by Karen Ranney
He removed his stock and moved to the bureau. One of the prerequisites of being Duke of Lymond was the fact that he didn’t have to wait to be served. The water was hot in the pitcher, the towels had recently been replaced, a piece of fruit and a plate filled with cheeses had been placed atop the bureau to tide him over until dinner. Living at Balidonough was a far cry from the days when he and Peter huddled, nearly freezing, in a makeshift tent with only salted meat as their one meal for the day.
Moncrief washed his face and hands and began to dress for dinner. He removed his jacket, then his shirt, wondering if Catherine was watching. Was she as curious about him as she had been about the book she’d found? Soon he was bare to the waist, and he turned to face her, daring her in his thoughts not to watch him, not to be aware of him as a man.
She was sitting up against the headboard, fingers pressed against her lips, her eyes wide.
He removed his trousers in front of her, and divested himself of his undergarments. If anything, her eyes grew wider. He turned and poured the rest of the hot water into the basin, leisurely bathing himself, all the while intent upon her in the mirror.
She didn’t look away.
He turned to face her again, this time drying himself. He took care not to hide any part of his body from her gaze. When his erection began to grow in an expected response to her fascination, he didn’t hide that either.
“How would you rank me if I were an illustration?” he asked, keeping his voice steady and disinterested. He dried himself slowly, wondering if she knew that her attention was fixed on the actions of his right hand. He was fully engorged now, aching with desire. But he’d had practice in unrequited lust, since he’d been sleeping nude next to a woman who expressed little interest in that fact for the last two weeks.
Catherine looked dazed.
He walked to the side of the bed and gripped her hand, pulling it to him. Her fingers were hot and damp against his flesh.
“I’m human, Catherine. Not a monster, not a myth. Only a man.”
Her hand flattened against his erection.
Where was it written that men were the seducers? He felt less like the instigator of this sweet scene than a lamb led bleating and dumbly happy to the slaughter. Catherine stared at him, her eyes wide as he hardened even further at her touch.
Restraint was a natural circumstance for him. So much so that while his mind urged completion of this long-held fantasy, his body remained immobile. He had never wanted to love her so much or counseled himself against it so fervently.
Slowly, he stepped back and moved away to stand before the armoire.
“Shall I fetch Mary to assist you in dressing?”
She still didn’t answer.
“Or shall I do the honors?”
She shook her head from side to side slowly.
He pulled on his dressing gown and jerked on the bell rope. When the footman appeared a moment later, he summoned her maid. Before she could protest, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her vanity.
“I don’t want you hurting yourself,” he said, breathing the words against her ear. She shivered, keeping her attention on her hands resting on the vanity’s edge. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
Finally, she spoke, “I’d prefer a little privacy, Moncrief. That’s all.”
He straightened and moved to his dresser. He brushed his hair with a pair of silver-backed brushes, then selected the clothing he would wear to dinner. He’d not used a valet since Catherine had begun to share his room, and prior to that he’d had to do for himself. But he no longer polished his own boots, although he inspected them well when they were returned by a footman.
A tap on the door signaled the arrival of the maid. Mary curtsied, too low as usual, and he realized that she wouldn’t feel comfortable until he was out of the room.
He inclined his head to Catherine, but she wasn’t paying any attention, evidently immersed in the study of her own fingers. He bid her farewell and closed the door.
Instantly, the atmosphere in her room altered, became less turbulent and at the same time, paradoxically, less comforting.
Catherine turned and studied the closed door. Only then did she release the breath she’d been holding.
“Your Grace?”
She looked up to face Mary’s concerned look. “I’m fine, Mary. Truly.”
Was it a sin to lie for a good reason? She was certain it was, just as she was certain that such a lie didn’t rank high on the lexicon of her other, more onerous, sins.
As she readied herself for the dinner and the reunion with her former in-laws, Moncrief still remained in her mind. Why had he undressed in front of her? He must know how favorably he compared to the lithographs in that daring book she’d found. He was not as muscled as the Roman soldier, but his buttocks had been more shapely, his erection larger than that of the red-haired man.
Why had he made her touch him?
She stared down at her fingers, still feeling the heat and the hardness of his erection. Her fingers had wanted to curve around it, measure its girth, stroke it from its nest of hair. Pet it.
“Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” Mary asked. Her eyes met those of the young maid in the mirror. “You look flushed. You’re not coming down with a fever, are you?”
Catherine shook her head. Not unless the fever was Moncrief, and that was entirely possible.
What sort of man had she married? Although she had never seen him on horseback, she would wager that he was a master horseman. Did he gamble like Harry? She could not envision him spending his money unwisely. And as a commander of men had he been fair and just, and stern when it was necessary?
And as a lover?
Her thoughts stopped abruptly as she censored herself.
He had asked her how she ranked him among the illustrations she’d seen. What would he have thought if she’d told him the truth? Moncrief was more beautiful than any of the illustrations she’d seen. Instead, he reminded her of the statues she’d seen in the garden. Entirely shocking, but beautiful renditions of male beauty. At least the statues had had a fig leaf or two to hide their most intimate assets. It would have taken a veritable branch of fig leaves to cover Moncrief.
