by Cheryl Holt
She hesitated for an eternity, not able to decide on her response, and Miss Markham jumped in for her.
“Yes, she’ll come. We both will.”
“Libby,” Catherine scolded, “I’m not sure we should. We can discuss it on the ride home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Catherine,” Miss Markham chided. “Sunday is your only day off. What would you rather do? Spend it mending socks?”
Miss Markham scoffed with exasperation as Christopher’s friend, Nicholas Swift, stepped into the enclosure. He was the reason Miss Markham had been out in the woods and why she would be eager to attend the picnic.
Nicholas wasn’t a man any female should covet, but Miss Markham couldn’t help herself. Nor could half the young ladies in the city. She assumed she could win him for her own, but he was unwinnable.
She cast a yearning glance at Nicholas, then asked Christopher, “Would you like us to bring anything?”
“No. You’ll be our guests.”
“Perfect.” She grabbed Catherine and pulled her to her feet. “We should be off, Catherine. I know you hate to be out late.”
Catherine was very quiet, and he sensed she was angry at being manipulated, but she was too polite to exhibit any rudeness in front of others.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Barrington,” he said. Furtively, he reached out and squeezed her hand in farewell.
Miss Markham answered for her again. “Yes, we’ll see you, Mr. Wakefield. At two. We can’t wait.”
She practically dragged Catherine away, and Catherine only peered back once. Her expression was reproachful and annoyed, but there was a hint of happiness buried there too.
Goodnight, she mouthed, and she stealthily waved.
Goodnight, he mouthed too.
He watched her until she was swallowed up by the shadows on the path. Though it was odd, he felt almost bereft at her departure, and he could barely keep from chasing after her and walking her out.
Nicholas sauntered over, and he was grinning, being his usual obnoxious self.
“Who was that beauty?” he asked.
“A lady’s companion named Catherine Barrington.”
“How the hell did you stumble on her before me?”
“I don’t get distracted by flighty girls like Libby Markham.”
“Very wise of you. Very wise. Are they coming to the picnic?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Will you share?” Nicholas taunted. “Will you permit me to have a go at Miss Barrington after you grow bored with her?”
“I doubt I’ll grow bored,” Christopher said, “and I’m definitely not sharing. Not with anyone.”
CHAPTER THREE
Catherine sat on a blanket under a shade tree.
She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t come to the picnic. She’d gotten up and gone to church, then she’d trudged home. Sunday was her day off, but she’d been faced with the prospect of a tedious, quiet afternoon in the Bolton house.
Gertrude Bolton, who was Mr. Bolton’s cousin and sister-in-law and Priscilla’s aunt, was the only one who would have been there. She managed the residence for the widowed Mr. Bolton, and she was a curt, brusque matron who was never happy about any issue.
When Libby had pulled Catherine aside, when she’d chided Catherine for being a trembling ninny, Catherine had relented and agreed to accompany her—even though she’d tossed and turned most of the night, pondering Mr. Wakefield.
He was a retired soldier who owned a country estate. It meant he was sophisticated and educated and precisely the kind of man her father might have selected to be her husband had he been alive to handle such an arrangement. But he’d passed away when she was fourteen.
He’d been an earl, but had also had an important role in the government. He’d traveled to Rome on a diplomatic trip, along with her mother and older brother, Hayden, but their ship had sunk on the way back to England.
Her cousin, Jasper, had inherited the Middlebury earldom. His wife, Desdemona, had swiftly informed Catherine and her sisters, Sarah and Abigail, that their father had died deeply in debt, they had no dowries, and Jasper couldn’t support them. It had been a galling episode from which she’d never truly recovered.
She’d ended up a poverty-stricken servant who had to hide her real name because it might cause problems with her employers. Mrs. Ford at the employment agency felt potential bosses would be uncomfortable hiring an earl’s daughter, that it might skew the lines of authority and make it difficult to place her.
So she—and her two sisters—used their mother’s maiden name of Barrington. The situation insulted her parents and her ancestors, but she’d learned to lower her standards, to tamp down her frustrations, to stop wishing and dreaming.
It had been hard to change herself and become someone else. It was like an old injury that festered just under the surface, and Mr. Wakefield had yanked the scab off her painful past. Suddenly, she was craving all sorts of nonsense.
Why couldn’t she have a husband? For instance, why couldn’t she have Mr. Wakefield? Even though he was seeking an heiress to be his bride, why couldn’t he consider Catherine? She couldn’t bring any money to the table, but she brought many other things that were valuable: her beauty and poise, her background and training.
She’d been reared by her mother to supervise a large estate. She could run his home for him, could help him get the property operating at a profit. They could live frugally, could carry on in a meager fashion as they gradually restored his financial balance.
All of her vigilantly groomed detachment had been shoved aside—simply because she’d met and danced with a handsome man. Mr. Wakefield had forced her to admit she was no different from a fickle debutante who spent all her time plotting her path to matrimony. Her obsession was disgusting and embarrassing.
