorly of me.”
The guilty knot in her stomach twisted more tightly. “I do not—that is, I—”
“We have been worried sick. I … I have failed to protect my sister, a fact that grieves me deeply, knowing I could have prevented it. And then when you did not return—” His hand reached to touch hers, the simple caress hitching breath in her chest. “Oh, Catherine, I could not stand it if anything should happen to …”
You.
The word hovered between them unsaid, but the look in his eyes and the way his fingers gently tightened on her hand told her everything he could not say.
Her chest constricted, her cheeks grew fiery. She opened her mouth—
A knock came at the door. “Excuse me, sir, miss.”
The maid gave them a shrewd glance, which removed his hand from hers and caused her to say, “Hello, Sarah. My cousin has come to take us home. Is that not good news?”
“If you say so, miss.” She deposited the plate of food and left again.
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