by Cheryl Holt
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Forever After
About Author
Praise
Books By Cheryl Holt
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
“It’s our very own marriage market.”
Catherine Barrington Henley smiled at her companion, Libby Markham, and said, “Our own marriage market? Really?”
“Why shouldn’t we call it that? Girls find husbands here all the time.”
“Name one who has.”
Of course Libby couldn’t think of a single person, but Catherine wasn’t about to be disheartened by Libby’s inability to substantiate her claim. In Catherine’s view, every young lady ought to have the chance to wed. Why should spoiled, rich girls—who possessed fat dowries—be the only ones allowed the security of matrimony?
She and Libby were at the entrance to the public pavilion at Vauxhall, and they handed over their pennies and went inside. The orchestra was up at the front, instruments being tuned, the first dance set about to begin.
The large room was packed with people which had heated the June air to what could have been a stifling degree. But there were huge doors that opened out into the gardens. They’d been pulled back, and an occasional gust of wind blew in.
Normally, she wouldn’t have dared such a risky venture, but it had been two years since she’d attended a dance. When Libby had mentioned the event, when she’d encouraged Catherine to go with her, Catherine had been seized by the most pressing desire to join in.
She’d just suffered the most frustrating day, in what had been a lengthy string of frustrating days. She often felt as if she was suffocating, as if she was becoming invisible. It had been an eternity since she’d had a Saturday night free, and the idea of spending a few hours flirting and laughing and perhaps chatting with a handsome gentleman had been too intoxicating to resist.
They were with a group of Libby’s acquaintances. Catherine was a very elderly twenty-four, Libby eighteen, and the other women were in between those two ages. They were all in a similar condition: unattached females of limited means. They earned a wage as governesses or nannies or—if they didn’t toil away— they were educated and appealing and might eventually be excellent wives, but they had no dowries to attract a spouse.
Catherine was working for Miss Priscilla Bolton who was engaged and marching toward her wedding in September. Catherine served as her chaperone, confidante, fashion adviser, and nag, but it was a thankless situation.
Priscilla was arrogant and stubborn, and she treated everyone—Catherine included—like a low sort of vermin. There was no task Catherine could complete in a satisfactory manner and no word she could utter that didn’t draw a stinging rebuke.
Luckily, the job would end after the wedding, and she would move on to yet another post, to observe and assist another wealthy, snooty debutante who was preparing to marry the man of her dreams.
Libby was a ward of Priscilla’s father. Her own father had been a poverty-stricken vicar who’d left her orphaned and penniless. Her greatest wish was to wed despite her lack of a fortune, and she’d devised many creative ways to cross paths with potential beaux.
The dances at Vauxhall were just one place where she might garner what she craved, that being a home of her own and an escape from the tedium of the dreary Bolton household.
Catherine was older and more pragmatic than Libby so she’d given up any hope of ever being a bride. With how her life had fallen apart a decade earlier, she’d lost any benefit she might have offered in nuptial calculations. But she liked to make new friends and would deem it an enormous boon if she could simply stumble on a charming fellow who didn’t annoy her to death.
“What now?” she asked Libby.
“Now we locate our table.”
“A table! My goodness.”
“I didn’t reserve it,” Libby said. “I know some young men who come here regularly. They invited us to sit with them.”
Catherine scowled. “Should we, Libby? Are you sure?”
“It will be fine to socialize with them, Catherine. I met them at church.”
Catherine was trying not to sound like a prude, but in light of her being a lady’s companion her behavior had to be above reproach. She obtained her positions through Mrs. Ford at her employment agency, and the persnickety matron sent out females with the highest reputations for moral character and probity.
Catherine had been on her own for many years so she didn’t require a chaperone and didn’t have anyone to scold her over her choices. She could pick her activities, and she was very sensible. She would never participate in conduct that might get her into trouble with Mr. Bolton or Mrs. Ford, and she’d traveled to Vauxhall with six other women. What could happen?
Still though, she couldn’t help being skeptical. “You met them at church, Libby? Seriously?”
“Well, maybe outside a church. They were standing right next to it.”
Catherine chuckled and shook her head. It was her first adventure with Libby. In the month Catherine had lived with the Boltons, Libby was the only one who’d been kind or cordial. She was also funny and caustically blunt, and Catherine liked her.
But she didn’t necessarily trust her. A housemaid had whispered that Libby had a penchant for landing herself in jams. Apparently, she’d had a very strict upbringing and was shucking off the remnants of a difficult childhood. Yet Catherine never listened to rumors, and so far Libby hadn’t demonstrated any traits that would leave Catherine uneasy.
Libby took her arm, and they wandered through the crowd. After a bit of searching, a man waved at them. He was seated at a table on the verandah outside the building. There was a little fence around it to block it off from other revelers.