She glanced at the other members of their group. People were lounging and eating. It was all very innocent, very pleasant, and it was ridiculous to have fussed so intently about whether to attend.
She’d been on pins and needles over how she’d act with Mr. Wakefield when she saw him again, but she hadn’t needed to worry. They’d been at the park for over three hours, and he hadn’t arrived. His absence definitely had her feeling like a dunce. Why had she pined away over him for a single second?
As she was laughing and shaking her head at her foolishness, Libby flounced over and plopped down next to her on the blanket.
“Why are you laughing to yourself?” Libby asked.
“I just realized how silly I am.”
“Are you silly? I wouldn’t describe you that way.”
“I always tell myself I’m very mature and prudent, but maybe I’m not.”
“Why? Because you tagged along to this picnic with me?”
“Yes. I was too disturbed over how it might proceed.”
“I hope today’s dull event has calmed your lingering fears.”
“The entire afternoon has been absolutely tepid.”
“You fret too much,” Libby insisted.
“And you don’t fret nearly enough. What would Mr. Bolton say if he knew how you snuck off last night?”
“He’s not my father, Catherine, and you’d better not tattle.”
“I won’t, but I doubt he’d like that type of behavior. I’d hate to have you get in trouble with him.”
“Where I’m concerned, he’s blind. He doesn’t notice me, and I’m determined to snag a husband and escape the Boltons forever. If I’m still trapped there when I’m twenty, I’ll throw myself off a cliff.”
“Are you imagining you can accomplish this escape by flirting with cads?”
“Cads wind up married all the time, and I would never shackle myself to a boring dolt. I have no desire to live the life my poor mother led.”
“Your father was a boring dolt?”
“That was his best trait,” Libby claimed,
and abruptly she asked, “What did you think of Mr. Wakefield?”
“He’s very charming.”
“He’s charming all right. Do you fancy him?”
“No,” Catherine scoffed. “I never fancy any man, but I enjoyed his company. He’s interesting, well-traveled, and he’s a very good dancer.”
“He is, but you should be careful around him.”
“I’m always careful.”
“I simply mean that he’s not who he seems to be.”
“I would argue the point and declare him to be precisely who he seems: a dashing gentleman who likes to seduce unsuspecting women.”
“You’re correct.”
“Since I’m not unsuspecting, I’m not afraid for my virtue or my reputation.”
“Remember you said that. Don’t get stars in your eyes. It would be futile to moon over him.”
“I never would, but why isn’t he here? I thought this was his gathering.”
“I’m supposing the invitation was extended because he’s eager to spend more time with you. He’ll relish the chance to ensnare you in his web.”
“He couldn’t possibly.”
“We’ll see I guess.”
“So why isn’t he here? I refuse to believe I had any bearing on his plans.”
“He doesn’t usually socialize with this paltry lot. He’s older and much more sophisticated. These oafs annoy him.”
“We’ve tarried for several hours, and I’d like to leave by seven or so. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
“Let’s find out if Mr. Wakefield arrives. If he does, you’ll be delighted to stay later than that.”
“Mr. Wakefield has naught to do with it.”
Libby smirked. “Sure he doesn’t.”
“Really, Libby, I’d like to go by seven. Please don’t wander off.”
“I won’t wander.”
“If I can’t locate you when I’m ready, I’ll depart without you. Don’t make me.”
“You’d journey across the city alone? With night falling?”
Catherine wouldn’t dare, but she firmly repeated, “I want to go by seven.”
“Yes, yes, you spoilsport, but if he comes we’ll meet in front of the pavilion at ten o’clock.”
“Ten would be fine.”
Libby stood and strolled off to join some men who were playing lawn games. She’d been living with the Boltons for three years, and clearly she was using Catherine as a foil so Mr. Bolton and his sister-in-law, Gertrude, never learned of her antics. Who had she used before Catherine? Should she be worried about it?
She stood too and strolled off.
Libby was right that the others in the group were young and dull, and she could comprehend why Mr. Wakefield hadn’t shown up. Still though, she’d expected him to show up to see her.
Their brief acquaintance had injected whimsy and humor into her very staid existence, and it was unfair of him to torment her. So she was feeling quite sorry for herself when she rounded a corner, and he was walking toward her. She was swamped by such a wave of gladness that she was stunned by the force of it.
She was suffering from the strongest urge to run to him, to leap into his arms and hug him as tightly as she could. The very fact that she’d consider such outrageous conduct was alarming. What was happening to her?
Whatever it was, she had to nip it in the bud. If she wasn’t careful, next she knew she’d be sneaking off into the bushes with him.
She shouldn’t exhibit any heightened interest so she kept her feet locked in place and let him hurry over to her rather than the other way around. He was much too vain and his ego would be completely invigorated by any blatant fondness.
“Hello, Mr. Wakefield,” she said as he sauntered up. “Where have you been? I’d about given up on you.”
