by Georgie Lee
The music didn’t stop but the conversation did as all eyes turned to take them in. Cathleen tightened her grip on Devon’s arm, fighting down the desire to bolt, knowing anything resembling retreat would only increase the gossip.
They stood on the ballroom threshold for a heartbeat before Devon maneuvered them away from the door to a place near a window. The conversation in the wide room resumed, followed by a volley of curious looks cast their way. Cathleen opened her fan, waving it below her chin, trying to ignoring how the chaperones rose from their seats and leaned backwards and forwards to peer around the Ionic columns blocking their view of her. She focused her attention on a large painting of Cupid and Psyche on the wall above the dais where the quartet played, admiring the fine tones of Cupid’s bare skin when Lady Malton’s voice brought her firmly back to their little circle.
“Come, Cathleen, we must make the rounds.” Lady Malton took her by the elbow and Cathleen struggled not to gape in shock.
“What are you up to, Mother?” Devon growled.
“Nothing,” the dowager snapped. “I intend to introduce your bride to the ladies and stop all this whispering and glancing. It’s all too ridiculous.”
Cathleen met Devon’s eyes, still unsure what to expect. He shrugged slightly. “I’ll be in the gaming room.”
“Good, for your wife and I may be some time.” The dowager led Cathleen through the assembled guests at a leisurely pace, introducing her to many of the country families in attendance. During the first few introductions, Cathleen held her breath, waiting for the dowager to say something inappropriate about Cathleen or her brother but she never did. She simply introduced her then made small talk, disappointing the people who expected to learn more about the new countess.
“I know this must seem strange to you,” the dowager remarked, rubbing the top of the little dog’s head while they strolled around the room, “but I can’t think of another way to thank you for last night. I know few ladies who’d assist at a birthing to ensure my grandson’s safe delivery. It speaks to your character, which I had my doubts about at first, considering your family connections.”
“It was my pleasure to help,” Cathleen responded, ignoring the barb. She suspected this was as close as the dowager would ever come to a real compliment.
“I’m also grateful for the change you’ve wrought in Devon. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.”
“I can’t take all the credit.”
“Yes you can. Before you, he was always so melancholy. Whenever I questioned him, all he could speak of was poor Thomas Sefton or Sutton or whatever his name was.”
Cathleen grabbed the dowager’s arm, bringing them to a halt. “The man who saved Devon’s life?”
The dowager flicked a disapproving look at the hand grasping her and Cathleen let go. “Yes.”
“His name was Thomas Selton?” Cold fear crept through her and she willed the dowager to say no, but the woman only nodded and shrugged.
“I can’t remember. I try to discourage Devon from dwelling on it and I suggest you do the same. Ah, there is Lady Treston, you must meet her.”
Lady Malton started for a group of matrons standing in a circle at the far end of the dance floor but Cathleen didn’t follow.
She remained still, the rising music barely audible among the crush of thoughts reeling through her mind. Everything fell into place with the sharpness of a cracked whip. Thomas was the soldier who’d saved Devon. She’d married the man responsible for Thomas’s death. He’d married her out of guilt.
Her chest tightened, the anguish of hundreds of cold, hungry nights spent wishing for Thomas rushing back to her.
“Come along then,” the dowager commanded, returning to take Cathleen by the elbow. Cathleen allowed the woman to lead her, her feet moving out of habit not purpose, oblivious to the dancers whirling on the edge of her vision.
They reached the matrons and Lady Malton made the introductions. Cathleen struggled through the innocuous pleasantries then stood silently next to Lady Malton, hearing nothing of the conversation except the occasional peal of hen-like laughter.
Thomas was dead. He’d died to save Devon, her husband, the person she’d looked to for strength and support during the trials of last night, the man who’d lived while Thomas perished, alone in the mud in France.
He should have told me. Cathleen gripped her fan so tightly, one of the wooden sticks cracked. Why didn’t he tell me?
“May I dance with my wife?” Devon’s strong voice pierced her haze. He stood beside her, smiling. She offered a terse smile in return and his eyes narrowed questioningly.
“Of course,” Lady Malton answered, waving them away with the sleepy spaniel.
Devon took her hand and she forced herself not to pull away. She didn’t want to dance, pretending to be happy while her heart constricted with new grief and her head spun with a tangle of anger, sorrow, regret and confusion. Over his shoulder, she saw the large open doors leading to the garden, tempting her with a way to escape. But with everyone watching, she couldn’t make a scene. Instead, she stopped on the dance floor when he did, startled when he placed one hand on her back.
“Shouldn’t we line up?” She didn’t want to be near him, not with everything so fractured and unclear.
“It’s a waltz.” He pulled her stiff body to his. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
The dance began and he guided her across the floor. Around them, other couples moved in coordinating circles and sweeps. She worked to keep up, to not trip and embarrass herself in front of all these curious strangers.
“What did you and my mother discuss?”
“Nothing of importance.” She felt him studying her but she couldn’t raise her eyes, afraid the flood of emotions she fought to hold back would break free.
“But something serious enough to trouble you.”
