by Cheryl Holt
A carriage rattled toward her, and as it neared Mr. Bolton appeared in the window.
“Hello, Miss Barrington.”
“Hello, Mr. Bolton.”
“Are you headed into the village?”
“Ah…no. Actually, I’m headed to Bolton House.”
He laughed. “Silly girl. You’re walking in the wrong direction.”
She peered at the forest lining the road and pretended to be perplexed. “All these trees look alike to me.”
“Would you like a ride?”
She was too upset to get into the vehicle with him, but if she refused he’d be insulted so she replied, “Yes, of course. That would be wonderful.”
A footman jumped down and helped her in. As she relaxed on the seat, the driver cracked the whip and the horses kept on to the estate.
“How are you enjoying the country?” he asked her.
“I love it,” she fibbed. “Your property is very beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Lucky, yes,” he agreed, “but I’m also a very hard worker. I’ve earned every penny that it costs to live in such a grand style.”
“Yes, you have. I’m happy for you.”
They rounded the bend where she’d had her row with Mr. Stanton, and she braced, praying—if he was still there—they wouldn’t stop to chat. Unfortunately, he was right where she’d left him, sitting in the saddle, moping as if he was the loneliest man in the world.
Mr. Bolton didn’t see him until they’d passed on by, and he frowned over his shoulder. “Was that Kit? It looked like Kit.”
“Who is Kit? Do you mean Miss Priscilla’s fiancé?”
“Yes. There was a rider on the side of the road.”
“I didn’t notice him,” she claimed.
He wasn’t inclined to slow down and check, and she wasn’t about to encourage him.
“How was your trip from London?” she inquired to distract him. “I hope it was uneventful.”
“Very uneventful, but it was difficult to drag myself away from the office.”
He went off on a lengthy explanation of all the happenings in town. Early on, she’d learned that he only focused on his company, and it was all he liked to discuss. He babbled the rest of the way, and she leaned into the window, letting the breeze cool her hot cheeks.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“When was Miss Barrington hired?”
“It’s been five or six weeks ago.”
Christopher nodded at Priscilla, not eager to show too much interest in her replies. He was slyly prying out information about Catherine, but it would be odd if he was overly curious.
“Has she been worth the bother?”
“I haven’t decided,” Priscilla said. “She’s friendly enough, but she has an attitude I don’t like.”
“What attitude?”
“Every once in awhile, it seems as if she feels she’s better than we are, but honestly how could she be better? She’s a lady’s companion. Other than her putting on airs, I suppose she’s all right.”
“High praise, Priscilla.”
“Well, she is a servant. She behaves as if she’s not, but that’s her position. She really ought to remember it.”
He bit down a caustic response and stared across the park, studying the horizon. Mr. Bolton owned a very pretty property. The house was huge, three stories high and two separate wings, with all the modern conveniences. There was a manicured garden, a stream, an orchard, a lake, and grass covered meadows.
There were horses grazing in the pasture, and the sight irked him. Mr. Bolton wasn’t a country man. He’d been born and raised in London, and he’d earned his fortune there. He didn’t like the quiet, rural life or the slow passing of the days. He didn’t know much about horses except that he could climb into a coach and the animal would pull it for him.
It was the height of pretention to own so many, but he must have been told that a gentleman kept horses. So…he kept horses.
But buying a large mansion and expensive livestock didn’t make a man a gentleman. It took something more than that: ancestry, breeding, and the appropriate marriages down through the generations. No amount of wealth could purchase what he craved, that being acceptance into the upper echelons of society.
It was the reason he hadn’t been able to obtain a viscount for Priscilla. Of course the past few years had been slim pickings in the aristocracy so no suitable viscount had been available.
Christopher had listened to all the jokes from his friends about his choosing to wed the soap girl and her father being a tinker. When acquaintances teased him about Priscilla, he didn’t heed them, concentrating instead on her dowry flowing into his bank account. He imagined the upgrades he would begin at Stanton Manor. He thought about Andrew dressed in his soldier’s uniform and marching off with his new regiment.
“Where did you find her?” he asked.
“I used an employment agency. Mrs. Ford’s? Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“She sends out nannies and governesses and other female helpers. It’s the best place to locate the proper person. She brags that they all have stellar references.”
“Were Miss Barrington’s references stellar?”
“I didn’t check. Aunt Gertrude handled it.”
They were behind the house, a lavish picnic in progress. Whenever Mr. Bolton was in residence, he hosted sumptuous events. He constantly tried to impress the neighbors, and he was succeeding.
There were buffet tables and liquor tables and punch tables. A trio of musicians offered up lively tunes. Servants raced back and forth, carrying trays loaded down with ever more delicious food. People were eating, drinking, laughing, and playing lawn games.
Ever since the moment he’d arrived, he’d been looking for Catherine. He couldn’t get over the shock of her working for the Boltons. He was such a self-centered ass that he hadn’t inquired about her circumstances. Even if he had, he didn’t think she would have revealed the name of her employer. She’d been adamant about keeping him in the dark.
