She thought of Captain Avebury, amiably chasing sheep. Saw an image of him on the deck of his ship, drenched and shouting orders. He, too, was a man. Would he be any better?
Sir Lyle was whispering against her lips. “I can promise you happiness,” he murmured. “I will honour you for a lifetime.”
She could marry Sir Lyle – and take the risk that he would try to own her.
Would Avebury marry her? Assuming that he would was, in itself, a risk. What if he had no interest in marrying a crippled countess?
But she was not afraid of Avebury. She was sure that she knew him, sure he was gentle and decent and would not try to own her.
Catherine drew back. She pulled her hands free and smoothed her hair with shaking hands. “I have said I will consider your offer,” she said, trying to sound calm.
Sir Lyle rose, then leant forward and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “It is all I ask,” he said, his voice bland and pleasant. “May I call again?”
“Certainly,” Catherine replied.
Sir Lyle bowed. “Good afternoon, Lady Catherine.”
“Good afternoon.”
She listened to the tapping sound of his heels on the marble hallway. They faded, followed by the sound of a door shutting.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Her hands were shaky.
It seemed dangerous to play with Sir Lyle. But if his affections were not engaged – if he was interested only in her title …
Captain Avebury had never made the smallest advance toward her. Could she persuade him to marry a crippled countess and give her an heir?
Chapter 14
Sir Lyle visited almost daily. Catherine would return from her walk with Captain Avebury to find him reading through her poetry books and waiting for her. He never asked about her rides; she did not offer any information.
Catherine thought the two men so different to each other she was sure they would not get along. Sir Lyle was confident, yet cynical. Captain Avebury was sweet and without pretension. But the shadows lurking in the captain’s eyes made her suspect that Sir Lyle’s brand of cynicism would not appeal to him. She looked forward to her outings with Captain Avebury; they made her feel like a girl returning to a childhood she had never had. She trusted him implicitly. He taught her about a world she had never thought she would see. He made her laugh and had absolutely no interest in either her family or her twisted leg. Sir Lyle, however …
“We must stop,” Catherine said, gasping, struggling to sit upright. Despite the early summer sun, the stone bench in the shade of the shrubbery was cold. In the distance, sheep bleated, the shears of pruning gardeners clip-clipped.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Catherine.” Sir Lyle sprang up from the seat. He walked a few feet away, adjusting his cravat as he went, and feigned great interest in the puffy white cloud of sheep, down in the faraway fields.
Catherine rearranged her lace fichu. “I am sorry,” she said into the awkward silence.
“You should not be,” Sir Lyle replied. He stretched, then glanced at her over his shoulder. He grinned. “This is what comes of my eagerness to please.”
Catherine said nothing. She twisted her hands in her lap.
Sir Lyle turned back to his view. “I know that your father’s condition makes it impossible for you to consider my offer properly at the current time. But I wish … I wish—”
“Say no more,” Catherine begged. She put a hand on her chest, grasping the fichu tightly, as if to prevent further incursions.
“If you only knew the depth of my affections, Lady Catherine.” Sir Lyle returned to the bench, knelt in the grass before her. He took the hand that lay limply in her lap and kissed it fervently.
Catherine tried to laugh. “You would not like me so much if you really knew me, Sir Lyle. I can be stubborn, wilful, hot-tempered—”
“All of those are fine qualities for a lady of quality, Lady Catherine,” Sir Lyle murmured against her palm. She felt her heart begin to race. Her hold on the fichu went limp.
“Oh, Sir Lyle. It is very complicated. I like you very well. But—”
“Is it because of your father, Catherine? Is it because he is ill?” Sir Lyle put her hand down gently in her lap and reached for the other. He disengaged it gently from the fichu. “You are a lady who knows her own mind. Surely you feel comfortable making such a decision on your own?”
She was tempted to lie. It would be a convenient thing, a lie. She could say that she feared the judgement of society, that she feared the ugly rumours that might start if she were known to have made such a decision for herself.
