by Amelia Grey
How should she deal with Mr. Iverson Brentwood? What should she say?
Catalina wished she’d been more intuitive about the people behind the story, but at the time, all she could think was that she had to finish the parody and turn it in so Mr. Frederick would pay her father. Ever since they had moved into the larger home three years ago, it seemed there was never enough money to keep up with the mortgage, buy food, pay her father’s ever-increasing staff, and numerous other expenses.
Oh, yes. She was in big trouble.
But she couldn’t worry about herself right now. No one knew she had helped her father complete his writings, and she had to keep it that way. It would ruin her father’s reputation as a poet if it were made known. He would be ridiculed, and no one would publish his work again. It must remain their secret.
When she had first seen Mr. Brentwood glaring at Mrs. Wardyworth, he had appeared hard and menacing, but after she’d gotten a closer look, she knew neither she nor her staff was in jeopardy from him—though she would do well to be wary. He wore the demeanor of a harsh and ruthless man as if it was a matter of honor, but Catalina was a good judge of people. Mr. Iverson Brentwood didn’t raise any fear in her at all. Even knowing he was most likely the man who had given Lord Waldo a black eye a few months ago, she had no worry for herself, but he could very well make good on his threat to do harm to her father.
That she couldn’t allow. He might be a fierce protector of his family, but so was she.
Collecting her thoughts, she reached over and placed her cup and saucer on the tray beside his before looking into his fathomless, icy blue eyes. With a calmness she didn’t know she was capable of, she asked, “Are you trying to frighten me, Mr. Brentwood?”
He looked at her with hot intensity that made an unfamiliar but delicious sensation spiral through her. Her breath grew uncomfortably shallow as sudden heat flared inside her.
“Absolutely not,” he answered her as calmly as she had spoken.
“Then what were you intending by your previous remark?”
His gaze held steadily on hers. “To threaten your father.”
“And you don’t think a comment like that would frighten a gentle-born lady in her own home?”
He smiled and nodded. “Most ladies, I agree, but not you.”
Mr. Brentwood relaxed into the comfort of the armchair, and a sudden gleam shone in his eyes. Catalina’s breath caught in her throat again. He was a devilishly handsome man when he was so at ease. A true gentleman would never be so crass as to say such a thing to a lady, but she didn’t have time to ponder why she wasn’t offended by his remarks.
“I’ve watched you closely, Miss Crisp.”
Oh, yes, she knew how closely he had looked at her. Her skin had tingled responsively more than once when she caught his gaze skimming down her face. It was as if he was caressing her with his eyes. Even now, she knew he found her as attractive as she did him.
He continued. “I’ve not seen a flicker of fear cross your lovely face.”
He was obviously good at reading people, too.
“What have you seen?” she asked, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to clamp her teeth together tightly and take them back.
Why was she trying to engage this man and discover how he felt about her? She wasn’t a coquettish female trying to gain his attention or his favor. By his own admission, he intended to threaten her father with physical harm. That was all she needed to know. He was not even a man she needed to converse with. She should have asked him to leave her house the moment he made his reasons known to her. No, the moment she saw him in the vestibule and knew this man had touched a place inside her no other man had been near. Instead, she foolishly chose to match wits with him because she found him so deliciously stimulating.
“I can’t say right now, because I think you are hiding something, Miss Crisp, and I can only assume it is the whereabouts of your father.”
Oh, he was good.
She was hiding something: the fact that when her father had left without finishing the story he had promised to Mr. Frederick, she had been forced to finish it so he would be paid.
And it wasn’t the first time she’d had to do it.
In the past couple of years, she’d had to complete at least half of her father’s work. Sometimes he could get so enthusiastic about a story or a poem, he would write all day and night, never stop for food, drink, or sleep. And at other times, like with A Tale of Three Gentlemen, he would get bored or lose interest and never make the time to finish it. Half-finished work would not pay their obligations. Sir Phillip Crisp was a good father, a loyal friend, and a compassionate employer, but he had absolutely no head for business matters, deadlines, or duties.
