LOVE AND THE SINGLE HEIRESS

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Dragging his hands down his face, he tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. “For the first five years, I lived... recklessly, not really caring if I lived or died. It was a very dark time for me. Lonely. Bleak. Empty. I’d done what Emily had asked me to do, yet I hated myself for doing it. For running away. For all my actions that had led to her death. I felt like a coward, and that I’d compromised my honor. I actually hoped that her father would somehow find me, yet he never did.

  “But one day, your brother found me—just in time to save me from the machete-wielders, a rescue I wasn’t immediately grateful for, by the way. Since I had nothing better to do, I returned with Philip to his camp, and for the first time in five years I had a sense of belonging somewhere. Your brother not only saved my life, but through him, I found the will to live again. To make something of myself. He was the first real friend I’d had since leaving America, and my friendship with him changed my life. I eventually managed to bury deeply that horrifying day on the dueling field, but when that shot was fired in London, when I saw you on the floor...”He briefly closed his eyes. “I relived my worst nightmare.”

  He drew in a deep breath, feeling utterly depleted, yet lighter than he had in a decade. He turned toward Catherine. Her hands were clenched in her lap, and she stared into the fire. He desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, but forced himself to remain silent, to allow her to absorb all he’d told her. A full minute passed before she spoke.

  “Does Philip know all this?”

  “No. None of it. I’ve never told anyone before.”

  He wished she would look at him so he could see her expression, read her eyes. Would she look at him with disgust and shame—the same way he’d looked at himself for years? Unfortunately, he feared the fact that she steadfastly did not look at him told him everything.

  Finally, she turned and gazed at him, her eyes solemn and bright with unshed tears. “You loved her very much.”

  “Yes. She was a quiet, lonely, gentle girl who’d never hurt anyone in her entire life. We’d been the best of friends for years. I would have done anything to protect her. Instead, she died protecting me.”

  “Why, after remaining silent all these years, did you tell me this?”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Before I tell you, may I have use of a piece of vellum and a pen?”

  There was no mistaking her surprise, but she rose and walked to the escritoire near the window, sliding a sheet of vellum from a slim drawer. “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.” He sat in the delicate upholstered chair and picked up her pen. From the corner of his eye he watched her cross to the fireplace. After several minutes, he joined her there and handed her the vellum.

  She looked at the markings with a confused expression. “What is this?”

  “Egyptian glyphs. They spell out the reasons why I told you about my past.”

  “But why would you write your reason in a way that I cannot understand?”

  “At your father’s birthday party, you commented on Lord Nordnick’s methods with regards to Lady Ophelia. You said he should recite something romantic to her in another language. This is the only other language I know.”

  Her startled gaze flew to his. He touched the edge of the vellum. “The first line reads You saved my life.”

  “I do not see how you can say that, as it is my fault that you were hurt tonight.”

  “Not tonight. Six years ago. The morning after I joined Philip at his camp, I came upon him sitting on a blanket near the banks of the Nile, reading a letter. From his sister, he told me. He read me some amusing snippets, and I sat there listening to the words you’d written him, filled with envy for the obvious affection in which you held each other. He went on to tell me a bit about you, the fact that your marriage was unhappy, the joy you found with your son, and also about Spencer’s affliction. After we returned to camp, he showed me the miniature you’d given him before he’d left England.”

  He briefly closed his eyes, vividly reliving that instant when he’d first laid eyes on her image. “You were so lovely. I could not fathom how your husband did not worship the ground you walked on.

  “From that moment on, with every story Philip told me about you, my regard and admiration grew, and I believe I anticipated your letters to Philip even more than Philip himself. Your bravery, fortitude, and grace in the face of your marital situation and Spencer’s difficulties touched me deeply and inspired me to examine my deep shame and guilt over my past and the dissolute manner in which I’d lived my life since leaving America. Your goodness, your kindness, your courage inspired me to change my life. Redeem myself. I knew that someday I would return to England with Philip, and I was determined to be a person that Lady Catherine would be proud to know. You showed me that goodness and kindness still existed, and you gave me the will to want that again. I’ve wanted to thank you for that for six years.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

  Catherine’s heart thumped in slow, hard beats from his words and the utter sincerity in his dark eyes. She swallowed. Her heart ached for him, for the despair he’d lived with for so long. “You’re welcome. I had no idea my letters had... inspired you so. I’m very sorry for the pain you suffered, and I’m glad you were able to find peace within yourself.”

  Without wavering his gaze, he released her hand, then reached out and touched the edge of the vellum. “The second line reads I love you.”

  Catherine went perfectly still, except for her pulse, which jumped erratically. His feelings for her blazed from his eyes, without any attempt to hide them.

  “My mind understands that my social status and past renders me not good enough for you. But my heart...”He shook his head. “My heart refuses to listen. My logic tells me I should wait, take more time to court you. But I almost lost you tonight and I simply cannot wait. Our friendship, our time together as lovers, everything we’ve shared, every touch, every word, has brought me more joy than I can describe. But being your lover is not enough.”

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket, and withdrew an item he held out to her. “I want more. I want it all. All of you. I want you to be my wife. Catherine, will you marry me?”

