A sense of yearning and loss, so great that it threatened to drown her in sorrow, overcame Katherine as she surreptitiously watched her old friend. Thoughts of what might have been had she not been forced to wed Charles pressed against her, causing her chest to squeeze tightly.
Despite her sadness, Katherine was ever practical and after a moment she slipped back to her hiding place unseen.
How would she have explained herself to the duke if he had caught her spying on him so? A sense of shame filled Katherine, which she tried to quash.
Silly girl, the snide voice of her late husband echoed in her mind, who could love a woman as pathetic as you?
It was a question that Charles had asked her frequently—usually in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely, for he had loved to shock her with his cruelty. Katherine had tried valiantly to ignore her late husband's barbs, but they had often met their mark. Over the years, his words seemed to have seeped through her skin, and now they lay under its surface, always ready to rear their ugly head and leave her breathless with sadness and despair.
The voices of the two men in the next aisle brought Katherine back from her state of overwhelming melancholy, and she focused on their words as a means to distract herself from her inner torment.
"This should do the job nicely," Michael said, his voice accompanied by the satisfying sound of a book being snapped shut.
"Wonderful, your Grace," the sycophantic voice of the clerk replied, "Allow me to wrap it up for you at once."
She listened to the sound of two men's footsteps retreating before she allowed herself to exhale a sigh of relief. He was gone—though she would remain in her hiding place a few minutes longer, to ensure that he had actually left the premises before she ventured out herself.
It was as she was absently trailing a finger over the spines of books on Babylon, Phoenicia and the Carthaginian Empire, that she heard the sound of more footsteps in the Botany Aisle.
"I swear it was him," a high feminine voice reached Katherine's ears, though its owner was attempting to whisper.
"Oh, if only we knew what it was he had been looking for," another female voice replied, "How wonderful it would be if we were to meet him at Almack's and be well-versed on his favourite subject."
Gracious. It took Katherine a moment to realise that the two ladies were speaking, in such reverential tones, of Michael.
He is a duke, she reminded herself, he's bound to be the object of most matrimonial-minded ladies' attention.
This thought left her feeling rather out of sorts but then the two ladies began to speak again, offering her a distraction.
"I doubt he'll set foot in Almack's," the first young lady said with a knowing tone, "I heard my brother and his friends discussing him, just yesterday. Apparently, whilst in White's, he publicly declared an interest in Lady Atwood."
"Lady Atwood?" the second lady cried incredulously, "But she's positively ancient. She must be nearly thirty?"
"And barren to boot."
Katherine closed her eyes again, as she listened to the young women discussing her in such disparaging terms, though she did give a wry smile at being called ancient whilst she was hiding in the Ancient History Aisle.
"He can't mean to marry her," the second girl, who sounded the younger of the two, said, venom souring her tone, "A duke needs an heir and everyone knows that Lady Atwood cannot provide him with that."
"Which is exactly what I heard my brother say," the first girl spoke again, "He thinks that he means to make her his mistress. There's no other explanation for it."
The two girls drifted away from the botany section, leaving Katherine in a state of confusion. Had Michael truly declared a public interest in her?
If he had, the girls were right, he would not be making her his duchess. Even had she not already proved herself incapable of the basic act of procreation, he would still think of her as the girl who had betrayed him for another. He could not possibly wish to marry her.
That means, Katherine realised with a start, that Michael wished to make her his mistress.
It was humiliating to think that the boy she had once loved would think so lowly of her, and worse again to know that he had told the beau monde of his dissolute intentions.
Anger simmered within Katherine and she rather wished that the pompous Duke of Elsmore was still in the next aisle, for she would gladly throw any number of books at his swollen head.
With indignation coursing through her veins, Katherine strode from the shop to where her carriage waited. The vehicle had been a gift from the new Viscount de Vere, who—with prime concern toward his reputation—had decided that it would not do for his brother's widow to be seen about town without adequate means of transport.
"Please take me home, Highland," Katherine begged of the driver.
"Did you not find the book you were looking for, my lady?" the elderly gentleman asked kindly.
"No," Katherine shook her head, "I decided that I no longer wanted it."
She'd had her fill of men today, even the make-believe ones who only lived upon pages.
It was a relief to return to safety of Tilney Road. The house, the one which Katherine had once thought she would detest, was now her sanctuary.
The brown-brick, three storey home was a modest abode, by the ton's standards, but it was elegant, warm, and hers alone.
Katherine's knock upon the door was answered by Mary, as Highland was otherwise occupied with the carriage and horses. The housekeeper ushered Katherine inside to the small but elegant entrance hall, wearing a worried look upon her face.
"Is anything amiss?" Katherine queried, as she removed her gloves and began to unbutton her Spencer jacket.
"You had a caller," Mary replied, taking the jacket from her once she had removed it.
Mary nodded toward the mahogany half-moon table, where a silver tray was placed for holding the cards of those who called. Katherine had thought the tray a rather optimistic purchase, given that she had few friends in town, but today it had finally had some use.