It was absurd, of course. Sir Lyle was no fool.
“Is this all that I am good for, Catherine?” Sir Lyle leant forward. Catherine closed her eyes. “You would have me make love to you, but you would not marry me? How have I failed you?”
“You have not failed me,” Catherine whispered. I am in love with a ship’s captain, but I do not know if he loves me. I am in love with a ship’s captain, but I do not know if he possesses enough consequence to be the father of an earl. I have had a scandalous portrait painted, and you will kill me, and the artist, if it ever comes to light. God forbid that ever comes to pass!
“Then you are afraid of me.” Sir Lyle traced a finger over her lips. Catherine opened her eyes. He was watching her intently.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am afraid indeed.”
“Afraid of what?”
She thought of the portrait. But what she said was, “That you will own me.”
Sir Lyle looked incredulous for a moment. Then he laughed and raised himself to sit beside her on the bench. “Own you, Lady Catherine?”
Catherine looked away. She disliked his mocking tone.
“You are perhaps the most independent female I have ever met. I can scarcely imagine how I would contrive to ‘own’ you, Lady Catherine.”
She said nothing. A little breeze that ruffled wisps of escaped hair along her temples brought with it the smell of hot grass. It was different, that smell of clean fresh hay. Different to the fecund smell of wet earth that had persisted throughout spring. Ah, summer ….
I don’t wish to be owned. The words had ambled idly through her brain but hardened some corner of her heart nonetheless.
She would take her chances with love. Her position was good enough to withstand the gossip that would come should Avebury have no status. Perhaps his people were farmers or tradesmen. No matter. Sir Lyle probably had more consequence, and would certainly be a less questionable choice as father for her child, but she wanted Avebury. She wanted him to father her son. For a while she had thought Sir Lyle’s suit would win out, but now she knew this could never be.
She turned to the unsuspecting peer, who sat with her hand still limp in his lap. “Sir Lyle,” she said, her voice suddenly grown hoarse. “I am sorry. I don’t wish to marry you.”
He was silent for a long time. Then he raised his head. “Is there no hope?”
“I am sorry.”
Again the silence. The clip-clip noises had ceased; possibly the gardeners were having their tea.
“You will think me dreadfully impertinent,” Catherine ventured. “But I wish to keep you as … as a friend. We have known each other for such a long time.”
“A friend, Lady Catherine?” Sir Lyle grinned. “What sort of friend would I make?”
Catherine attempted to pull her hand from his grasp, but he suddenly tightened his grip. She tried to sound firm but the result was an awkward stammer. “A-a g-good friend.”
“A good friend?” He shook his head. “You are too beautiful, too desirable, Lady Catherine. It will be hard to be friends.”
“Sir Lyle,” Catherine breathed. “Please, stop.” He was lifting her hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her palm and wrist, something he knew she liked. His eyes met hers.
“Have no men told you how beautiful you are, my dear Catherine?” He put her hand down. “Perhaps this will help.” He leant close, tilted her chin in his
hand. But when he bent to kiss her, she sensed the danger, the vast darkness just beyond the kiss. He parted her lips, tasted her mouth, demanded her compliance. When she tried to back away, he caught her against him, one hand against her back, the other running a finger along the edge of her bodice. She felt the fichu slip away behind her neck, his fingers reaching past the skin, burning a trail on the tender skin of her breast.
This is not a game, she thought wildly. First that damned portrait, and now Sir Lyle! A man’s feelings are not to be trifled with. Oh, Catherine, you are a fool!
She wrenched herself away, gasping.
Sir Lyle sat back, breathing equally hard. They stared at each other. Then he smiled grimly. He rose. “Good friends, Lady Catherine?”
Catherine fumbled about the seat for the fichu, but it had gone. She pressed a palm to her chest, still panting, and tried to look dignified. “Good friends, Sir Lyle,” she said.
He gave a courtly bow and strode away.
