by Cheryl Holt
“Yes, I would.”
They were in a public area, the pavilion in full view, lanterns everywhere, and couples promenading by. It wasn’t the best place for a private conversation, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be guided to a quieter spot.
She eased down, and he joined her, but he shifted so he was very close, their shoulders and thighs touching. He took it as a very good sign that she didn’t shove him away or try to put more space between them.
“Tell me about being a soldier,” she said. “You were in the army?”
“Yes.”
“How long did you serve? Where did you serve?”
“I enlisted when I was sixteen, right after I finished school.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty. How about you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“A babe in the woods.”
“Yes, so I’m wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Why am I loafing with you?”
“You’re crazy about me.”
“I’m crazy,” she muttered, “but I don’t think it’s because of you.”
“I’ll grow on you.”
“I doubt it.”
“I resigned my commission a few months ago,” he told her, “so I’m back in England forever. We could meet every Saturday. We could waltz.”
“I usually work on Saturdays so this was your one and only chance to be dazzled by me.”
“I am dazzled. I absolutely am.”
“You’re flirting again, and I don’t like it, remember?”
“I’m a natural at it. I can’t help myself. It oozes out of me, and I can’t control it.”
She wasn’t bowled over, and it astounded him. Most females were anxious to change their lives by snagging a husband. She didn’t seem to want that, didn’t gaze at him with hunger in her eyes.
“You mentioned that you work on Saturdays,” he said. “How are you employed?”
“I’m a lady’s companion. Typically, I assist younger girls when their mothers don’t have the energy to squire them to parties and teas. So I do it for them.”
“How positively dreadful that must be.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes, it is. Mostly, it’s interesting. I get to attend soirees and musicales, and I go on shopping excursions and to fashion consultations. It could be much worse.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
She’d turned toward him, and he slipped an arm behind her and rested it on the back of the bench. She didn’t push it away, and he left it right where it was.
“Where were you stationed in the army?” she asked. “Was the location terribly thrilling?”
“I thought so. I was in the Caribbean and on the American continent. I traveled extensively in Indian country.”
“Indian country! How exotic.”
“Yes, it was very exotic.”
He missed those odd, foreign days. It had been hard living, but each moment had been gripping and exhilarating, and he was so bored in England. How would he survive his retirement? Every hour was so dismal, and it was why he chased women so frequently.
“Why did you resign your commission?” she asked.
“My older brother died.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
He waved a distracted hand. “It happened over two years ago. By the time I received the news and started for home, it was already ancient history.”
“Are you the head of your family now?”
“Such as it is. There is just me and my younger brother, but he’s a wastrel who’s not worth claiming.”
“Aren’t all younger brothers expected to be wastrels?”
“Yes, I believe they are.”
Andrew was particularly awful though. He had withdrawn from the university, and he was adrift, not eager to pursue a career or engage in any reputable enterprise. Christopher would like him to join the army, but with their estate in such dire financial shape there were no funds to buy him a commission.
The longer Andrew loitered in London, the more trouble he generated. He gambled and lost money he didn’t have. He drank too much and ran around with dodgy characters. He owed a small fortune to dangerous ruffians who were known to extract compensation using painful methods, and he’d been beaten up for not paying his debts.
Christopher was determined to save Andrew—as well as their decrepit property—which was why he’d decided to wed his wealthy cousin. It was the only way he would ever accumulate the necessary amount.
He wasn’t prepared to be a husband and couldn’t abide the notion of being married. Nor could he abide his immature, snooty cousin to whom he’d suddenly become engaged, but he was a man who did his duty.
He would bite the bullet and obtain what he desperately required through matrimony, and he had to stop fretting over whether it was the right choice. The deed was done, the contracts signed. There could be no reneging.
“Are you home to manage a grand estate?” she asked. “Is that what brought you back? If you left the army and returned to England without complaint, there must have been an incentive besides your wastrel brother.”
“Yes, I’ve come to take the reins at our family’s estate, but I wouldn’t call it grand.”
“What would you call it?”
“Drafty, dilapidated, and in need of a serious coat of paint.”
“It sounds as if you ought to be searching for an heiress.”
“I certainly should.” He deftly failed to mention that he’d already glommed onto one. “Might you be very, very rich? Have I stumbled on the perfect person?”
She chortled merrily. “No, I’m definitely not rich. Especially not very, very.”
“Drat. I guess I’ll have to keep looking then.”
“If you’re hunting for an heiress, you shouldn’t waste so much time at these public dances. If this is your plan for locating a bride, you’ll never find the woman you seek.”
“I attend pretentious functions too that are packed with affluent candidates.”
“Have you had any luck?”
“No, but I’m not trying very hard. Somehow, I can’t picture myself married or with a juvenile debutante as my wife. I’ve enjoyed being a bachelor too much.”
“I must admit I can’t picture you with a debutante either.”
