Catherine and the Marquis
Bluestocking Brides
Samantha Holt
© 2017 Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]
Chapter One
Catherine narrowed her gaze at the cloud that drifted over her view of Pleiades. The small cluster of stars became completely covered by the errant puff of gray. She pursed her lips and huffed, folding her arms. A cloud was not going to spoil her evening of star-gazing. Since the season had ended, her mother had kept her so busy with social engagements and shopping and goodness knows what else, that she’d been too tired to slip out at night and study the skies. Why, she had even missed a fine view of a wonderful display of shooting stars last week.
One pesky cloud was not going to ruin her night.
She wriggled on the blanket she had laid out on top of the stone folly. Built like a tiny mock castle by some marquis many years ago, the faux ruins provided an excellent clear view of the skies without the impediment of trees or buildings obscuring her view. The flat top with its pretend castellations also shielded her from anyone’s view—not that she expected to meet anyone at well past eleven o’clock.
Another cloud slipped its way across the sky, covering more constellations. Several more followed in its path.
“I’m not giving up,” she told the clouds. “You cannot make me.”
As if in answer, the clouds gathered. A drop of rain plopped onto her nose, swiftly followed by another. Before long, a torrent of rain began to pelt down onto the stone, soaking through her spencer jacket all the way to her very bones.
Catherine sat and dragged the blanket into a bundle. “Fine, you win today, but I shall be back,” she warned the skies.
If Mama would leave her be for just a moment.
Since her older sisters had all married and left home, Mama had decided she needed to be wed too. Once upon a time, their mother had thought she and her sisters too redheaded and freckled to marry well and had pinned her hopes only on their fair-haired, prettiest sister. However, since all three of her redheaded sisters had married titled men, Mama had changed her mind about how marriable Catherine was. Now her one goal was to marry Catherine off to a rich gentleman.
Catherine snorted as she made her way down the slippery steps that spiraled down the turret and led into the open base of the folly. That her sisters had all married titled men was a strange twist of fate as it was, but the chances of her meeting another duke or earl who was actually interested in her was about as likely as her sister Julia never arguing with her ever again.
She paused in the arched doorway of the miniature castle. Rain pelted the ground and had quickly turned it into a sopping mess. Her mother and father would be tucked up in bed and the servants would have gone home long ago, so hopefully no one would catch her in such a state. As it was, her clothes stuck to her skin and her hair had long since come out of the careful coils she’d put in that morning and now clung to her face. After a dash across the fields toward home, she would be even worse for wear.
Muttering another curse at the weather, she braced herself and darted out of the doorway. The rain streamed so heavily down her face that she could hardly see where she was going. Thankfully she knew this land by heart. Since she was old enough to escape the house on her own, she had been coming here—at first enchanted by the little folly and then discovering that it offered the best view of the stars. The late-marquis had so much land that he never knew she had been sneaking across his boundaries for years.
Catherine swiped a hand across her face and paused. Did someone shout her name? No, impossible. No one knew she was here and only her sisters were aware of her visits to the folly. They would all be warm and safe in bed with their husbands.
She peered through the gloom, shrugged to herself and grabbed her skirt. A steely band wrapped suddenly around her arm and she whirled, coming face to face with a white apparition. A sudden flush of warmth rushed through her and her heart picked up pace, feeling as though it might burst through her chest.
Dragging her gaze upward, the white fabric gave way to a human face. A man’s face to be precise. No apparition here. She did not relax, however, not when she looked down at the strong hand that currently had her gripped tight.
“Let me go!” She tugged against him.
He eyed her as though she was the one who had appeared out of thin air and not him. She didn’t recognize him, and he wore only a shirt and trousers. It was hard to tell in the rain and the dark, but his features looked stern and his eyes menacing. Not the sort of man one wished to spend time with in the dark and utterly alone.