Chapter 15
I am a fool, Jocelyn thought as he stared over to Wansdyke, the great house resting peacefully in its grounds. He urged his mount on, but the blasted horse could tell that a seaman was astride and refused to listen. Jocelyn was tempted to hit it, but decided that it was probably not the thing to do. The horse was bigger and stronger, and would win an altercation. A belt around the ear would sometimes work on a drunken cook. But not on a brute like this.
He circled the horse around until it had danced and neighed to its heart’s content. Then he tried to use his knees to tell it who was in charge. Grumpily, the animal loped off toward the great house.
When they were yet some distance away, the horse found something interesting to look at. It stopped, refused to budge. Jocelyn sighed and slid down to his feet. He had no interest in arguing with a horse. He was not much given to arguing in general, and particularly not with horses.
I must be in love, he thought wearily. The things I do to please Lady Catherine!
But, of course, he knew his thoughts were not serious. He was in perfect control of his faculties. Falling in love with Lady Catherine was simply not an option.
A groom was leading a fine-looking chestnut from behind the house. He paused to call over to Jocelyn. Jocelyn waved a casual response, tried to look as if he knew what he was doing.
“Vicious brute,” he muttered. He kicked the ground under the horse’s head. Amazingly, the animal began to walk calmly along. After a shocked moment, Jocelyn grabbed the reins, and guided him gently in the direction of the house.
“Need help, sir?” The groom nodded at him.
“Thank you,” Jocelyn began. His voice died away as the front door opened to reveal a figure he recognised.
Barrington made his way down the steps and glanced in the direction of the groom, his eyes fastening on first the chestnut, and then on Jocelyn.
Jocelyn stiffened. Barrington nodded toward the groom. “I’ll take him,” he said in a low tone. The groom obliged, then took Jocelyn’s grey. The horse followed docilely.
“You are here to see Lady Catherine?” Barrington made no move to mount the fine chestnut beast, who was nuzzling him with obvious affection.
Jocelyn gazed with envy as Barrington murmured something to the horse and patted its nose. Was this a talent he would never acquire?
“You seem to like my horse,” Barrington said, when Jocelyn did not reply.
“Horses do not like me, I’m afraid,” Jocelyn replied dryly. He made an awkward move to pat the animal, then dropped his arm. He backed away slightly, relieved to open space between them.
“Ah! Suddenly I am enlightened. You are Lady Catherine’s mystery man.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jocelyn was startled. Barrington’s face was inscrutable, enigmatic but there was a tightening, an electric heightening of the atmosphere. The sensation of a storm about to happen, a fight about to explode between men who despised each other. A dark alleyway, a quick knife. A howling mob. That quick switch from laughter to rage.
“Lady Catherine returns from her daily rides covered in mud and grass.” Barrington cocked an amused eye at Jocelyn. “I do not think much riding takes place, however.”
“What do you mean?” Jocelyn said. He did not raise his voice, but he knew that Barrington wanted to goad him. Curiously, he felt a small twinge of something in the pit of his stomach. Was this something of the violence that men felt when taunted by other men? It was an alien feeling.
“Accept my apologies. I did not mean to be … crass.” Barrington stroked his horse, the motions smooth and languid. Jocelyn was not fooled. He could see the control each long movement was taking. Something had happened to shake Barrington’s composure. Presumably something to do with Lady Catherine.
“If you are planning to see Lady Catherine, you will have to wait. Her friend, Miss Barrow, seemed eager to have a word with her.”
Jocelyn shrugged. He turned away. The front door seemed to be miles away from where they stood, on the path to the stables. Grimacing, he started to walk. This is the last time I try to make the trip to Wansdyke on a damned stupid horse, he thought sourly.
“Have you heard anything yet? From the Admiralty?”
Jocelyn’s pace slowed. He did not bother to turn around, but shook his head slightly. “Did you send that note to me?” He tossed the words carelessly over his shoulder.