He gave a mock shudder. “They drive me batty. It’s much more fun to socialize here where the girls are all so friendly.”
“Plus debutantes are so meticulously chaperoned that it’s difficult to convince them to sneak off into the woods for an illicit rendezvous.”
“It’s enormously difficult,” he agreed, and he frowned. “We’re constantly talking about me instead of you. You have a clever way of putting the focus on me and away from yourself. Why is that?”
“My life is so boring. There’s very little reason to talk about me. I’d much rather hear about your escapades as a soldier.” She sighed with a sort of nostalgia. “I would love to be a man.”
“Why?”
“You get to travel and have adventures and dally with loose women. All I ever do is eat, sleep, and work.”
“Have you ever been anywhere exciting?”
“No. Just London.”
“What else should I know about you?” he asked. “Have you any family?”
For the slightest instant, she paused, then said, “I’m an orphan.”
“No, parents? No siblings?”
“No.”
He was positive she was lying, but about what facts? Was she truly an orphan? Were her relatives deceased? Or perhaps were they alive but so notorious she concealed any connection to them?
The possibility of her having infamous kin simply added to her allure, and he became even more determined to learn everything about her.
“Where were you educated? And who paid for it? It’s obvious you had excellent instruction.”
“What makes you assume that?”
“Don’t prete
nd. You’re extraordinary, Miss Barrington.”
“Extraordinary! Well! If you’re not careful, my head will swell, and I won’t be able to fit it into the cab for the ride home.”
“I could escort you if you’d like. The doors on my carriage are likely bigger than those on a cab. You’d fit into it with no problem—even if I swell your head with compliments.”
“You keep a carriage in town? My, my, you certainly step out in style.”
“Yes, I do, and you didn’t answer me. Would you let me drive you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re a hard woman, Miss Barrington.”
“You have no idea, Mr. Wakefield.”
“I insist you call me Christopher.”
“No, because then you’d start calling me Catherine.”
“It’s a moot point because I intend to call you Catherine no matter what.”
She scoffed. “Were you reared by wolves in the forest? You have no manners at all.”
“Not many, much to my poor mother’s vexation.”
“Did she try to impart some courtesy?”
“She tried, but failed at every turn.”
“I pity her.”
“You should. Imagine what it was like to raise me.”
“A frightening, exhausting, and thankless endeavor, I’m sure.”
“Yes, it was, but I was her favorite anyway.”
She snorted with derision. “I wish she were here so we could hear her opinion. I’m curious if her view would match yours.”
“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “She might have liked my older brother the best. Then my younger brother second best. Then me.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“If you pry all these tedious truths out of me, how will I amaze you with my magnificence?”
“Don’t despair. You’ve already amazed me quite a bit.”
“Have I?” He flashed a cocky grin. “I knew I could.”
“I didn’t claim to be amazed in a positive way.”
“Ha! With how stuffy you are, I’ll take what I can get.”
“I’m not stuffy,” she said. “I’m…reserved.”
“No, you’re stuffy, but—with a dose of my stellar attention—I can alter you into someone more exciting.”
“I don’t want to be more exciting, and even if I thought I might like to change, you are the very last person I would allow to modify my conduct.”
“Why is that?”
“Because any modification would be for an illicit purpose.”
“You might be correct.”
Over in the pavilion, the orchestra began to play, and couples who’d been walking drifted over to the building.
“Shall we try it again?” he asked.
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“This isn’t an organized, fussy party like they have at Almack’s.”
“Thank goodness,” she mumbled, providing more evidence that she came from an elevated spot in society. She was aware of the dreaded place and the restrictions that were enforced there.
“We can dance together all evening,” he said, “without having to switch partners. I don’t have to dance with you once, then ignore you the rest of the night.”
“That’s an intriguing notion.”
“Your slippers survived the prior round. I promise they’ll be safe.”
She stared at him, and he could practically read her thoughts. She liked him very much, his subtle flirtation reeling her in, lowering her guard. She wanted to spend more time with him, but it went against every rule that had ever been planted in her mind. A young lady was not to ever exhibit too much interest in a gentleman or people might think she was loose and forward.
“It will be fine, Catherine,” he murmured. “There’s no one to know what you do.”
“I will know.”
“Yes, but who will you tell?”
She chuckled. “I suppose it would be pointless to tattle to myself.”
“Yes, it would.”
She gazed toward the dark woods. “I’m worried about Libby.”
“You needn’t concern yourself. She’s plenty resourceful.” He stood and extended his hand. “Come. We’ll dance the night away.”
“Well, maybe until eleven or so. Then I have to head home.”
“Are you Cinderella? Will you turn into a pumpkin if you don’t leave by then?”
“No, I’m simply expecting to be in bed by midnight.”
“I swear, Catherine, you are so boring.”