She had heard of lascivious women, females who could not control their basic impulses. Every village had a woman whose reputation was soiled, whose less-than-sterling past could dictate the tenor of her future. But Catherine had never, until this moment, thought she might be like one of them.
She stared at herself in the mirror and realized why Mary had thought her becoming ill. Her eyes were gleaming too brightly, and her lips looked swollen. The flush extended over her entire face, not just her cheeks. There were other changes as well that blessedly did not show on the surface, such as the tightening of her breasts and the floating feeling in her stomach.
Did lust feel this way?
Mary had dressed her hair in a flattering style, something with ringlets gathered at the back instead of at the sides. She looked young and vibrant and alive, and instead of a widow, she looked the picture of a bride. Someone eager for night so her wifely duties could begin.
Dear heavens, was she so pagan as to lust after a man because of how he looked naked? Evidently so, because she could not rid herself of the image of Moncrief standing there indolently drying himself. Nor could she forget the touch of him as if her fingers bore the shape of him still.
Abruptly, she stood, turning and thanking Mary for her assistance.
“It’s time I greeted our guests.”
“But a few more pins, Your Grace—”
“Are not necessary.”
Catherine took one foolish step on her injured ankle. A gasp of pain had her abruptly sitting once more.
“I’ll call His Grace,” the maid said, bowing herself out of the room.
Catherine held up one hand as if to forestall her before realizing there was no other way down the stairs, unless the footmen created a chair of linked arms for her. Ho
wever, anything might be preferable to Moncrief holding her in his arms.
But that was, nonetheless, how she descended the steps to greet her former in-laws.
Chapter 15
“You will grow tired of carrying me about, Moncrief,” she said, as they descended the stairs.
“Only after the first year or so,” he said, easily navigating the landing and down the steps.
She glanced at him, then away. It wasn’t a good idea to stare too closely into Moncrief’s eyes. A woman might get lost in the deep blueness of them.
“I give you leave to carry me the next time I’m injured,” he said with a small smile.
“I should need two footmen for certain.”
“Perhaps they could carry me about in a barrow, with my legs and arms hanging over the side. When someone asks me what I am doing, I shall simply say that I am losing my consequence, in order to even the circumstances.”
She had never joked with Moncrief before, and it was a heady experience. How long had it been since she had laughed? Much too long.
He hesitated at the door of the parlor, and they shared a look before she turned the handle and Moncrief strode inside.
Juliana was the closest to the door. At their entrance, she looked as if she wished to say something scathing. Ever since the dinner party, however, she’d been restrained in her comments to Catherine. She was not unlike a small child who, having tested his boundaries, is content enough for the moment to remain within them.
“My dear girl, what has happened to you?” Mrs. Dunnan stood in the middle of the parlor, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. “What tragedy has befallen you, my dearest girl?”
“Nothing but a foolish accident,” Catherine said, as Moncrief set her down on the settee. She smiled at him, but the expression that began as a politeness lengthened as her gaze was caught by his.
She heard someone speak, and turned away with difficulty only to be hugged by Mrs. Dunnan, so tightly that Catherine felt as if she were being strangled.
“It has been so very long.”
At least five months since they had come to Colstin Hall. At least that long since they’d inquired as to her health or sent word about their own.
She gently pulled away and greeted Mr. Dunnan, who had always been her favorite of Harry’s parents.
Moncrief moved away, but she noticed he didn’t go far, only to the fireplace located a few feet to her right. His attention was split between the Dunnans and the vicar, his look one that was so easily interpreted that she wanted to caution him that he might wish to be more controlled in his aversion.
When he glanced toward her, she felt the warmth deepen on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Mrs. Dunnan, “but what was it you asked me?”
“Your new sister-in-law was commenting upon the footmen,” Mrs. Dunnan said almost apologetically.
Catherine waved her hand in the air as if to give Juliana leave to continue with her ceaseless carping. She was the most frugal woman Catherine had ever known. What she didn’t realize was that an estate the size of Balidonough needed to be maintained on a daily basis to prevent even more costly expenditures later. Even Catherine knew that from her stewardship of Colstin Hall, miniscule in comparison to the castle.
“I was saying,” Juliana said, affronted, “that we have too many footmen and maids. I saw one of those girls giggling with one of the footmen the other day. If they were truly busy, they would have no time for such foolish pursuits.”
“Perhaps we could discuss it in the morning,” Moncrief said, effectively quelling a subject which was not appropriate before guests. Juliana subsided against her chair, frowning.
Catherine looked at her former mother-in-law. “How was your journey?” The village where she and her husband lived was a short distance away, less than an hour of coach travel at the most.
“Quite pleasant,” Mrs. Dunnan responded. “The day was so favorable that we made time to go and place flowers on dear Harry’s grave.”
Moncrief moved restlessly. Catherine glanced at him, then away.
