LOVE AND THE SINGLE HEIRESS

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Their expressions withered any hope of that outcome. After bidding him good day, they left as a group, and Andrew dragged his hand down his face. Bloody hell. Lord Kinglsy and Mrs. Warrenfield had each hinted at investing one thousand pounds. Yet losing that wasn’t nearly as crushing a blow as losing the five thousand pounds Mr. Carmichael had expressed interest in investing. And how many other potential investors would follow their lead and retreat? He suspected Avenbury, Ferrymouth, and Kelby would follow like sheep. He’d hoped to have some good news to relay when he wrote to Philip this evening, but unfortunately good news was proving difficult to come by.

  He blew out a long sigh and raked his hands through his hair in frustration. Vandalism, harmful rumors, deserting investors—any one of these problems could spell disaster. The combination of all of them boded very poorly for the future of the museum, which in turn did not bode well for Andrew’s personal finances, which were largely invested in the project. Now, more than ever, he needed the handsome reward offered to him by Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather for discovering Charles Brightmore’s identity. He could only pray that the reward would not prove to be out of his reach.

  Seeing that the cleaning procedures were under control, he decided it was high time he devoted some effort to the Brightmore endeavor. After telling Simon that he’d return in several hours, Andrew left the museum.

  One way or another, he would find the answers he sought.

  Chapter 17

  Matters concerning love and affairs of the heart are very much like military campaigns. Strategy is key with each move carefully planned so as not to fall victim to potential ambushes. If, however, in the pursuit of her intimate goals, Today’s Modern Woman finds herself in a situation that reeks of failure, she should not hesitate to do what many military men have done in the past: retreat with all possible haste.

  A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

  Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

  by Charles Brightmore

  Catherine strode up the neatly swept walkway leading to the modest cottage nestled cozily in the shade cast by a copse of towering elms, driven by an overwhelming combination of anger, confusion, and desperation she barely understood. Muted sounds drifted toward her from the back of the fieldstone residence including a sheep’s plaintive baa and the quacking of several ducks.

  As she raised her hand to knock, a deep voice hailed her. “Lady Catherine, hello.”

  She turned. Dr. Oliver walked toward her, his face wreathed in a surprised smile. Tucked under one arm, he cradled a small, snorting pig.

  “A new patient, Dr. Oliver?” she asked, hoping her return smile did not appear forced.

  He laughed. “No, she’s payment from my last patient. I was just reassuring her not to worry—I‘m not overly fond of bacon.”

  “I’m certain she’s much relieved.”

  He held the baby pig at arm’s length, and asked, very seriously, “Are you much relieved?”

  A series of snorts met his question, and he nodded. “Glad to hear it.” He nonchalantly tucked the pig back into the crook of his arm, then made Catherine a formal bow. “What brings you to my humble abode? No one is ill, I hope?”

  “No, we’re all very well, thank you. I’m here to make a request.”

  “And it will be my honor and pleasure to grant it. If you’ll wait here for just a moment while I settle my little friend in the pen in the back, we can go inside.”

  Standing in the shade offered by one of the elms, Catherine watched him disappear behind the cottage. He reappeared less than a minute later, and she carefully observed him approach. There was no denying that Dr. Oliver was handsome. Very handsome. From a strictly aesthetic viewpoint, certainly far more handsome than Mr. Stanton, who, with his rugged features and crooked nose was better described as “attractive.”

  For the first time, she noted the breadth of the doctor’s shoulders. The trimness of his waist. The length of his muscular legs outlined in his snug breeches. The smoothness of his gait. With his sun-streaked brown hair and hazel eyes, he was just the sort of man to set a female heart to flutter. The fact that her heart was not fluttering only added to her desperation and strengthened her resolve. It would flutter soon enough.

  When they entered his small, but tastefully furnished drawing room, he asked, “Would you like some tea, Lady Catherine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He indicated the pair of brocade wing chairs flanking the marble fireplace. “If you’d care to sit—”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  His brows shot upward in a questioning look, but he merely nodded. “Very well. How may I be of service to you?”