“I apologize for being late.”
“No apology is necessary.”
“I meant to be here at two—to welcome you properly.”
“Really?” she saucily teased. “Then your timepiece must be broken for it is much past two o’clock.”
“I’m a negligent wretch. I admit it.”
“Yes, you are.”
He was standing so close the toes of his boots had dipped under the hem of her skirt. His thigh was pressed to her own, and at the shocking proximity those pesky sparks ignited again. When he was near, the air was charged with electricity.
They dawdled in the middle of the path, grinning like fools, like lovers parted for an eternity. He reached out and furtively squeezed her wrist, and she sensed if they’d been in a private spot he’d have kissed her.
To her great surprise, she was thinking—should she go off alone with him—she’d like to be kissed very, very much.
Just that quickly, all of her staunch warnings were thrown out the window. He was so handsome and charming that she couldn’t remain aloof and detached.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked.
“No, I’m not leaving. I was stretching my legs. I’ve been sitting in the grass for hours, and I was growing bored.”
He offered his arm, and she took it, then they ambled off. Instantly, it seemed as if they’d never been separated a single minute, as if their conversation from the previous evening would simply begin again uninterrupted. She felt as if she’d always known him, as if they’d always been friends.
In her mind, she was calculating how she could arrange to see him frequently and soon. She was wondering where his estate was located and what the house was like.
My, my, wasn’t she in trouble?
* * * *
Christopher slipped some coins into Libby Markham’s hand. She thanked him and left without further discussion. They never had much to chat about. After all, what was there to say? They understood each other all too well.
Even though it was a sort of blackmail, it suited him to guarantee her silence. He’d started the payments as a lark, being humored by the situation so it continued unabated. She’d never asked him to increase the amount or he’d have stopped immediately, and she constantly needed the money. Perhaps she recognized too—if she tried to pressure him on any issue—he could ruin her.
Most particularly, he could spread gossip about her infatuation with Nicholas Swift. Nicholas was a gambler and libertine, but Miss Markham flirted with him anyway. The naïve minx was probably hoping Nicholas would compromise her, then marry her afterward.
Her belief in such a fantasy only proved how ridiculous she was. Christopher could have counseled her to watch out for Nicholas, but he wasn’t her father or brother so it wasn’t his responsibility to make her behave.
He went over to Catherine and sat down beside her on the blanket. While he’d sneaked off to confer with Miss Markham, she’d dished him a plate from the picnic basket, and she set it on his lap.
“You’re giving me a chance to practice my feminine tendencies,” she said. “I have so few opportunities to ever feed a man.”
“And it’s supposed to be the way to my heart.”
She chuckled. “Well, maybe if I’d actually cooked the food, but I am duty-bound to report that I can hardly boil water.”
“You can’t cook?”
“No.”
“You must have been raised in a house full of servants,” he slyly mentioned, determined to pry out some personal details.
She paused, apparently realizing she’d revealed more than she intended. “No, not a houseful. But I was never interested in womanly chores. They’re so dreary.”
“Your mother must have despaired over your future.”
“She definitely did.”
“How old were you when she passed away?”
“I was a girl. My parents had been out of the country, and their ship sank on the journey home.”
The comment provided a store of information he’d chew over later on. Her parents had been wealthy enough to travel, to sail to another country and back. Who might they have been?<
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“That’s a terrible ending,” he murmured. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It was a long time ago.” She waved away his concern and casually inquired, “You were talking to Libby Markham. How do you know her?”
“She’s an acquaintance from her attending the dances. She’s sweet on my friend, Mr. Swift. How about you?”
“She’s an acquaintance too, one who I hope won’t get me into trouble if I socialize with her. She seems a bit reckless to me.”
“Since she likes Mr. Swift, I have to agree with you. His reputation is horrid.”
“Is he a libertine like you?”
“He’s much worse.”
“You don’t hide or deny your licentious impulses, but I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.”
“Would you rather I conceal my true nature and insist I’m honorable? I like to be blunt about my proclivities so there are no erroneous expectations.”
She scoffed. “You’re not nearly as wicked as you like to pretend.”
“You’re wrong. I am as wicked as you can possibly imagine.”
He was curious as to what her opinion would be if she could have seen him when he was in the army. He’d had native mistresses both in the Caribbean and in Canada. He’d relished the looser morals of those places, the sentiment among the officers being that they were far from home and should take advantage of the baser inclinations of the females they encountered.
It was a shocking secret, and a woman like Catherine Barrington would never understand such aberrant conduct. But on his end, it had altered his view of sexual relations. He couldn’t abide the stuffy restrictions he faced now that he was back in England.
“You witnessed my salacious character last night out in the woods,” he said. “Have you forgotten?”
“No, but I’ve convinced myself there’s no harm in kissing a pretty girl. The harm—if there is any—comes from your leading her on.”
“Maybe I’m not the one doing the leading. Maybe she’s leading me.”