"Toby," she said with a frown, as she picked up the embossed card which bore her step-brother's name.
"He wanted to wait but I dissuaded him," Mary replied, "He said he'd call back tomorrow."
"Perhaps he shall find me not at home tomorrow," Katherine answered, bestowing the housekeeper with a conspiratorial smile. "If it's money he's after, he'll soon find I have none. Did he happen to mention where he was staying?"
"The Primrose."
Ah, her brother must truly be on hard times if he was putting up at The Primrose, Katherine thought. The hotel was respectable enough, but hardly in the same league as the Draycot or Browne's. Still, his inelegant lodgings were his own doing; had he not been so foolish at the card tables, he would not have been forced to sell the Kensington townhouse which had been in the family for generations.
Mary lingered, idly playing with the coat in her arms, clearly wishing to speak further.
"He had a gentleman with him," she blurted out, as Katherine shot her a curious gaze.
"Anyone we know?" Katherine queried and the housekeeper shook her head.
"No," she said, hesitantly, "But there was something about him which gave me the shivers."
"Well, have Highland answer the door tomorrow," Katherine said, imbuing more confidence into her voice than she felt.
What was Toby about, appearing at her door after six months of near silence, with some cretinous friend in tow? Katherine had no doubt that whoever it was that Toby had brought to visit had been befriended in one of the dissolute haunts her brother favoured. He had probably found him in Crockford's or the Apollo Gardens. But why had he brought this stranger to her home?
For a moment, Katherine wondered if Toby wished to marry her off again, but she pushed the preposterous idea from her mind. She was far too old and impoverished to be the object of any man's attention, nor could Toby be foolish enough to think that she would fall for his tricks again.
During her marriage, matters of finance had been Charles' domain, and at first, Katherine had struggled to learn how best to manage her resources. Now, she rather enjoyed it, taking great pleasure in balancing one column of figures against the other.
Her lifestyle was not extravagant and luckily so. Even though she lived as frugally as she could, the cost of running a home and paying the servant's wages quickly ate through the annuity Charles had provided. As well as Mary, Katherine employed three others; Highland, who acted as both a driver and a butler of sorts. Robert, who kept the stables and did the heavier work that the elderly Highland could not manage, and Robert's sister Bessie, who was a maid of all work. It was a small staff, by the ton's standards, but then as a single woman, Katherine did not need a retinue of servants to cater for her needs.
She was busy inking figures onto the ledger's pages, when a knock at the drawing room door drew her from her work.
"Lady Deverell, my lady," Highland intoned.
"Oh," Katherine pushed back her chair and hastily cleared the ink pot and quill away, "Send her in and have Bessie fetch some tea."
Katherine quickly ran a hand over her hair, though she noted with dismay that said hand was covered with ink stains. Still, she had known Caroline—or Lady Deverell, as she was now styled—for years, and an unkempt appearance was unlikely to end the friendship.
"Kitty," Caroline cried, as she breezed into the room, "It's been an age!"
"I saw you just last Wednesday," Katherine argued, though she was touched by her friend's warm greeting.
"Was it only last Wednesday?" Caroline pondered wondrously, as she threw herself down upon the chaise lounge, "It feels far longer. Though Jack has been plaguing me about the ball non-stop; it's all he wishes to talk about. I know I should be grateful that he's taking such an interest and his excitement is ever so touching—but, lud, I cannot wait for it to be over."
Katherine bit her lip to keep from laughing; the outgoing and sociable Marquess of Whitethorn was the perfect foil to Caroline, who had spent much of her eight and twenty years as a determined wallflower. Despite her best efforts at remaining invisible to the male sex, the marquess had spotted Caroline hiding behind a potted-plant at a house-party, just last summer, and had been struck by Cupid's arrow. Initial reluctance on Caroline's part had not deterred the marquess from his ardent pursuit, and after a brief courtship, the pair had been wed. Much to the despair of hundreds of young ladies across England.
"It is the first ball you will host as a married couple," Katherine counselled, her tone patient, "It's natural that Lord Deverell is excited."
"Is it natural that I wish to cast my accounts up at the very idea of it?" Caroline retorted, her face pained.
She turned to cast Katherine a glance from under her dark lashes, her green eyes pleading. Katherine knew what was coming and she knew that, from the glum expression on her friend's face, that she would not be able to refuse.
"Please say you'll come, Kitty," Caroline begged, "I know you said that you'd rather not, but I need a friendly face to help me with the vicious tabbies who want to see me fail. I know that they whisper about Jack's foolish decision to choose a bride as old and set in her ways as I."
Jupiter! Katherine's reasons for not wishing to attend were almost identical to Caroline's. The gossips of the ton would adore seeing her impoverished by her late husband and garbed in a dress that was long out of fashion. How was it that others' malicious tongues were holding both women back from living their lives freely? They were both almost thirty; too old to care what simple-minded creatures, with nothing better to do than gossip, thought of them.
"Please," Caroline whispered, clutching her hands together as though in prayer.
"I will come," Katherine replied, reaching out to pat Caroline's hands, which were covered by kid-skin gloves so soft that it was almost like touching butter.