  Now that the moment was upon her, Catherine’s courage sagged. Good Lord, surely she was mad to have embarked on this errand. But then she thought of the Guide, of all its liberating precepts, and she stiffened her spine. Today’s Modern Woman seizes the day. Is forthright in what she wants. And she knew what she wanted. She had a point to prove to herself, and by damn, she was determined, desperate, to prove it.

  She raised her chin. “Kiss me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want you to kiss me.”

  He stared at her intently for what felt like an eternity, as if trying to see into her mind. When he finally moved, instead of drawing her into an embrace, he lightly clasped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Why do you want me to kiss you?”

  Catherine barely resisted the urge to tap out her impatience against the parquet floor with her shoe. Good heavens, nothing in the Guide had suggested a man might ask such a question.

  “Because I...”want to know, need to know, must know if another man can make me feel the things he does... “because I’m curious.” There. That was certainly true.

  “Curious to see if you might feel something warmer toward me than merely friendship?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I could easily satisfy your curiosity without kissing you, but only a fool would turn down such an enticing offer. And I must admit, I’m curious myself...”

  He drew her into his arms and settled his lips upon hers. She rested her hands upon his chest and rose on her toes, a willing participant. Obviously the good doctor was well versed in the art of kissing—but he did not set her heart to fluttering. Not even a tiny bit. His lips were warm and firm, but they did not generate the fiery sensations Andrew inspired with a mere look.

  Oh dear.

  He lifted his head, then slowly released her. After studying her for several seconds, he stepped back and regarded her with surprise. “Rather sparkless, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She felt her cheeks blaze. “I’m afraid so.”

  “So, has your curiosity been satisfied?”

  Self-recriminations rained down on Catherine, filling her with shame at using him in such an unkindly manner. Good Lord, what sort of person had she become? She wasn’t certain—but she knew she didn’t like herself very well.

  Heat born of mortification singed her. The fact that he’d found their kiss as lacking as she clearly indicated that he did not carry a tendre for her at all. And she’d just thrown herself at him. Like a common trollop. She would have laughed at her own conceit if she’d been able to do so. Instead she prayed for a gaping hole miraculously to appear in the floor to swallow her. Retreat, her mind screamed. Retreat!

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I—”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I understand perfectly. I confess that I once kissed a woman in order to compare my reaction to another. Indeed, I believe it’s a very common practice. Rather like sampling both strawberry and blueberry jam to determine which you prefer.”

  His good humor and understanding only served to make her feel worse. Again her mind commanded her to retreat, but before she could move, he said, “Do not look so distressed, Lady Catherine. From the moment I arrived in Little Longstone six months ago you offered me a friendship I value highly. You have invited me int
o your home to share meals and laughter, and except for this tiny aberration have never given me false hope that we could ever be anything more than friends—an aberration I appreciate as it satisfied my own curiosity. We are destined to be only friends.” He skimmed the pad of his thumb over his lips and winked. “Better friends than most, but still only friends.”

  Eternally grateful that he was behaving so graciously, and that she had not humiliated herself further, she forced a smile, and said, “Thank you. I’m glad we’re friends.”

  “As am I.” He lightly tapped his jaw. “I just hope he doesn’t try to break this.”

  “Who? Break what?”

  “Andrew Stanton. And my jaw. He would not be happy should he discover I kissed you.” He grinned. “But I’m confident I’d be able to talk him out of pounding me into dust. If not, well, he may be strong, but I’ve a few tricks of my own.”

  If her cheeks burned any hotter, her skin would emit steam. She inched her way backward, toward the open doorway, everything in her straining for retreat. “I must go. Thank you for your kindness and understanding.”