It would have been nice if Libby Markham had seen fit to whisper the truth in his ear. Usually, he loafed and gamboled in London, but the Boltons assumed he was in the country. He bribed Miss Markham with pin money so she would never admit she’d stumbled on him at Vauxhall or other spots he frequented.
He wouldn’t be pressured into calling on Priscilla, wouldn’t be pressured into explaining why he was in the city, but hadn’t stopped by. It was easier to bribe Miss Markham into silence than to stir a hornet’s nest. Would it have killed her to mention Catherine’s connection to Priscilla?
Miss Markham was such an odd duck though. Perhaps she deemed it humorous to watch him flirting with Catherine as disaster approached. It was probably why she hadn’t journeyed to Bolton House. If she’d been there, he’d have wrung her neck for fueling such a humiliating situation.
“Is it still on your schedule to visit on Sunday?” he asked.
“Yes, we’ll be there around one if that’s convenient.”
“That should be fine, but who is we? I’d rather not have Gertrude tromping through my home.”
“I’m bringing Miss Barrington.”
“As she’s a stranger to me, I’d really rather not have her there either.”
Catherine had begged him to ensure she not be forced to tag along after Priscilla. Nor did he want her to come. If he had to observe as she strolled in the parlors at Stanton Manor, sitting on the sofas, studying the family portraits in the halls, he couldn’t predict how he’d respond.
“She has to accompany me,” Priscilla said. “It’s what she’s paid to do.”
“It won’t kill you to leave her behind.”
“No, but I don’t wish to leave her behind. She has an elegant eye for style and color, and I’d like her opinion as to how I plan to remodel.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. S
tanton Manor was three-hundred years old. Generations of Wakefield-Stanton men had lived there. The furnishings were sturdy, constructed from materials at the estate by the local craftsmen.
Yes, it could use a coat of paint, and the chimneys could use an upgrade, but the current trend was Chinese décor and art, and he’d be damned if he’d have such nonsense foisted on him.
“You’re not remodeling, Priscilla,” he told her.
“Yes, I am,” she huffed. “Every bride gets to.”
“Not you. I’m happy with how it is. You’re not changing it.”
“It’s my money. If I want to spruce up that drafty, decrepit place, I will.”
There were so many things wrong with her comment he couldn’t decide where to start with addressing them. He settled on the most pertinent one.
“It won’t be your money. Once we’re wed, it will be mine, and I shall determine how it’s spent. You need to remember that.”
“I’ll talk to my father. We’ll see what he says.”
“Yes, I’m certain he’ll relish having that conversation with you.”
Suddenly, she was bristling with fury and about to fly into a rage. He was aware that she had a temper. They were distant cousins after all, and he’d known her since she was a little girl. She was spoiled and rude and demanding, and Gertrude had struggled to tamp down her irritability and outbursts.
He sighed with resignation, the decades stretching ahead like the road to Hades.
She was so young, so inexperienced. She hadn’t traveled or received much of an education. He couldn’t interact with her too often because he was vividly reminded of how miserable he would be as her husband.
He always found himself on the verge of crying off, of running to Mr. Bolton and telling him he simply couldn’t proceed. The battles they would wage were grueling to consider, and he felt as if he was choking.
They had nothing in common, and she had no interests beyond fashion and buying clothes. He’d inherited his family’s estate, but they had never been rich. Basically, they were farmers, and for the fourteen years he’d been in the army he’d subsisted on a soldier’s salary.
He would use her dowry to repair and modernize, to improve the planting and the animal herds, but he would never waste it on fripperies. She had no notion of economy or budgeting, and they would fight over every penny.
“You’ve ruined the entire picnic,” she fumed.
“I couldn’t possibly have.”
“You’re supposed to make me happy, but you never even try. You’re so stuffy you could be my father. You treat me like a child.”
It was much the same remark Andrew had voiced in their latest quarrel which only underscored her immaturity, and he had to find a method for dealing with her. Husbands shackled themselves to shrews all the time. He would hardly be the first.
“Why don’t you locate your father?” he said. “You can confer with him about your dowry.”
“I will, and before you slink off I must inform you that I insist you come to London and do your duty to me.”
“You insist?”
“Yes, I have so many events planned as we move toward the wedding, but you’re never there with me. I’m ceaselessly asked where you are, and I have no idea how to reply.”
“I’m not a social man, Priscilla. If you’re hoping I’ll dance attendance on you, you have completely misconstrued what our relationship will be like.”
“I’ll be your wife. You have to oblige me.”
“I will join you on occasion—when it suits me. Now then, you’ve given me a fierce headache. I believe I’ll walk to the lake and sit in the gazebo so I can calm down.”
“You can’t leave my picnic.” She actually stomped her foot for emphasis.
When he was with her, he was exceedingly polite, but she was so difficult. He grabbed her arm and pulled her near, and he leaned down so he could quietly scold her. In case people were watching, he couldn’t have rumors circulate that they were bickering. He kept a smile on his face.