"Oh, you are a dear," Caroline cried, eschewing Katherine's staid gesture to throw her arms around her in a warm embrace.
"Now," she continued brusquely, as she pulled away, "We'll have to think of what you will wear. I had a new ball gown made, just last month, but the colour does not flatter me. I insist that you wear it; it would be a shame to waste such a sumptuous gown."
"I do not wish for charity," Katherine began to reply, but Caroline waved her words away with her hand.
"It is not charity," her friend insisted, theatrically scandalised at the very idea, "It is you who will be doing me the favour, by taking it off my hands. You can't begin to imagine how wretched and bourgeois I feel, when I see it hanging unused in the wardrobe."
Katherine hid a smile at her friend's blatant lie; it was so very like Caroline to try and save her feelings. For a moment, Katherine considered refusing the marchioness' offer, but she knew that any protest on her part would be met by determined stubbornness.
"Thank you," Katherine said simply, "I will return it, once the ball is over. It is a relief to know that I will be facing down the ton in the newest of fashions."
"That's the spirit," Caroline replied, "And they're sure to be out en masse; I have unwittingly managed to perform the season's biggest coup d'état. Jack told me just this morning that the newly anointed Duke of Elmsore will be gracing us with his presence."
Katherine's face flushed with heat at this news. An intoxicating mixture of anger and nerves left her unable to respond, and the sharp sighted Caroline was quick to notice.
"What is it?" she asked, frowning.
Katherine hesitated; despite their long friendship, she had never told Caroline about her relationship to Michael. They had met during their first season out, both bonded by a wish to play the wallflower. Her promise to Michael had been a secret, one which she had wanted to cherish and protect from the scrutiny of others—even her friend. Then, when after her father's death she had been forced into marrying the Viscount de Vere, Katherine had been too ashamed to tell her friend what she had done.
Caroline's green eyes were still watching her, her head cocked to the side like a curious bird. There would be no convincing Lady Deverell that nothing was amiss, so Katherine decided to finally tell her tale.
"Gemini," Caroline whistled, as Katherine had finished detailing the last instalment of the saga, "He has insinuated that he wants to make you his mistress? If I was a man, I would call him out on your behalf. Pistols at dawn and you would be my second, I swear it Katherine."
The Marchioness of Whitethorn was utterly sincere and Katherine said a silent prayer of thanks that Caroline was in fact a lady, and as such could not call Michael out.
"Thank you," she said again, deliberately holding her head high, "But there's no need for that. I will simply ignore him, should our paths cross. The gossips will be delighted to see me give him the cut and it might quash any belief that I would accept such a vile offer."
Though her voice was assured, Katherine felt anything but. She was filled with nerves at the thought of seeing Michael and she was not at all certain that she would be able to ignore him.
She gently steered the conversation away from matters ducal, toward the more banal subject of ball-planning. Caroline waxed lyrical for a short while about the menus, the orchestra, and the flower arrangements, until the clock upon the mantelpiece halted her verbosity.
"Is it six?" she cried, "The time does slip away when I'm with you. I always feel as though I have spoken so much, but still have more to say. Oh, I must dash!"
With a flurry of words and promises to send the dress the next day, Caroline took her leave. A pent-up sigh escaped Katherine the moment the door shut behind her friend.
Drat the Duke of Elsmore, she thought mulishly, as she gathered
herself together for dinner. Not only had he ruined her day and her plans to spend the evening reading a good book, he was also sure to ruin any hope of her enjoying Caroline's ball.
But still, despite her mean thoughts, a thrill of something unnameable stole through her at the thought that finally, after a decade apart, they would meet.
Chapter Four
"The blade please, Powers."
Michael stood before the mirror in his dressing room, a layer of white foam covering his face and neck. Powers, his valet, dutifully handed him the waiting blade, and Michael began the intricate task of shaving.
Some men preferred their gentleman's gentleman to perform this act upon them, but the idea of tasking anyone else with holding a sharp-blade so close to his skin was abhorrent to Michael.
He was a military man, quite used to looking after himself. He still felt mild twinges of guilt when he awoke to find that the diligent Powers had his body-linen warming on a horse before the fire, so that the Duke of Elsmore would not suffer the indignity of having to don cold drawers.
Powers stood silently beside Michael, as he dragged the blade across his skin. Shaving was an onerous task, one he was required to complete twice a day, as by five o'clock, a dark shadow of stubble had usually appeared upon his chin.
Once finished, Michael handed the blade to Powers for cleaning, and splashed his face with warm water to remove any traces of soap.
He then sat, to allow Powers to cut his hair. As the bird-like valet snipped at his mane, which had begun to curl over his collar, Michael's mind began to wander.
The past few days had seemed never-ending; he had found his mind drifting constantly to Katherine and the interminable feeling to every hour could only be attributed to his desire to see if she would appear at Deverell's ball. The need which burned within him to lay eyes upon the girl who had stolen—then broken—his heart was matched only by his need to find out everything that he could about her life.
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