  “My pleasure.” He escorted her to the front door, and Catherine walked swiftly down the path leading toward Bickely cottage. The moment she was certain she was out of Dr. Oliver’s line of vision, she pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, praying she’d not suffer an illness anytime in the near future because it would be a long while before she could face the doctor again.

  Before riding on to Bickley cottage, Andrew stopped briefly in the village of Little Longstone to make some purchases. Just as he was about to enter the smithy, an odd sensation prowled through him. He turned around, his gaze panning the area. Rows of shops, several dozen pedestrians, a curricle with a man and a young girl perched upon the seat, two young ladies chatting under a blue-and-white-striped awning. No one appeared to be paying him any particular attention, yet he strongly sensed that someone was watching him. And it was the second time today he’d experienced the same sensation.

  About an hour ago, while still en route from London, he’d felt the same warning tingle. He’d reined in Aphrodite, but had not seen or heard anyone. Still, the eerie feeling persisted, and even stronger than before. But who would be watching him? And why? Was it possible he was imagining it? He couldn’t deny he was tired, and many thoughts occupied his mind. No doubt it was just his preoccupation run amuck. Still, he’d make certain to remain alert.

  After finishing his business with the blacksmith, Andrew rode to Bickely cottage, where he spent a few minutes chatting with Fritzborne at the stables before striding quickly across the lawns toward the house, eager to see Catherine and Spencer. He’d keenly missed them, suffering a deep, echoing emptiness that had plagued him since departing Little Longstone yesterday. Returning felt like coming home—a warm feeling he hadn’t experienced in more than a decade.

  Late-afternoon sunshine gilded the house, making it look as if a halo surrounded the dwelling, and he quickened his pace. He’d been away for a mere thirty-six hours, yet it had felt like years. No doubt because it was actually thirty-seven hours. And twenty-two minutes. Not that he was counting.

  Milton opened the door with a forbidding frown, which immediately relaxed when he saw Andrew standing at the threshold. “Ah, it is you, sir.”

  Andrew raised his brows and smiled. “Clearly you were expecting someone else.”

  “Actually, I was hoping there would be no further callers this afternoon.” He cleared his throat. “Present company excluded, of course. Although, you are not a caller. You are a guest. Please come in, Mr. Stanton. Seeing you at the door is a welcome relief.”

  “Thank you.” Andrew entered the foyer. His shoulders tensed as he noted the new tremendous flower arrangement. “Looks as if the Duke of Kelby has emptied his conservatory again.”

  A ghost of a smile whispered across Milton’s thin lips. “Yes. How fortunate for us. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth blessedly sent smaller tributes.”

  “Are Lady Catherine and Spencer about?”

  “They’re strolling in the gardens.” He heaved a sigh. “I do so hate to disturb them.”

  “No need to on my account.”

  “Not you, sir.” He jerked his head toward the corridor and curled his upper Up. “Them.”

  “Them?”

  “The duke and Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth. The notes they sent with their flowers this morning indicated they wished to call, however none of them wrote that they planned to visit today.”

  “And they’re all in the drawing room?”

  “I’m afraid so. I kept them at bay, standing on the porch for a bit, but with all three of them, it became quite crowded. And loud. I suggested quite firmly they return another time, but they all flatly refused to go. A few moments ago they threatened to storm the gardens in search of Lady Catherine. To keep them from doing so, I reluctantly showed them into the drawing room, and I’ve since been plotting a way to get rid of them that does not involve coshing them all with a skillet.”

  “I see.” Andrew thoughtfully tapped his chin. “I think I may be able to assist you, Milton.”

  “I’d be most grateful, sir.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Still laughing over her son’s humorous imitation of a toad, Catherine and Spencer entered the house through the rear terrace doors, then made their way toward the foyer. The time spent with her son had helped Catherine settle her chaotic thoughts and form a new resolve. Her relationship with Andrew was a lovely, pleasant diversion she would enjoy for the remainder of the short time he’d remain in Little Longstone. When he returned to London, she would go on with her life, caring for Spencer, enjoying her independence, free from the encumbrances that had stifled her during her marriage. As Today’s Modern Woman should, she would look back on her affair with fond memories and wish Andrew a long, prosperous life. For, other than this brief interlude, there simply was no room for him in her life.