“Listen to me, Priscilla, and listen well. You will not order me about. You have exhausted my patience, and I must catch my breath.”
“You’re so mean.”
“I can be so don’t push your luck. You’ve never seen me angry, but I can guarantee you wouldn’t like it.”
Every bone in his body was shouting at him to storm away, to kick and throw objects and knock over a few tables as he passed, but he refused to make a scene. Especially when the sole reason would be that she’d upset him.
She would always upset him. Each and every day would be a trial, and he viewed this period prior to the wedding as practice for how he would remain in control around her. He strolled away from the crowd, and for a minute he stopped and stared up at the mansion, curious as to which bedchamber was Catherine’s.
She was probably lurking in her room and too afraid to come out, and if he’d known its location, he’d have snuck into it and forced a confrontation. He understood that he’d hurt her, and he felt ghastly about it. After their rendezvous in his carriage behind the bookstore, he’d dangled promises, but they weren’t the ones she’d been expecting.
He fully intended to marry Priscilla for her money. But he wanted Catherine as his mistress, and he simply had to have time to convince her it was a future she could accept. What would happen now?
From how furious she’d been when he bumped into her out on the road, it was clear she’d like to never speak to him again. He figured—once the Boltons returned to town—she’d quit and flit off to her employment agency to be assigned to a new post. If she vanished, at least he had a clue to begin tracking her. No matter what she assumed, he wasn’t about to allow her to escape.
He kept on to the lake, and as he rounded a bend in the path, Catherine was suddenly standing there. For a startled instant, he froze, wondering if she was an apparition.
A long, awkward interval ensued, and ultimately he said, “Are you going to talk to me?”
“No. If you’ll excuse me? I’m needed back at the party.”
“I don’t excuse you.”
“I don’t care.”
She marched straight toward him, imagining he would step aside, but he wasn’t about to. They were hemmed in by tall hedges and shielded from prying eyes. Unless she was willing to crawl through the shrubbery, she couldn’t get by him.
“Move,” she commanded.
“No.”
“Move!”
She put her palms on his chest and shoved him, but his body was hard as steel, and she was a tiny sprite. She hadn’t the strength to push him away.
He clasped her wrists, holding her in place as she bristled with offense.
“Catherine…”
“Let me go.”
“We have to discuss this.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Can you bear to continue on this way? You’ll be here for the rest of the week. Will you tiptoe in the shadows to avoid me?”
“Yes, and it’s not the rest of the week. It’s four more days. I can survive any repugnant situation for four days.”
“What if Priscilla notices we’re quarreling? How will you explain it?”
“What’s it to me if she notices? If I confess the dalliance you pursued with me, what’s the worst she could do? Fire me and chase me to my employment agency? It’s what I plan anyway—the minute I return to London. I have nothing to hide or to lose. You, on the other hand, have a great deal to lose so don’t attempt to wheedle yourself into my good graces. You can’t.”
“Will you listen to me for one second?”
“No, but I would appreciate it if you would clarify Libby Markham’s role in this.”
His entire relationship with her—their entire future together—was on the line, and her only question was about Miss Markham? His temper flared.
“Bugger Libby Markham,” he crudely said. “I don’t care about her.”
“S
he practically dragged me to that dance at Vauxhall. You didn’t arrange it with her? If it’s your story that the encounter was all completely innocent, I don’t believe you. I’m quite sure the two of you plotted to humiliate me.”
“That’s not true!”
“Or is it Priscilla you’re hoping to humiliate? Libby despises her. Is she having a bit of sport over seeing how willing you are to betray your betrothed?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m barely acquainted with Miss Markham, and I would never involve myself in any scheme with her.”
He conveniently failed to mention how he regularly bought her silence so there would be no hinting of his presence in London at the Bolton supper table.
“What now?” she inquired. He was still holding her wrists, and she yanked them away. “Will you constantly accost me when I am alone? Will you constantly hurt me?”
“I don’t mean to hurt you, and I’m dying with shame.”
“You’re ashamed? You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I previously asked you how to fix this, and you insisted I can’t. But you have to let me try.”
“To what end? There can’t be a flirtation between us. I’m a moral, honorable gentlewoman. At the moment, my circumstances are reduced, but I had a stellar upbringing by decent, God-fearing parents. I know right from wrong. You’re about to be married!”
“Could we stop talking about that?”
“No! You’re engaged! You have a fiancée so your friendship with me has been a transgression that is too wicked to describe.”
“Can you actually say that? Can you say it’s been wicked?”
“Yes, Mr. Stanton, and don’t pretend it hasn’t been. You’re not stupid, and you’re not a fool. You entered into our liaison fully cognizant of the facts, while I was in the dark. My excuse is that I was unaware of your situation. What is your excuse?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Precisely.”
“I’m not married yet, Catherine. I’ve taken no vows.”