Libby waved back, and they hastened over. Introductions were made, and Catherine did her best to memorize names and faces. There were a dozen men present who all looked to be in their twenties, and her trepidation vanished.
They would be from the world she’d previously inhabited before disaster had struck. They were probably third or fourth sons, freshly graduated from university and living in London on meager allowances. Some would be studying law or commerce.
Eventually, they would have incomes and homes of their own. They would be seeking wives like Libby who were pretty and vivacious and sufficiently educated that they could run a house and keep the ledgers up to date. Libby was very popular with the group. Everyone knew her and was glad she’d arrived.
The orchestra began to play, and most of the girls were whisked off to dance, Libby included. Catherine wasn’t asked for the initial set, but she didn’t mind. She wanted to relax and assess the surroundings as she mentally debated whether it had been wise to accompany Libby.
Priscilla had been sick in bed with a headache, and Catherine’s job was to escort women to social functions. Why shouldn’t she have escorted Libby?
Except that—just as she was persuading herself all would be fine—she saw Libby slip away from the pav
ilion with a man who must have been a decade older than she was.
The furtive pair was swiftly swallowed up by the shadows, and Catherine hesitated, wondering if she should chase after them. She wasn’t Libby’s nanny, and she hadn’t come as a chaperone. What was her role?
If Libby snuck off with a sweetheart, was it any of Catherine’s business? She didn’t think so, but if Libby suffered a mishap Catherine would never forgive herself and she’d definitely be blamed.
She sighed with exasperation and left the relative safety of the enclosed box. There were many groomed paths leading into the gardens, and very quickly she was away from the noise and the crowds. It grew dark and quiet, and she had no idea which direction Libby had gone. It would be madness to stroll about, hunting for her.
She spun to return to the safety of the lights and the party when a female laughed seductively. She froze, assuming she’d located Libby after all. Brazenly eavesdropping and feeling like the worst voyeur, she tiptoed into the trees.
“You are such a flirt,” the woman murmured, “and you’re cruel to torment me.”
“You love my torment,” a man replied. “It brightens your day.”
“You’re vain too. And horrid.”
“Vain and horrid? Can I be both?”
“Yes.”
The woman wasn’t Libby so Catherine should have crept away, but suddenly the duo started kissing, and she couldn’t stop herself from watching them. The episode was strangely thrilling, like nothing she’d ever witnessed before.
They were both stylishly dressed, but the female’s face wasn’t visible so Catherine couldn’t discern if she was fetching or not. But she figured she probably was. If she wasn’t pretty, why would the man bother?
She had a clearer view of him. He was tall, six feet at least, with black hair worn longer than was proper. It hung over his collar and was tied with a ribbon. He was slender and muscular and likely to be very handsome.
She’d seen people kissing in the past, and she had been kissed several times back in the era when she’d been a rich man’s daughter. But she’d never seen anyone kissing as they were kissing.
The man was holding the woman very close—his hands were actually gripping her bottom—so her entire body was pressed to his. His lips moved over hers in a mesmerizing way, as if he was drinking her in, as if they were locked together and he couldn’t free himself.
They were moaning, sighing, giving and receiving an enormous amount of pleasure, and Catherine’s pulse was racing. The sight was exhilarating, and she could have stood there all night, gawking and spying, but off in the distance a sharp summons rang out.
“Mary Anne! Mary Anne! Where are you?”
The woman drew away and frantically whispered, “That’s my aunt. I have to go.”
“No, not yet,” he insisted.
“I have to! She’s looking for me.”
“Mary Anne!” The person sounded much nearer.
“When can I be with you again?” the man asked.
“I’m not sure. Next Saturday perhaps? I’ll try to come for the dancing.”
“I will pine away until then.”
He clasped her palm and kissed the center of it, then she yanked away and ran toward the pavilion. Catherine ducked behind a tree or the fleeing woman might have bumped right into her.
She glanced over her shoulder, and the man was still standing where he’d been. To her stunned surprise, he was staring at her—and grinning. Had he noted her presence? Had he known she was dawdling?
She’d never been more embarrassed, and she hurried away. For a dangerous moment, she was afraid he’d call out to her or chase after her which would be alarming. She dashed to the pavilion, rushed into their box, and sat down.
Someone had laid out refreshments. There were bottles of wine and glasses on the table. Catherine wasn’t much of a drinker and never thought a female should imbibe in public, but she was unnerved by what she’d just observed.
She poured herself some wine and sipped it as she fanned her face and steadied her breathing. Blindly, she peered at nothing while she worried about Libby and when she’d return. Why, oh, why had Catherine agreed to the reckless enterprise?