“Yes, I am, and I’ll never be more fascinating than I am at this very moment. I can’t figure out why you’ve chatted with me for a single second.”
“Neither can I. Now come.”
He’d run out of patience with her dithering, and he tugged her to her feet. They went to the pavilion and wedged themselves into the merriment. The next two hours flew by so quickly that—later on—he wouldn’t be able to recall much about what had occurred between them.
The orchestra performed all the popular country dances so they were in separate lines and staring at each other. Occasionally, they’d promenade or spin in a circle, but mostly they laughed and smiled and tossed off swift comments.
The set ended with another waltz, and he was grateful for it. She fit against him perfectly, and she moved so easily, being nimble and adept at following him.
As the music concluded, they were in the center of the floor, grinning and gaping like halfwits. The other couples floated away, and people furtively glanced at them, no doubt assuming they were madly in love, and it dawned on him that he’d never had such a grand evening. Not at Vauxhall or anywhere else, and he was desperate to ensure he would see her again.
“What do you think?” he asked, anxious to lessen the odd sentiment that bound them. “Is my dancing still as remarkable as you recollect?”
“It’s still spectacular.”
“Since I’ve learned how persnickety you are, I will take that as high praise.”
“It is high praise—and I’m not persnickety.”
“Persnickety, Catherine Barrington, is in the eye of the beholder.” He clasped her hand and linked their fingers as if they were adolescent sweethearts. “Let’s find our table. I’m parched, and hopefully there are still a few refreshments to be had.”
“There should be—unless your companions have overindulged without us.”
They were strolling to their enclosed box when the clock by the stage began to chime, indicating it was eleven.
She peeked up at him with the most riveting expression. It hinted at romance and affection, and it made him realize he could get swept into a dangerous situation with her. He could become so thoroughly ensnared he’d never escape, and for once he thought perhaps he’d met a woman he wouldn’t mind cherishing.
“Is it eleven already?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s the witching hour, and you never did tell me: Are you about to turn into a pumpkin?”
She laughed. “No, not a pumpkin, but I must be going, and there’s been no sign of Libby.”
“Is she aware of when you planned to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’ll be along directly.”
They sat at their table, and luckily there was plenty of wine. He poured a glass, and they shared it. They didn’t talk, but seemed to carry on entire conversations all the same. It was the most intimate interval he’d ever passed with a female.
“When will you be here again?” he finally inquired. He was actually scared to pose the question for he was certain her answer would be never.
She replied as he’d predicted. “I don’t know if I ever will.”
“Of course you should come—again and often.”
“This isn’t the sort of venue I should frequent, and besides you have a young lady who presumes she’ll tryst with you next Saturday.”
“You shouldn’t fret over her.�
��
“I can’t help it. She’d be crushed if she discovered you were flirting with me so soon after she departed.”
“I just want to dance with you, Catherine. You’re making my request into more than it is.”
“It’s just dancing if I remain in the pavilion, but I’m positive you’re plotting on how to get me to take a walk with you.”
“I’ll always hope for that.”
He’d managed to pull a smile out of her. She pondered, then shook her head. “I could land myself in a boatload of trouble at events such as this. If my employer found out what it’s like, he’d be upset, and I can’t ever tarnish my reputation.”
Suddenly, Libby Markham hustled up, and she didn’t look any the worse for wear. Her dark brown hair was pinned up in its combs, her laces were tied, and her buttons buttoned. But her brown eyes were alight with excitement and her cheeks were flushed, providing strong proof that—whatever her antics—she’d enjoyed herself.
He cast a significant glare at her—one she couldn’t miss—that warned her to silence over their common secrets. She stared back, supplying unspoken evidence that she remembered their private arrangement and wouldn’t ruin it. She was too accustomed to the coins he occasionally slipped into her purse.
“Libby, there you are,” Catherine said. “I was so worried about you.”
“About me? Really, Catherine, why would you worry?”
“I’ve been waiting for you, and you didn’t dance a bit.”
Miss Markham grinned, appearing naughty and mischievous. She was slim and slight, like an impish elf. “I had more fun than dancing.”
“Meaning what?” Catherine demanded.
“I’ll tell you sometime,” Miss Markham blithely retorted. “Are you ready to go? We can find a cab out by the main entrance.”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Was there regret in Catherine’s voice? Was there dismay at her having to leave so abruptly? Would she miss him? The fact that she might not was more than his vanity could abide. He was determined to see her again, and Miss Markham could be an ally in his scheme.
“There’s to be a picnic tomorrow afternoon,” he said.
“A picnic?” Miss Markham sounded gleeful at the prospect. “How thrilling. I love a good picnic.”
“It will be here in the park,” he told her, “starting at two. All your friends are coming. They’ll stay for the dancing after supper. What about you, Miss Barrington?” he casually asked, as if her reply didn’t matter either way. “Might you like to join us?”