Catalina was the practical one in the family, and someone needed to be. She had taken over managing their business and household affairs when she was only sixteen years of age. Her father had no use for keeping account books balanced or even paying their debts on time. She had tried to explain to him that their expenses were increasing and he needed to write more often. They needed more money coming in each month. She might as well have been talking to a statue in the garden for all the good it did.
Sir Phillip was a dreamer whose head was always in the clouds. For him, life was a lark. She had never seen her father angry or even mildly upset. He would not be hurried or interrupted when he was writing or doing anything else. If a fanciful notion struck him, he would take off on one of his “idle loafings,” as he liked to refer to trips, saying only that he had to follow his muse.
One glance at Mr. Brentwood told her he was a far different man from her blithe father. Clearly, Mr. Brentwood was arrogant, authoritative, and impatient. She couldn’t imagine he would ever shirk a duty. And she was certain she’d never met a man as intense, challenging, or as maddening as he.
Now she wished she hadn’t turned in the other two installments of A Tale of Three Gentlemen to Mr. Frederick. But she had. So the only thing that could be done now was to go to The Daily Herald and ask the man to give them back to her.
Trying to appear more relaxed, Catalina leaned against the settee and smiled at Mr. Brentwood. “You are not a very good gambler, sir.”
The edges of his eyes narrowed, and he bent toward her again. In a suspicious tone, he asked, “I’ll admit, you have me curious. I’ll take the bait you’ve thrown out and ask the obvious question. Why do you say that?”
“The first thing is because you wear your feelings on your face.”
He gave her an appreciative nod. “It’s true my anger showed when I entered your house. Reading that travesty of a story and then spending a few hours trying to find out where Sir Phillip lived proved extremely frustrating for me today, not to mention my unsatisfactory conversation with Mrs. Wardyworth when I arrived.”
She smiled. “I do believe you had her in a dither when I walked into the room.”
He gave her a relaxed smile as he said, “The feeling was quite mutual, I assure you.”
“Are you always so impatient with servants?”
He took his time answering her. “I’ve never had a reason to be until today.”
Catalina picked up her cup and sipped her tea while she watched him over the rim. Mrs. Wardyworth was difficult at times, but Catalina would never admit that to Mr. Brentwood.
“You gave me one reason why you think I’m not a good gambler,” Mr. Brentwood said. “I’m curious. Do you have another?”
“Yes,” she said and nodded. “You laid all your cards on the table for me to see.”
He gave her a comfortable grin and said, “That’s a low blow to a man who considers himself a fairly good gambler.”
“Well, you know what they say about ‘if the cap fits.’”
A short burst of derisive laughter was his only answer. He was much too sure of himself.
She lifted her eyebrows a little and said, “You do realize now that I know what you want with my father, when he returns I can tell h
im to avoid you at all costs and save him from your temper.”
“Please do that, Miss Crisp,” Mr. Brentwood said, keeping his gaze on her lips. “That way at least, Sir Phillip won’t be able to say he didn’t have fair warning of my intentions. I will not allow him to slander my family’s good name again for the sake of a few laughs from a sordid story.”
If only Mr. Brentwood knew it wasn’t for laughs or recognition for her father that she finished the story but for the sake of their livelihood. As it was, she constantly received letters demanding payments from her father’s tailor, her aunt’s apothecary, the milliner, and countless others. She lived in fear that one day everyone would know they were always one step away from destitution.
“The name Brentwood was never mentioned in the story,” she felt compelled to say.
“It didn’t have to be,” he said with defensive resolve. “How many sets of adult twins have come to London in the last year and have an older brother who is a viscount?”
“I believe the older brother was an earl in the story.”
“You’re splitting hairs, Miss Crisp,” he said, his tone and demeanor turning less tolerant than before.
“Not in the least,” she added. “Furthermore, there was never anything scandalous mentioned about the mother. In fact, I don’t think she was referenced at all.”