She’d certainly learned her lesson, and the next time Libby suggested an outing Catherine would be smart enough not to participate.
People entered behind her, and she peeked at them, hoping it would be Libby. But it was three of the couples that had been dancing. Another man sauntered in with them, and it was the roué from the woods!
Viewed in the brighter lights, she could verify her prediction that he would be very handsome. He had aristocratic features—high cheekbones, strong nose, generous mouth—and he was very fit, his arms muscled from strenuous endeavor.
He oozed confidence as to his place in the world, and he strutted into the box as if he owned it. The others shifted out of his way, and he plopped down beside her. He took the glass from her hand and swallowed down most of her wine. She was so shocked she couldn’t form the words to scold or stop him.
“Hello.” His voice was a soothing baritone that tickled her innards. “Will you swoon if I introduce myself?”
“No.”
“I am Christopher Wakefield.”
“Hello, Mr. Wakefield.”
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No, it’s my first time.”
“How are you enjoying the sights? Have you stumbled on anything interesting?”
She was glad it was night, that there were lamps hanging but none of them were near her. At his question, she flushed such a hot shade of scarlet she was amazed she didn’t ignite.
“Yes, I stumbled on a sight that was incredibly scandalous,” she said.
“What was it?”
“You know what it was.”
He chuckled. “Are you about to faint?”
“As you’ve already been apprised, I’m not the fainting type.”
“Good.” He took another swig of her wine. “Didn’t anyone warn you not to wander the grounds? There are all kinds of activities occurring out there that you oughtn’t to witness.”
“I told you it’s my first visit.”
“So you did.”
She glanced at the path that split off in all directions. Was Libby engaging in salacious activity? Most likely yes, and again Catherine was torn over her responsibility to intervene.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.
“Ah…no.” She wasn’t about to mention Libby. If she was misbehaving, it wasn’t this stranger’s business.
“Tell me,” he urged. “Is it a shameful person? If so, I can keep a secret.”
“I’m simply wondering about my friend. She’s walking with a gentleman.”
“Are you suddenly afraid she might be a strumpet?”
“No!” she huffed. “She’s just been gone for quite awhile, and I’m concerned about her absence.”
“Has she been here before?”
“Yes.”
“Then she knows better than to sneak off so you shouldn’t fret over her. It can be perilous out there, but she went anyway. These long summer nights and the balmy June weather have a peculiar effect on people.”
“Is that your excuse? The weather and the balmy temperature?”
“My excuse for what?”
“Don’t pretend to be unaware of what we’re discussing.”
He smirked with a very male sort of satisfaction. “I hardly need an excuse to kiss a pretty girl.”
“Was she pretty? It was so dark I didn’t get a good look at her.”
“Yes, she’s very pretty. I wouldn’t bother with her if she wasn’t.”
“She seemed particularly fraught over having to part with you. How about you? Will you pine away until next Saturday?”
“No.”
“You’re simply toying with her affections?”
“Probably.”
“Are y
ou a libertine?”
He considered the accusation, then shrugged. “I won’t admit to being a libertine, but I’m certainly a flirt.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Definitely,” he said. “If I were a libertine, I’d have bad motives. As a flirt, I merely want to enjoy myself. What’s wrong with that?”
“You were a bit beyond enjoyment.”
“I notice you didn’t stomp off in a snit. In fact, you were entranced by the whole encounter. You watched us forever.”
“I didn’t watch,” she claimed. “I was embarrassed, and I meant to leave you in peace, but I couldn’t tiptoe away without being observed.”
“No, you watched us, and I understand why you were intrigued. British girls are so sheltered. Have you ever been kissed in the moonlight?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “You just might be the most impertinent man I’ve ever met.”
“You could be right about that, and you haven’t answered me. Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Been kissed in the moonlight. You’d like it very much.” He waved toward the trees. “Shall we find out?”
“Are you suggesting I stroll with you in the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Not only are you impertinent, but you might also be a tad deranged.”
“You sound jealous of that little tart who was with me.”
“Jealous! Don’t be absurd. We’re not acquainted. Why would I care if you carry on with strumpets?”
“Are you simply a prude then?”
“A prude!”
“You seem upset by my antics.”
“Again, Mr. Wakefield, why would I care what you do?”
“Why indeed?”
He scooted nearer so that his thigh was pressed to hers, their feet tangled together, and she was finally able to discern that his eyes were very blue. They twinkled with merriment, providing every indication that he was amused by her prim tendencies.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“I don’t believe I’d like to tell you.”
“Don’t be grouchy. I don’t like it.”
“Oh, you poor thing.”
“Why aren’t you dancing?”
“We’d just arrived, and my friend wandered off. I was looking for her.”