“What makes you think I’m troubled?”
“You haven’t smiled once since leaving my side. You’re not the same Cathleen I arrived with.”
“Nor are you the same Devon I married,” she snapped, her wits straining as taut as the violin strings governing the dance.
“What did she tell you? Whatever it was, I assure you it’s a lie.”
“No, it’s a terrible truth, one you should have told me yourself.”
The lines of his face hardened and she steeled herself, expecting him to storm away. Instead his hand tightened on her back and he looked over her, maintaining their steady sweep and flow around the dance floor.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.
“Would you have married me if I had?”
“No.”
“Then you have your answer.”
The music rose slightly then settled back into its rhythmic pace. “Did you think I’d never discover it?”
“I intended to tell you.”
“When?”
“When it no longer mattered.”
“No longer mattered,” she seethed at his straightforward answers. “My husband died for you, he sacrificed himself and my safety so you could live. When could it not matter?”
He crushed her against him, his gaze riveted to hers. “When we love each other enough to forget the past.”
The wind rushed from her lungs and she missed a step, gripping his arm to keep her balance. Was it possible? Did he truly want her love? No, it wasn’t possible.
“I know you’ve suffered since Thomas’s death. I’ve suffered too,” he added in a softer voice, his fingers easing on her hand.
“Yes, in your gilded tower, with no thought as to how you’ll eat or where you’ll live. Meanwhile my life was turned upside down, everything I loved torn from me.”
“I never asked him to make the sacrifice.”
“Yet that was the
kind of man he was.”
“And every day I live with the guilt of having watched him die, unable to change it, unable to do anything to thank him for his sacrifice, until I met you. Yes, I should have told you, but you were so set against the marriage. I was afraid you’d hate me before you had the chance to know me.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me after the wedding?”
“Because I didn’t want it to come between us.” The music ended and they stopped dancing, his arms still around her while the other couples stepped apart to applaud. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper but stronger than any gale wind. “I love you, Cathleen—too much to lose you to the past.”
Cathleen stared at him, the stinging in her chest pressing up toward her eyes. She blinked back tears. It was all too much, too soon and it couldn’t be true. Or could it? No, it was only part of his penance, his obligation to duty.
He slid his arm from around her waist and gripped her elbow, leading her off the dance floor. “Let’s step outside.”
“No, I want to go home.”
He nodded curtly, escorting her to where his mother stood with the statuesque Lady Treston and the others. “Cathleen is not feeling well. We’re leaving.”
The dowager looked back and forth between them with a scowl, clutching the panting dog to her chest. “I’m not ready to leave yet.”
“Then I’ll send the carriage back for you.”
“Very well,” she huffed, turning to the ladies in a flounce of black silk.
Devon escorted Cathleen through the crowd, his hand tight on her elbow. People moved like water around them, parting when they approached and then falling together in whispering groups behind them. Common sense told her to smile, to look merry and mask the stony silence between them, but she didn’t have the strength to appear cheerful or care about their opinions. Instead, she remained focused on the darkness outside the double doors, trying to ignore Devon’s heavy presence beside her.
They left the warmth of the house, their breaths clouding in the stinging air as they descended the stairs. She shivered, resisting when he pulled her closer, preferring to be cold rather than draw comfort from the heat of his body. The clouds had cleared and a half moon sat low over the long gravel drive, its faint light lost in the dark carriages waiting for their owners.
They walked a short way down the line of coaches and the driver jumped from the seat to pull open the door. Cathleen stepped inside, snatched up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders to dispel the chill. Devon climbed inside and to her relief took the opposite seat. He said nothing as the carriage snapped into motion, his gaze focused on his hand tracing the length of his left thigh. She watched his fingers wrinkle the light breeches. It felt as if the whole English Channel and not the space of a carriage stretched between them.
How can we go on? Drawing the blanket closer, she watched the stars hanging over the dark countryside. Only a few hours ago everything felt so settled—her new life, her future with Devon. Now it all sat crumbled at her feet like an old stone wall knocked over a by a storm.
We can’t stay together. France and their experiences would always haunt them. She needed a way to leave before her heart betrayed her or his supposed love waned. Perhaps her barrenness was grounds enough for an annulment, assuming this last week of pleasure hadn’t produced a child.
Cathleen looked down, running her hands over the rich fabric covering her flat stomach. Everything would change if there was a child, but tonight, this week, her whole life had already changed.
Fingering the wedding band beneath her glove, she knew she couldn’t run away from Devon any more than she could run from the truth of Thomas’s passing, or the warm feelings slowly pushing aside the pain of Lady Malton’s revelation.
She stole a look at Devon, and the weariness in his eyes made her heart constrict. He’d made the last few days some of the happiest of her life and sometime between the wedding and the ball, she’d fallen in love with him. Yes, she loved him, his strength and presence, his concern for his family and her. She needed him as much as he needed her, and they could have a life together if she gave him a chance and forgave him.
Leaning forward, she placed one hand on his knee and his eyes snapped to hers. “It’s not your fault Thomas died.”