“Now you are straining to swallow a gnat. It was implied. How else could the twins look exactly like another man if the mother hadn’t taken a secret lover in her past?”
Feeling guilty because she knew he had some ground to stand on with his complaint, yet not wanting to admit it, she was no longer able to sit still. Catalina rose and said, “Surely, Mr. Brentwood, you know my father’s story was not meant to be taken that way. If anything, you are being thin-skinned and making a mountain out of a pebble—no, out of a grain of salt. Surely you know it was not his intention to slander your family.”
Mr. Brentwood rose, too, and stepped so close to her she thought she heard his heart beating.
A wrinkle of anger creased his forehead. “No, I don’t know that,” he said.
“It was only a simple story meant to entertain.”
“Yes, to entertain all of London at my family’s expense. And you wonder why I am upset?”
“No one takes seriously what’s printed in the Society section of The Daily Herald. If anyone wants serious news, they will go to the Times or The London Chronicle.”
He leaned his face in closer to hers and kept his voice low and his tone level as he said, “No, you’re wrong, Miss Crisp. Most everyone who reads that rubbish assumes every word of it is true, and seeing it in print gives legitimacy to the hogwash. What your father wrote revives the gossip that had finally settled down and fuels the scandalmongers to keep it going.”
“I believe you are wrong, and time will prove that to you. In less than a month this story will be all but forgotten.”
“I hope you are right, Miss Crisp, because it amazes me that anyone could actually think Matson and I would approve of a parody that casts a shameful light on our mother. Tell me, Miss Crisp, how would you be feeling right now if some fashion of A Tale of Three Gentlemen had been written about your family?”
“Oh, but my mother wouldn’t—” Catalina caught herself and clamped her mouth shut quickly.
He leaned in so close his nose almost touched hers. “Your mother wouldn’t what, Miss Crisp?”
“Nothing, nothing. I was just… I mean I wasn’t thinking.”
Suddenly her entire body seemed to go still. She couldn’t believe what she had almost said. Surely it went beyond the pale of decency to say her mother never would have taken a lover. She was horrified she had allowed his goading to rile her to that point. She was usually so calm, knowing exactly how to handle the biggest of problems without getting flustered or angry. Mr. Brentwood was right. The parody should never have been written, and she was sorry and upset for her part in seeing it published. She was going to do everything possible to see that the rest of the story never made it to the streets.
He watched her, studied her hard as if he was absorbing every detail of her face, before slowly letting his gaze sweep down her neck to the crest of her breasts rising and falling with each choppy breath. His eyes lifted to hers again, and for a brief moment, she had the distinct feeling his lips were going to touch hers.
He quietly asked, “Does your father know what a strong advocate you are for him?”
She appreciated that, for the time being at least, he was letting her insensitive remark pass.
“What do you expect of me when you say you want to harm him?”
“That’s not what I said. It’s not that I want to, but that I will if he publishes anything more about my family. I protect my own.”
She believed him but couldn’t back down from her strong stance now.
“And I will protect my father as fiercely as you protect your family.”
All of a sudden, he reached out and caressed down her cheek with the backs of his fingers before letting his knuckles lightly skim back and forth across her lips. His hand was warm and his touch tender. A thrilling tingle of something she’d never felt before swept across her breasts and then tumbled its way down into the depths of her abdomen. She inhaled the clean, fresh scent of shaving soap that lingered on his skin. Her chest tightened, and her stomach felt like it fell to her feet.
Catalina knew she should shrink from his touch, but she couldn’t. It was as if she wanted and needed him to touch her so softly to prove he was a gentle man in spite of his tough talk and angry expressions. And for a fleeting, bewildering moment, her heartbeat raced and her throat went dry as she thought about the possibility of dallying with the rake. She had always wanted to be kissed by a man who stirred her senses the way this man did. It took all she could do not to throw her arms around his neck, place her lips on his, and give in to the madness of the intriguing man.
“Understood, Miss Crisp…”
“What’s this? I just heard there’s a gentleman in the house.”