“I was afraid you would leave town. It would be far better if you did not.”
Jocelyn tramped along the carriage drive in silence. Then he heard a cackle, a throaty gurgle. He turned, pausing his steps.
Barrington stood, shaking his head, shoulders quivering with mirthful laughter.
“Are you feeling quite well?” Jocelyn asked tentatively. If Barrington were crazy—
“Marry her!” Barrington shouted. He doubled over, the force of his laughter making him lose his breath. He coughed and spat, then coughed again.
Jocelyn wondered if he ought to assist. But Barrington sensed his concern, held up a hand as he coughed and wheezed. “Marry her, dear boy,” he choked out. “What a clever fellow you are! She will take care of you better than a foolish idiot like I could.”
“I do not know of what you speak,” Jocelyn said, his indignation rising. “Lady Catherine—”
“You, Captain Avebury, would be a fool, and an absolute fool at that, if you did not take advantage of this opportunity to save yourself.” Barrington stopped hacking and wheezing. Delicately, he produced a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He eyed Jocelyn with mild surprise. “Do you mean that you do not understand me?”
Jocelyn, to his annoyance, felt his colour rise. He looked away, feigning impatience, then down at his shoes.
“Ah. You do understand me after all,” Barrington said shrewdly. He walked the horse a little closer to where Jocelyn stood. “Listen to me, Captain Avebury. Listen well. Marry Lady Catherine, and you could very well be out of trouble and at sea within the month.”
Jocelyn’s eyes darted to Barrington. “No,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Barrington nodded. “You seem to have only the dimmest understanding of what an earldom is. Her father sat in the House of Lords. He has hundreds of highly placed friends. And Lady Catherine …” Here he paused. His eyes narrowed. Then, with a quick move, he swung onto his mount. His steed seemed energised by the load, neighing and tossing its head. Barrington controlled him swiftly with one hand.
Jocelyn glared resentfully. There was a grace, a beauty to his movements that he could never hope to attain.
“Lady Catherine will marry you, sailor.” Barrington raised a hand in salute. “She has her own … needs. Her own life to live. Allow her that, and she will marry you.” He whirled the horse around and took off at a trot.
But before Jocelyn could take his eyes from the erect figure on horseback, Barrington brought his horse up sharply and turned.
“Don’t fall in love with her, Captain Avebury!” he shouted. “You will be sorry!” He turned back and left at a cante
r.
Chapter 16
“What have you discovered?” In the drawing room, Catherine pressed Lydia for news.
“A distant cousin helped him into the navy. He was at sea by the time he was twelve. Midshipman, lieutenant fairly quickly. Very bright, good at his books. And well-liked. Not a bad word about him.”
Catherine sat back in her seat. She didn’t know what she had been so afraid of hearing about Captain Avebury. His history sounded like a perfectly ordinary success story. A hard-working young man of no particular background makes his way in the world. Yes. She’d heard of such things happening, especially in the navy.
“Family?”
Lydia frowned slightly. “That’s somewhat unclear. It seems that he came south from Yorkshire and moved several times to addresses in and about London. His parents appear to be dead. He spent several years with a family by the name of Bowles. Henry Bowles is an attorney at law; he is widely respected and now very old.”
“Perhaps he meant to be a clerk to Mr Bowles?”
“Possibly so.”
“Is he a relation?”
Lydia shook her head. “Perhaps. If so, it must be quite a distant connection, because no one knows. And it has been years since anyone has seen the captain.”
“Aren’t there any Avebury relations about?”
“Not one. Not one that I could locate, at any rate.”
“I see.” Catherine shifted slightly in her seat, trying to avoid a spot lit by the sun that penetrated the curtains. She felt naked without the lace fichu that was still lying under the stone bench out in the shrubbery. This was a London-made dress, too revealing for Bath.
“There is something not quite right,” Lydia murmured, almost to herself. Catherine looked back at her.
“Indeed? In what manner?”
The Portrait Page 9
