LOVE AND THE SINGLE HEIRESS

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “They were just as surprised, I assure you, but I told them that such lessons were necessary because of the rampant crime nowadays. After all, Today’s Modern Woman must be able to defend herself, do you not agree?”

  She wasn’t certain if she were more amused or horrified. “I suppose, although I cannot imagine that a woman’s most effective weapon would be her fists.”

  “Precisely why the element of surprise would work so well.”

  “I can only surmise that the gentlemen were quite taken aback.”

  “My dear Lady Catherine, the way you’re following this story, why it’s almost as if you were in the room. Yes, they were all quite stunned. I can only hope you were not overly desirous of their company because I don’t think any of them will be back.”

  “Indeed? And why is that?”

  “Because they’re all afraid of you.”

  Laughter bubbled in her throat, and she pressed her lips together to contain it.

  “Well, I for one am glad they won’t be back,” Spencer said. “Pests, that what they were, all trying to impress Mum.” He smiled at Andrew. “And I’m happy you’ve returned, Mr. Stanton.”

  “As am I, Spencer.”

  “You’re back earlier than we expected,” Catherine said, refusing to acknowledge how much that pleased her. “I hope that means all is well in London?”

  “It means I’ve done everything I could for the moment.”

  “How bad is the damage to the museum?”

  “Extensive, but the repairs are under way.”

  “And the investors?”

  His jaw tightened, and sympathy pinched her at the sight of the weary lines surrounding his eyes. “Not pleased, as you might imagine, but I’m hopeful that their confidence will soon be restored. I’ve written to Philip, telling him everything. I tried to present the events in the best light possible, but obviously he’ll be very concerned, which in turn will worry Meredith. And there’s only one way to alleviate that.” A regretful look entered his eyes, and Catherine suddenly knew what was coming next. “As much as I hate to cut my visit here short, I’m afraid I must return to London tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Spencer repeated, his voice ripe with the same dismay that flooded Catherine.

  “Yes. But I won’t depart until the afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time for our morning lessons.”

  “When will you come back?” Spencer asked.

  Andrew’s gaze flicked to Catherine, then he smiled at Spencer—a smile, Catherine noted, that seemed somewhat forced. “Your mother and I will talk about that to see if we can agree upon a date.”

  “But you’re welcome here anytime!” Spencer said. “Isn’t he, Mum?”

  Catherine’s breath caught at the question, and her gaze flew to Andrew, who regarded her with an unfathomable expression. She desperately did not want to offer Spencer false hope that Mr. Stanton would return, yet she simply could not force herself to say he wasn’t welcome.

  Heavy silence swelled for several seconds, then she said lightly, “Don’t worry. Mr. Stanton and I shall discuss the matter.”

  “When?” Spencer persisted.

  “This evening,” Catherine said. After Andrew and I make love at the springs. After we make love for the last time...

  “Are you feeling up to a lesson today, Spencer?” Andrew asked.

  Catherine pushed aside her disquieting thoughts and watched her son’s eyes light up. “Yes, I am.”

  “Excellent. But first, I have a surprise for you.” He turned toward Catherine. “For you as well, Lady Catherine.”

  Her pulse quickened. She used to dislike surprises. Now, however, it seemed she liked them very much. Too much. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “What is it?”

  He shook his head sadly, then made a big show of patting down his jacket. “Now where did I place that dictionary?” He looked at Spencer, who was trying, without success, not to smile. “Can you fathom that your mother still does not know the meaning of the word surprise?”

  “ ‘Tis shocking,” Spencer said.

  “Indeed it is. Therefore, I suggest we go to the stables with all due haste so as to show your mother what a surprise means.”

  Before they took a step, however, a knock sounded at the door. Milton’s eyes narrowed. “Not more suitors, I hope,” he muttered. He opened the door to reveal a young footman. “I’ve a note for Lady Catherine,” the footman announced importantly. “From Lord Greybourne.”