His hand slid over hers, gripping it tightly. They leaned in to one another, their lips meeting across the distance of the carriage, joining them with a bond stronger than the past, or pain, or loss. Nothing mattered anymore except his touch, the love and tenderness in his lips, the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingers.
A shot split the night and the carriage jarred to a halt, sending Cathleen crashing to the floor, her shoulder hitting the edge of squabs. Devon pulled her up into the seat beside him, the sound of a scuffle in the driver’s seat vibrating through the wood. The carriage lurched to one side and something thudded against the ground.
“Stay here.” Devon pushed open the door, but a pistol in his face stopped him cold.
“Get out,” a male voice demanded. Something in the tone of it seemed familiar but Cathleen, her shoulder stinging, was too scared to be sure. Then the gunman turned his pistol on her. “You too.”
Devon stepped from the carriage and helped her out. Two men stood in front of them, pistols raised. The driver lay on the ground and Cathleen moved to help him.
“Don’t,” the taller gunman spat.
Cathleen ignored him, kneeling next to the driver. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his head but he was breathing. “He’s wounded and needs help.”
“You’ll need help if you don’t obey. Now stand against the carriage.”
The second man yanked her up and shoved her against the back wheel, separating her a few feet from Devon.
“Hand over all your jewelry and valuables,” the taller man ordered, his voice muffled by the handkerchief tied around his face. A tricorn hat sat low over his eyes, further concealing his identity.
Cathleen worked to unhook one pearl earring, studying the smaller thief who held out a cloth bag, the sharp smell of wine heavy on his clothes. He was slight, his hands hidden by large gloves and his face covered by a hat and kerchief similar to his companion’s. The bigger man shifted from foot to foot, glancing back and forth between Devon and his compatriot.
“Hurry up,” the larger man insisted, waving his gun.
Cathleen dropped the now freed earring into the sack and, tilting her head to unfasten the other, watched Devon. He stood near the front wheel, slowly removing his watch and chain from his waistcoat. He held it out to the larger man, who reached for it with a shaky hand. Before he could take it, Devon dropped it in the dirt. Instinctively, the thief bent for it and Devon slammed his fist down on the man’s back, sending him sprawling into the mud, his gun sailing under the carriage.
“No,” his companion cried in a high voice, revealing himself to be a woman. She turned her pistol on Devon and Cathleen grabbed her arm, shoving it to the side. The woman swung around, trying to shake free of Cathleen, but she held on tight, scratching and clutching at the woman before one finger caught the mask and pulled it down.
“Martha!” Cathleen stumbled and Martha wrenched free, shoving Cathleen back before leveling the gun at her chest.
“Release him, Malton, or I shoot her.”
* * *
Devon looked up to see the pistol pointed at Cathleen’s heart. He held fast to Lucien’s arm, pinning it behind him, and the baronet squirmed underneath him, whimpering in pain. Devon eyed the gun under the carriage. He could lunge for it but could he reach it before Martha fired? He studied the woman’s face in the circle of light from the carriage lantern, trying to gauge if she had it in her to shoot. She watched him through narrow eyes with a hate he could almost feel, one finger caressing the gun’s trigger, challenging him to give her the slightest
reason to pull it. Unwilling to risk Cathleen’s life, Devon shoved Lucien forward into the dirt and then stood.
“What do you want?”
“Only what we’re due,” Martha said while Lucien retrieved his pistol then rose, glowering at Devon like a spoiled child. “Consider it our reward for introducing the two of you.”
“A dangerous way to gain a few pounds.”
“Not a few pounds, your lordship. Cathleen’s widow’s portion.”
Cathleen gasped and Devon clenched his fist, feeling the danger tightening around them like a noose.
“Martha?” Lucien’s voice wavered. “What are you doing?”
“Be quiet,” she snapped.
“But this isn’t what we planned,” Lucien insisted.
“Yes it is. It’s everything we planned—all of us, even Cathleen.”
“No,” Cathleen gasped. “Never.”
“You’re lying,” Devon growled.
“Am I?” Martha smirked. “How do you think we knew where to find you tonight?”
Devon held Martha’s mocking eyes, doubt snaking through him. Cathleen’s interest in the Silver Swan tavern, the second ride she’d taken yesterday, the strange letters she’d posted in London and the one she’d burned. Anger shoved through his anxiety and he balled his fists, wanting to drive them into Lucien, the carriage, slam them into the wood until his knuckles turned bloody and the shame and hate roaring through him ceased.
He glared at Cathleen, her lips drawn thin across her mouth, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her. She met his accusing stare without flinching, shaking her head slightly, the orange carriage light flickering with the fear in her wide eyes.
“I don’t know how they found us,” she said. “But I didn’t help them. I promise. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
Through his anger, he could feel her voice, smooth as a ribbon, leading him away from his doubts like it had led him out of his nightmares. He unclenched his hand, his thumb seeking out the gold ring encircling his left finger.
No, she wasn’t with them, not this woman who’d been honest with him about their first night together when it could have cost her everything, who’d helped his sister and whose gentle touch made him feel worthy and alive again. The woman he loved and who loved him.