Catalina spun at the sound of her aunt’s voice and saw the petite woman dressed in a flowing, puce-colored gown breeze into the room with all the fanfare of a young maid at a cotillion.
Aunt Elle’s face was flushed, and several strands of her dark brown hair had fallen from the chignon at the back of her head. The delicate lace fichu wrapped around her slim shoulders hung askew, and she wore only one large pearl earring. Catalina had no doubt her aunt had spent the afternoon lying on the settee in her bedchamber reading poetry and sipping wine.
Holding a fine linen handkerchief in her hand, Aunt Elle said, “Catalina, my dearest, have you forgotten all your upbringing? You simply cannot entertain a gentleman without me or a suitable chaperone of some description present. What in heaven’s name were you thinking?”
After rushing to Catalina’s side, her aunt stumbled to a halt too quickly and almost toppled over.
“Careful, Auntie,” Catalina cautioned, trying to catch hold of her aunt.
As if sensing a disaster in the making, Mr. Brentwood reached out and gently grabbed hold of her aunt’s waist to keep her from falling and to steady her. Aunt Elle clutched his upper arms as if she were hanging on to him for her life.
She smiled up at Mr. Brentwood but made no move to dislodge herself from his grasp. Her hands squeezed the muscles in his arms, and she said, “My stars, you are a strong young man. Just like my Mr. Gottfried was.”
Catalina purposefully kept her gaze from meeting Mr. Brentwood’s, but there was no way he didn’t know that by five o’clock in the afternoon, Eloisa Lucinda Gottfried had already had at least one glass of sherry too many.
Catalina took her aunt’s wrist and gently pulled her away from Mr. Brentwood and helped her to stand up straight.
“Auntie, I am not entertaining Mr. Brentwood.”
“Of course you are, dearest. I’m tipsy, not blind.” Aunt Elle paused to put her handkerchief over her mouth and hiccupp
ed as she looked down at the tray. “I can see you were having tea with him. I know what you were thinking, but I won’t have you risk your reputation over it no matter how worthwhile a plan it seemed at the time.”
“Nonsense, Auntie. I wanted only to find out if I could help Mr. Brentwood. He is looking for Papa.”
“Didn’t you tell him we don’t know where Phillip is? Oh, never mind. Both of you sit back down and finish your tea. I’ll handle this, Catalina.” She turned back to Mr. Brentwood and smiled. “But first, we must be properly introduced.”
Catalina quickly made the introductions while her aunt swayed on her feet and smiled at Mr. Brentwood.
After greetings were exchanged, Aunt Elle said, “Mr. Brentwood, you should have made known your intentions to court my niece.”
“Auntie, no,” Catalina said, her frustration mounting as she continued to avoid Mr. Brentwood’s eyes. She could imagine what he was thinking and didn’t need to see it written on his face.
“Mrs. Gottfried,” Mr. Brentwood said, “I would have done so if that had been the case. Miss Crisp and I had never met until a few minutes ago. She was right when she said I came here to see her father.”
Aunt Elle rubbed her temple as if she had a headache. “Oh, but he isn’t here.”
“Yes, I’ve been told,” he said, speaking kindly to her, “and more than once, so I think perhaps it’s time I took my leave. I’ll come back another time to see Sir Phillip.”
“Well, I don’t know why you’d want to come see him when our beautiful Catalina is here,” Aunt Elle said, her gaze darting from Catalina to Mr. Brentwood. “Unless this is a ruse, and if it is, that’s so romantic.” She smiled at Mr. Brentwood. “My Mr. Gottfried was a romantic man like you, too.”
Heat started at Catalina’s throat and rose up her neck to her face. Her gaze flew to Mr. Brentwood’s, but she realized she didn’t know what to say to him about her aunt’s behavior.
“Auntie, we just told you there is nothing going on between us.”
“Yes, yes,” Aunt Elle continued, suddenly looking confused. “I know, I know. It would be wonderful for you to come another time, Mr. Brentwood. You should hear our Catalina play the pianoforte. It’s breathtaking.”