  Catherine stepped forward, and the young man handed her the missive with a flourish. With her heart thumping, Catherine quickly broke the seal and scanned the brief contents. She looked up at the anxious faces surrounding her and smiled. “The Greybourne heir has arrived—a healthy baby boy they’ve name William. Both mother and son are doing splendidly, although Philip claims he may never be the same again. He swears the entire process was as much an ordeal for him as it was for Meredith.” Catherine looked at the ceiling. “Idiotic man.”

  After congratulations were said all around, Catherine briefly excused herself to pen a hasty note to Philip to send back with the footman. Then the group headed off to the stables. When they arrived, Fritzborne greeted them, a grin stretching his mourn wide. “All’s well, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Excellent.”Andrew led the way into the stables, pausing in front of the third stall, one Catherine knew was not normally used. “Before I returned to the house today, I visited the village to make several purchases. While I was there, I happened upon something that I simply could not resist.”

  “I thought women were supposed to be the renowned shoppers, yet you seem to possess little self-control when faced with any sort of shop,” Catherine teased.

  His gaze, avid and warm, rested on hers. “On the contrary, I possess an abundance of self-control.” He paused for several seconds... just enough time to rush fire into her cheeks by making her aware that he referred to far more than shopping, then continued, “Although I do agree that I enjoy buying things for people I... care about. In this instance, however, the purchase was for me, and purely selfish. What do you think?” He opened the stall door.

  In the corner, curled up on a bed of fresh hay, lay a sleeping, black-haired puppy.

  “It’s a dog,” Spencer said, his voice filled with quiet wonder.

  “It is indeed,” Andrew agreed, entering the stall. He gently scooped up the small dog, and was rewarded with a contented doggie sigh. “I’ve wanted one ever since your uncle Philip acquired Prince, who is a very fine dog indeed. Would you like to hold him?”

  Spencer, eyes wide, nodded. “Oh, yes. Please.”

  Andrew carefully handed over the sleepy dog. Seconds later, the puppy lifted his head and let out a tremendous, pink-tongued yawn. When he caught sight of Spencer, he immediately turned into a wiggling mass of tail-wagging canine joy, licking every bit of Spencer’s chin he could reach, much to Spencer’s laughing delight.

  Andrew stepped closer to Catherine and said out of the corner of his mouth, “I believe my dog likes your son.”

  “Hmmm. And clearly my son likes your dog. But I have a sneaking suspicion you knew—”

  “That they would fall in love with each other?” She felt him turn to look at her, and it required all her strength to keep her gaze fixed upon Spencer. “Yes, I admit I suspected as much.”

  “He’s grand, Mr. Stanton,” Spencer said, accepting ecstatic puppy licks to his cheeks. “Where did you get him?”

  “In the village, from the blacksmith. I’d stopped to make a purchase, and he introduced me to the entire litter his dog had birthed two months ago. Six adorable little devils. It was difficult to make a choice. This fellow sort of chose me, and the feeling was mutual.”

  “I imagine so,” Spencer murmured, burying his face in the dog’s curly fur.

  Unable to resist, Catherine reached out and scratched behind the adorable puppy’s ears. A look of utter devotion entered the pup’s black eyes. “Oh, you’re a charmer, aren’t you,” she said wit
h a laugh.

  “What is his name?” Spencer asked.

  “The blacksmith called him Shadow, and it seems to suit as the little fellow followed me all about. What do you think?”

  Spencer held the puppy at arm’s length and inclined his head first right, then left. Pink tongue panting, tiny ears perked, the puppy mimicked his actions, tilting his little head. They all laughed, and Catherine said, “It seems that Shadow is indeed the perfect name.”

  “Then Shadow it is. Now, we’re heading outside, behind the stables. Spencer, would you mind carrying Shadow for me?”

  Catherine couldn’t help but laugh. “That is like asking a mouse if it minds eating a bit more cheese.”

  They walked outside together, and Andrew led them to a large blanket spread on the lawn under the shade of an elm. Catherine gazed curiously at the tarp to one side of the blanket. “What is under there?”

  He smiled. “We’re going to make some magic. But it’s a two-man job, I’m afraid. I need someone strong to assist me.” He made a great show of looking around.