“As I was saying to Hortensia the other day,” Juliana interjected, “there is absolutely no sense in having more than three gardeners. After all, we are entering the winter season, and the gardens are dormant. I cannot see employing servants simply for them to sit around and eat our food, putting their feet up, and enjoying the day.”
“His grave was so lovely,” Mrs. Dunnan said. “It seems so hard to believe that he’s been gone all these many months. Less than a year.” She then looked pointedly at Catherine’s lavender dress.
Catherine wanted to halt the other woman’s reminiscences, since it didn’t seem quite proper to wax poetic about Harry in front of Moncrief. However, once Mrs. Dunnan began speaking of her son, nothing seemed to deflect her course.
“I remember how utterly splendid he looked in his regimentals.” She sighed and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. “So handsome a young man. Cut down in his prime.”
“Did he have consumption?” Hortensia asked, leaning closer. “I myself have a certain weakness of the lungs. My cough grows deeper in the winter even though I take several herbs and potions. I have half a mind to visit the goodwife in the village to see if she can prepare a poultice for my chest.”
Mrs. Dunnan looked nonplussed for a moment. She wadded her handkerchief in one fist and turned to Hortensia. “He was a soldier, a brave hero.”
Catherine studied the floor.
“My son deserved to be mourned for longer than a few months.”
She glanced up to find Mrs. Dunnan staring at her.
“More money,” Juliana said. “More good money after bad, I say.”
Catherine smiled at Hortensia. “Would you mind summoning one of the servants to build up the fire? I find that I’m a little chilled.”
“You’ll have us all destitute within the year,” Juliana grumbled. “A little discomfort will strengthen your character.”
“I fail to see how chilblains will make me stronger.”
“You never used to be such a spendthrift when you were married to Harry.”
Moncrief only raised his eyebrow at her, a supremely irritating gesture that had Catherine frowning at him.
“What shall I do, Juliana?” Hortensia asked in that tiny little bird voice of hers.
Catherine refrained from rolling her eyes only by the greatest of wills. What she truly wanted to do was banish them all from the room, but she only smiled, and said, “Ring for a servant, Hortensia.” She turned and looked directly at Juliana, almost daring her to countermand her request.
The older woman only sniffed and muttered something about profligacy.
Catherine pressed two fingers to her temples and wondered if the headache that was brewing was going to be as fierce as she feared. She knew better than to mention it for fear Hortensia would recommend all sorts of dubious remedies. Mrs. Dunnan looked as if she were crying again because no one wished to talk about Harry. Juliana, on the other hand, still appeared angry. All the while, Moncrief was wearing that half smile, an impenetrable expression that she couldn’t decipher.
If she were truly addicted to laudanum, tonight she would partake of it.
Moncrief was in a surly mood, and he knew it, which kept him silent.
As he had feared, Harry’s parents lost no time in singing his praises. Catherine was unresponsive to most of the comments, and unless a question was directed at her, nearly silent.
Every time he saw glimpses of the woman he had come to know through her letters, she retreated back into a shell as if terrified to reveal more of herself. He was beginning to believe that there were two Catherines. One he loved because of her honesty, her wit, and her forthright way of viewing the world, but the other one, a pale shadow who spoke, moved, and responded as if she were only half-alive confused him.
Wallace appeared with a small silver tray of Balidonough whiskey and served it to his male guests. Moncrief was amu
sed to note that the vicar had evidently not eschewed those mortal pleasures in favor of God’s love. He picked up the crystal tumbler appreciatively, holding it up to the light before sipping it with relish. Mr. Dunnan was more circumspect, but evidently enjoyed the whiskey as well.
“Very good, Wallace,” he said, applauding his new majordomo’s initiative as the young man bowed in front of him.
Wallace tried very hard to stifle his smile, but it would have been like hiding the sun behind a wisp of cloud.
After Wallace left the room, Mr. Dunnan turned to Moncrief. “Have you known our Catherine long?”
Moncrief debated for a moment before answering. The tone of this inquisition would be set by his first answer. “Not long,” he said easily. “And you? Did you know her a long time before she and Harry married?”
He glanced over at Catherine, who was studying the floor with great concentration.
“Only a few months, I confess. It was a love match. Her father was a very prosperous landowner and Catherine his only child. Consequently,” he said, sending a fond smile in Catherine’s direction, “she had her choice of bridegrooms.”
“He would have refused her no one, I think,” the vicar replied. “Although I didn’t know the man myself.” He sent a sorrowful look toward his glass. “The poor man died before I came to Colstin Hall.”
“But you are correct, vicar,” Mr. Dunnan said. “The man could deny her nothing. When she decided she wanted Harry, the marriage was made, and they lived as happily as any two people ever have.”
“Were you surprised when he joined the regiment?” Moncrief asked, deliberately not looking at Catherine. Nor did he remind them that this glorious union had lasted an entire month before Harry departed Scotland with all possible haste.
Dunnan looked surprised by the question.
“Catherine’s father was a dear and giving man.” He took another large sip of his whiskey and made an appreciative sound deep in his throat. “Harry did not have the temperament to be a farmer, so the man generously made him a gift of a commission.”