  The bottom seemed to drop out of Catherine’s stomach. She stared at the single, perfect, oval emerald set in a simple gold band resting in his callused palm. He must have purchased the gem while he was in London. Tears pushed behind her eyes. Dismay, confusion, unexpected longing all collided in her. Her emotions were a raw jumble, all vying for her attention until she simply couldn’t differentiate one from the other. “You know how I feel about marriage.”

  “Yes. And given your experience, your reservations are understandable. But you also know how I feel about it. I told you in the carriage on our journey to Little Longstone that I wanted a wife and family. Did you think I’m the sort of man who would compromise you, then walk away?”

  “Andrew, I am not a young virginal miss to be ‘compromised.' I'm a grown, Modern Woman, indulging in a mutually pleasurable affair. When you said you wanted a wife, you described a paragon of perfection whom I doubt exists.”

  “No. I was looking right at her. You are all those things I described and so much more—a woman with flaws, who in spite of them, because of them, is the perfect woman for me. I’m asking you to reconsider your feelings on marriage. To instead consider your feelings for me.” He studied her for several seconds, then said quietly, “I know you care. You never would have taken me into your bed, into your body, if you did not.”

  Heat stung Catherine’s cheek. “I did not take you as a lover to pry a marriage proposal from you.”

  “I know. And there is no need to pry. I offer my proposal willingly. And with great hope that in spite of all I told you tonight, you will accept.”

  “When we entered into our liaison, we agreed it was only temporary.”

  “No, you insisted it was temporary. I never agreed. And even if I had, I hereby formally renege. I do not want tempor
ary. I want forever. I want to be your husband. I want to be a father to Spencer—if he wishes me to be so. At the very least, I want to be his friend and champion.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve told you about my past. I’ve told you how I feel about you. My heart, my soul are yours. Tell me what you want to do with them.”

  Catherine locked her knees to steady their trembling. “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me, and clearly you don’t know what marriage means to a woman. It means I cease to exist. I would lose everything because it would no longer belong to me, it would belong to my husband. My husband could banish me to the country, neglect our child, sell off my personal belongings—and all legally. I’ve already lived through that horror. I do not require more money, or family connections. Marriage has nothing to offer me.”

  “Clearly we use different dictionaries, because to me, marriage means caring for one another. Loving together. Sharing laughter and helping through pain. Always knowing that there is another person standing beside you. For you.”

  “I must admit, your definition sounds lovely, but experience has taught me marriage is not that way. Do you honestly believe your definition is realistic?”

  “I suppose that depends on why a person marries. If one marries for money or social position, then I agree it could prove disastrous. But if the marriage is based on love and respect, because you cannot imagine not spending every day of your life with the person who owns your heart, then yes, I believe it can be all those wonderful things.” He reached for her hand. After gently placing the ring on her palm, he folded her fingers closed and nestled her fist between his hands. “Catherine, if you decide you don’t want to marry me, let it be because I’m not from your social class. Because I’m a common American. Because I have a scarred past. Because you don’t love me. Please don’t refuse me because you think I’ll take things away from you when all I want to do is give to you. Everything. Always. I want to take care of you.”

  “I believe I’ve demonstrated quite well over the past decade that I do not need a man to take care of me.” A sick feeling of loss washed through her at the hurt that flared in his eyes. True, she did not want a husband, but she realized with sudden stinging clarity, neither did she want Andrew simply to disappear from her life. “Why don’t we just continue on as we have?” she said, hating the note of desperation she heard in her voice.

  “Having an affair?”

  “Yes.”

  Her breath stilled while she waited for his answer. Finally, very quietly, he said, “No. I cannot do that to you. Or Spencer. Or myself. If we continue, eventually someone would discover the truth, and the gossip would only hurt you and Spencer. I’ve no desire to sneak around, grabbing stolen moments, and keeping my feelings hidden. I want it all, Catherine. All or... nothing.”

  The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. There was no mistaking the resolution in his voice and eyes, and anger shot through her. “You have no right to issue such an ultimatum.”

  “I disagree. I believe the facts that I’m painfully in love with you and have shared your bed gives me that right.”

  “The fact that we shared a bed changes nothing.”

  “You’re wrong. It changes everything? ”He squeezed her hand tighter. “Catherine, either you feel the same things I do, or you don’t. Either you love me, or you don’t. Either you want to spend your life with me, or you don’t.”

  “And you expect me to give you an answer right now? All or nothing?”

  “Yes.”

  Catherine stared at him, the pressure of the ring pressing into her palm. A myriad of conflicting emotions battered her from every direction, but she shoved the jumble aside and focused on the anger—toward him for forcing her to make a decision like this and toward herself for even hesitating. Her choice was clear. She didn’t want a husband. So why was it so damnably difficult to say the one word that would send him away?

  Because that word would do just that—send him away.

  She moistened her dry lips. “In that case, I’m afraid it’s nothing.”