  “I’ll help,” Spencer said eagerly.

  “A volunteer. Excellent. Lady Catherine, would you be so kind as to mind Shadow, so Spencer and I can proceed?” Catherine agreed, taking the puppy from Spencer.

  “Just make yourself comfortable on the blanket,” Andrew said, “and I’ll brief my helper on his duties.”

  Catherine lowered herself onto the blanket and laughed at Shadow’s tail-chasing antics. From the corner of her eye, she watched Andrew and Spencer speaking in muted tones, and the pleased flush that stole over Spencer’s cheeks. They returned several minutes later, and with a flourish, Andrew pulled the tarp from his stash of supplies.

  Catherine craned her neck and stared at the five buckets of varying sizes he’d uncovered. “What’s in those?”

  “Ice, salt, cream, sugar, and strawberries,” he said, pointing to each one in turn. He then indicated a cloth bag with a nod of his chin. “Bowls and spoons.”

  “We’re going to make strawberry-flavored ice, Mum!” Spencer said.

  “Really?” She scooped up Shadow then walked over to have a better look. “How are we going to make that?”

  “Just watch,” Andrew said. “You’ve never eaten anything like this, I promise you.”

  “I had a flavored ice in London last year,” Catherine said. “It was delightful.”

  “This will be extraordinarily delightful,” Andrew promised with a smile.

  Nearly an hour later, after much strenuous shaking by Andrew of an outer bucket filled with chips of ice and salt while Spencer vigorously stirred an inner bucket filled with cream, sugar, and strawberries, Andrew finally announced, “It’s ready.”

  Spencer, his face red from his exertions, blew out a loud breath. “Thank goodness. My arms are about to drop off.”

  “As are mine,” Andrew agreed. “But trust me, once you taste this, the pain will instantly fade.”

  “I feel horribly guilty,” Catherine said. “While you two shook and stirred, I merely sat here and enjoyed the lovely weather.”

  “You were watching Shadow,” Andrew reminded her, scooping heaping spoonfuls of pink stuff into porcelain bowls.

  “Not a difficult task, as the imp has been sleeping for the past three-quarters of an hour.” She looked down at the bundle of black fur sprawled across her lap and tried, without any success whatsoever, to stem the affection flooding her. “I believe I bored Shadow to sleep.”

  “Well, she who bores the dog to sleep serves the cause just as much as those who stir and shake,” Andrew said, handing her a bowl and spoon. “Taste.”

  Catherine dipped her spoon into the creamy concoction, then lifted it to her lips. Her eyes widened with pure delight as the smooth, sweet, strawberry-flavored chill slid down her throat. “Oh, my.”

  Andrew laughed. After scooping out a generous portion for Spencer, then himself, they all sat upon the blanket and indulged in their treat.

  “You’re right, Mr. Stanton,” Spencer said, “this is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Made all your arm aches disappear, I’ll wager.”

  “Every one,” Spencer agreed.

  “Where did you learn to make this?” Catherine asked, savoring another delectable spoonful.

  “In America. The family who owned the stables where I worked was fond of serving this to their guests.” A phantom of some emotion she could not read flashed in his eyes. “Whenever they did so, their daughter would pilfer an extra bowl for me. Eventually I asked their cook how it was made.”

  A spurt of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy shot through her at the thought of Andrew sitting on a blanket with his employer’s daughter, eating a frozen delight that she’d brought him.

  “The girl who brought you the ice—what was her name?” Spencer asked, voicing the question Catherine hadn’t had the courage to speak.

  “Emily,”Andrew said, softly, looking down into his bowl.

  “Was she nice?”

  “Very nice.” He looked up and gave Spencer a slight smile that looked more sad than happy to Catherine. “In fact, you rather remind me of her, Spencer.”

  “I remind you of a girl?”

  Andrew chuckled at his horrified expression. “Not the fact that she was a girl, but because she... struggled to find where she fit in. She did not feel very comfortable around people. Indeed, except for me, she had very few friends.”