  As she and Spencer approached the foyer, the sound of several masculine voices reached them.

  “Who is that?” Catherine murmured.

  They entered the foyer through the archway opposite the front door, and she halted as if she’d walked into a wall of glass. And stared.

  The Duke of Kelby, Lord Avenbury, and Lord Ferrymouth stood in the foyer, each in turn shaking hands with Andrew, while Milton stood at the door with a suspiciously smug expression on his face. As if seeing this unexpected assortment of men in her foyer weren’t surprising enough, it was the condition of the men that stunned her. The duke’s right eye was nearly swollen shut and surrounded by an angry bruise. Lord Avenbury held a handkerchief that bore unmistakable streaks of blood pressed to his nose, while Lord Ferrymouth sported a bottom lip three times its normal size.

  She turned to look at Spencer, who was gawking at the scene with a stunned expression she imagined mirrored her own. At that moment, Lord Avenbury turned and caught sight of her. Instead of a welcoming smile, he looked... frightened? He jabbed Lord Ferrymouth with his elbow, then jerked his head toward Catherine. Lord Ferrymouth’s eyes widened, and he in turn nudged the duke. All three stared at her for several seconds, their countenances bearing varying degrees of what looked like alarm. Then they mumbled a jumble of unintelligible words while stepping hastily toward the door, which Milton opened with a flourish. After the gentlemen hurried from the house, Milton closed the door with a resounding bang, then brushed his hands together as if ridding them of dirt. He and Andrew exchanged satisfied gins.

  Catherine cleared her throat to find her voice. “What on earth happened to the duke and Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth?”

  Both men turned toward her. Milton immediately rearranged his features into his usual inscrutable mask. Her gaze met Andrew’s, and warmth suffused her. Unmistakable pleasure, along with a healthy dose of heat, flared in his eyes, filling her mind with a wealth of sensual images and tingling a shiver down her spine.

  Andrew bowed at the waist. “Lovely to see you again,
Lady Catherine.” He shot Spencer a wink. “You, too, Spencer.”

  Ignoring the flutterings Andrew’s presence set up in her stomach, she crossed the foyer, Spencer at her side. Before she could speak again, Spencer looked at Andrew, and asked, his voice an awed hush, “I say, did you plant those blokes facers?”

  Andrew grasped his lapels, his expression turning very serious. “During the course of my duties, I’m afraid that I did.”

  Catherine stared. “Do not tell me that you used your fists against those gentlemen.”

  “Very well, I won’t tell you that.”

  “Dear God. You punched them?”

  “Well, it is impossible not to use one’s fists while engaged in pugilism. When the gentlemen learned of my”—he coughed modestly into his hand—“stellar reputation at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium, they insisted upon a lesson. As they were your guests, I thought it would be rude to refuse them.”

  “I see. And how did they hear of your stellar reputation?”

  “I told them.”

  A sound that could only be described as a giggle erupted from Spencer.

  Catherine swallowed her own inappropriate desire to giggle. “And how, precisely, did all this come about?”

  “When I arrived from London,” Andrew said, “I discovered the three gentlemen in the drawing room. Quite a sight they made, all perched on the settee like a flock of fat-breasted pigeons upon a branch, glaring at each other, elbowing, vying for more room. As you were nowhere about, I offered to entertain them in your stead. During the course of our pugilism lesson, they unfortunately sustained their injuries—which are quite minor by the way.” He shook his head. “Not the heartiest of fellows, I fear, although Lord Avenbury’s uppercut showed some promise. After our lesson, I informed the gentlemen that I’d been giving lessons to Spencer... and intended to give them to you as well, Lady Catherine.”

  Catherine actually felt her jaw drop. “Me?”