  Several long, silent seconds passed, and she watched his expression go blank, as if he’d pulled a curtain over his feelings. A muscle jerked in his jaw, and his throat worked as she imagined him swallowing his disappointment. He slowly released her hand, and a small voice inside her cried out No!, but she kept her lips pressed firmly together to contain it. She slowly opened her hand and held out the ring to him. He stared at the gem for so long, she thought he would refuse to take it. And actually he did just that by finally holding out his hand, forcing her to place the ring into his palm. After she did, he quickly stepped away from her and quit the room, softly closing the door behind him without a backward glance.

  Still staring at the closed door, Catherine sank onto the settee. The warmth from where his hand had held hers only seconds ago had disappeared, leaving a chill in its wake that shivered through her entire body. Her mind, her logic, told her she’d made the right choice. The eviscerating ache in her heart, however, indicated that she might have just made a terrible mistake.

  Just before dawn Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows propped on his knees, hands cradling his aching head. But the dull throbbing there was nothing compared to the soul-ripping pain in his chest.

  How was it possible for his heart to hurt so badly yet continue to beat? He wished he could blame the outcome of his proposal on its precipitous delivery, but he suspected that even if he’d taken months to court Catherine, in the end, she still would have refused him.

  But at least then you would have had those months with her, his inner voice taunted. Now you have... nothing.

  He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Clearly he’d made a mistake forcing her to choose all or nothing, but damn it, he’d wanted her for so long, been waiting so long. Had been so hopeful that she’d come to care for him. Would realize they belonged together.

  An image of that bastard Carmichael dragging her toward the springs flashed in his mind and his hands clenched. What had triggered such deep hatred of the Guide that he’d been driven to kill the author? Yes, the Today’s Modern Woman premises and explicit content were scandalous—but to the point of inciting murder?

  He recalled meeting Carmichael after the shooting at Lord Ravensly’s birthday party. Something odd, almost familiar, had struck him about Carmichael while he’d listened to him give his account of witnessing a man running into Hyde Park after the shot was fired. And he’d experienced that same sensation at both the duke’s soiree and at the museum yesterday. Philip had said Carmichael had spent time in America...

  Andrew closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall every detail of his encounters with Carmichael, first at the parties, then at the museum—

  An image flashed in Andrew’s mind, of Carmichael stroking his chin, prisms of light bouncing off the square-cut diamond-and-onyx ring he wore. Recognition hit Andrew, and everything inside him froze. Carmichael had been wearing that ring at both parties as well. It wasn’t the man who had inspired that flare of memory—it was the ring.

  Andrew dragged his hands down his face, his heart pumping hard. If he hadn’t relived the day Emily died, he would have missed it. He’d buried that hurt, that image so deeply... but there was no mistake. Carmichael’s unusual diamond-and-onyx ring was identical to the one that Lewis Manning was wearing the day Andrew had shot him.

  Carmichael isn’t after Charles Brightmore. He’s after me.

  The truth struck him like a blow, and his mind reeled. Carmichael must have some connection to Lewis Manning. There was a resemblance, around the eyes, he realized as pieces rapidly clicked into place. Was Carmichael Lewis’s father? Uncle? Father, most likely, Andrew decided. Which would certainly give him a motive to hate Andrew.

  When Catherine was shot, Andrew had been standing next to her. The bullet had been meant for him. And tonight, Carmichael had planned to kill him—a plan set awry by Catherine’s presence. She’d unknowingly saved his life and nearly drowned in
the process.

  He blew out a long breath and raked unsteady hands through his hair. Jesus. All he’d ever wanted to do was protect her, and he was the danger. Which meant he had to get away from her. Immediately.

  After eleven years, it appeared his past had finally caught up with him. And had twice nearly killed Catherine. Well, Carmichael wouldn’t get another chance.

  Andrew walked swiftly to the wardrobe, pulled his leather satchel from the bottom, and quickly began shoving his belongings inside.

  Don’t worry, Carmichael. You’ll find me. I’m going to make it very easy for you.

  * * *

  Catherine sat in her wing chair, staring at the grate of the fire that had burned out hours ago, the dead, gray ash a perfect reflection of her mood.

  With a sound of disgust, she rose and paced. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d made the right decision, the only decision she could have made under the circumstances. All or nothing? How could she possibly have agreed to give him “all”? She couldn’t have, and it was that simple. Yet in spite of that logic, she somehow still felt as if she’d been sliced in half.

  Dear God, the things he’d told her. His past should have shocked her, but after hours of thought, the ordeal he’d been through only served to reinforce her sympathy and admiration for him. Yes, he’d killed a man, but a man who only seconds before had tried to kill him. A man who had killed his wife—a young woman he’d risked a great deal to help. Andrew had lost everything, and all in the name of love. Yet he clearly had not turned his back on love, on marriage, as she had. He was kind, noble, generous, thoughtful, and...

  Oh, my, the way he’d looked at her, his heart in his eyes, all raw desire and naked emotion. She halted, and her own eyes slid closed, picturing him as clearly as if he stood before her. No one had ever looked at her like that before. And God help her, as much as she hadn’t wanted it, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she wanted Andrew to look at her like that again. She simply wasn’t ready to give him up as a lover.