  Spencer’s brow puckered as he pondered this. Then he asked, “Are you still her friend? Do you correspond with her?”

  There was no mistaking the pain that filled his eyes. “No. She died.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “As am I.”

  “When did she die?”

  He swallowed, then said, “About eleven years ago. Just before I left America. I bet she would be pleased that we’re all enjoying this treat. And I especially wanted to make strawberry because I know it is a favorite of both of you. Who would like some more?”

  “Me, please,” said Spencer, holding out his bowl.

  The adroit subject change had not escaped Catherine, and she wondered if there was more behind it than simply not wanting to discuss a sad subject. Andrew’s pain when he’d discussed this Emily was palpable, filling her with sympathy for him. The conversation had also piqued her curiosity.

  Amid many appreciative murmurs, they each enjoyed another bowl while laughing at Shadow—who’d awakened and showed a huge interest in the proceedings. “There’s just enough for one more serving,” Andrew said. “Since I know from experience that this is a favorite of stable masters, I wager Fritzborne would enjoy it.”

  “I’ll bring it to him,” Spencer offered.

  As Catherine watched her son walk toward the stables, his uneven gait forming the familiar lump of love in her throat, she was also acutely, painfully aware that she and Andrew were alone.

  She turned to look at him and stilled at the compelling, serious look in his dark eyes.

  “I missed you,” he said softly.

  Three simple words. How did he cleave through all her hard-fought-for resolutions with three simple words? Her insides seemed to melt, and she was grateful she was sitting, for her knees felt oddly weak. As much as she hated to admit it, as much as she desperately wished she hadn’t, she’d missed him, too. More man she’d believed it possible to miss a person. Much more than she’d wanted to. And certainly much more than was wise. And now, with those three simple words, she feared that all her attempts to keep her heart unencumbered were doomed to failure.

  He reached out and brushed his fingers slowly back and forth over the back of her hand, sending delicious tingles up her arm. “You said earlier that I lacked self-control, and I want you to know just how very wrong you are. I cannot even begin to describe the amount of control I am exercising right now not to kiss you. Touch you.”

  “You are touching me,” she said, her voice breathless.

  “Not in
the way I want to, I assure you.”

  Heat pooled low in her belly, and sensual images of all the seductive ways he’d touched her flashed through her mind.

  “Do you still want to meet at the springs tonight, Catherine?”

  “Yes.”Desperately. “Do you?”

  “Do you truly need to ask?”

  “No.”She could easily see the desire in his eyes. And if she didn’t change the subject, she stood in danger of saying or doing something she might well regret.

  “This”—she spread her hand to indicate their picnic area and the collection of buckets—“was a delightful surprise. And very thoughtful of you.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I confess I have a surprise for you as well.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  She shot him an aggrieved look. “What are you always saying about a dictionary?”

  He laughed. “Touché. When will my surprise be unveiled?”

  “Are you always this impatient?”

  His eyes darkened. “Sometimes.”

  Heavens, she wished she’d brought her fan to dispel the heat this man inspired. “Actually, you may have it right now.” She slipped a small, flat tissue-paper-wrapped bundle secured with a bit of blue satin ribbon from the pocket of her gown and handed it to him.

  Surprised pleasure flared in his eyes. “A gift?”

  “It’s nothing really,” she said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

  “On the contrary, it’s extraordinary.”

  She laughed. “You haven’t opened it yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s still extraordinary. How did you just happen to have this in your pocket?”

  “I retrieved it from my bedchamber after I’d written my note to Philip—before I rejoined you in the foyer.”

  He untied the ribbon, parted the tissue paper, then lifted the white linen square. “A handkerchief. With my initials embroidered on it.” Staring at the material, he gently rubbed his thumb over the dark blue, silk thread letters that had obviously been done by an inexpert hand.

  “The night in the garden,” she said, her words coming out in a rush, “when you showed me the bleeding hearts, you didn’t have a handkerchief when you thought I was crying—not that I was crying, mind you—but since you didn’t have one, I thought perhaps you could use this.”