“I said…” She pulled back a foot. “Let me go.” Her toes connected with his shin, sending a dart of pain through her. It was enough, though. His grip loosened enough for her to wriggle free.
He shouted something, but she could not hear it properly over the rush of blood through her ears. She didn’t pause for breath until some distance away and safely tucked behind trees. Catherine pressed her back against the wet bark, aware of the damp fabric of her spencer pressing against her heated skin. Gulping down gasps of air, she tilted her head back and rested her it against the tree trunk.
It was not that she was unaware that being alone at night was dangerous, it was just that their village had always been so safe. Nothing of consequence ever happened and why some man was out by the folly, she did not know. He could only be up to no good with such a dark, sinister look about him.
Once her breath had returned and thoughts were gathered, she straightened her shoulders and marched toward home. She would tell no one of this. Her sisters would only scold her, and Mother would have a fit. Whether it would be about the man or getting soaked to the skin, she could not be sure, but either way, no one should know of this meeting.
Whether she could even return to the folly was another matter. Catherine huffed to no one as she unlocked the rear door of Luckington Grange—her family’s home for three generations. The door slid open with ease, making her smile. The hinges squeaked last week but the little touch of oil had worked beautifully, allowing her to slip out undetected while her mother remained asleep.
Closing the door, she turned and slammed into a wall.
No, not a wall. A body. She lifted her gaze upward and groaned. “Papa?” the word came out a squeak.
Any other time she would be thrilled to see him. Work kept him so busy, he was rarely home, and he traveled an uncommon amount. Part of her suspected he did not mind escaping their rather demanding mother at times but he doted on them all when he was home.
A bushy gray eyebrow lifted, and it was only then that Catherine registered the several lit oil lamps in the rear entrance way. Foolish girl. She should have noticed the glow from the windows, but she’d been so preoccupied with meeting that terrifying man. What would he have done if she had not kicked him? Kidnapped her perhaps? Hurt her? Killed her? A shudder tripped down her spine.
“You are soaked to the skin, Catherine.” Her father shrugged off his own greatcoat that had protected him from the worst of the rain.
“I didn’t know you were returning.”
“I caught the mail coach home. It just arrived.” He removed his top hat, placing it on the worn bench where all their belongings were often scattered upon their return home.
At present, it was home to several bonnets that Catherine rather hoped might accidentally vanish or become ruined. She hated to be ungrateful for her mother’s ge
nerosity, but endless bonnets and fripperies did not excite her, especially overly-designed ones.
Catherine had not moved since her entrance into the house. She eyed her father. He was not known for his temper and he tended to leave discipline—if there was such a thing in their household—to her mother. But then, he had never caught her slipping out at night before.
He snatched a blanket that had been discarded over the back of the bench goodness knows when and slung it around her shoulders. Using the corners to draw her close, he bent to press a kiss to her forehead. Her being the smallest of the Chadwick sisters, he had to bend quite a way.
Taking a step back, he eyed her as she wrapped the blanket gratefully around herself. “Come into the drawing room. I hope there are still some embers to warm us up. It’s been a long night.”
“I was just going to bed, Papa,” Catherine said. Perhaps he might let her slip upstairs, get changed and never speak of this again.
“Come to the drawing room,” he told her. The words brokered no argument.
Head hung low, Catherine traipsed into the room. The dying fire offered a welcome glow and some heat, so she huddled near it and awaited her fate.
Papa settled himself into the only masculine chair in the room. An overly repaired and worn armchair that had likely been occupied by three generations of Chadwick men, the brown, mottled chair did not match the cream and pale blue furnishings that her mother had carefully selected not long ago for the second drawing room. Though not designed to entertain, Mama would not let anything be done with poor taste. However, the chair always remained—a reminder of their often-absent father.
He groaned aloud as the seat embraced his body with a creak almost as noisy. Hands held out to the embers, he looked up at her. “Your mother tells me you are being a handful.”
Catherine scowled and folded her arms about herself underneath the blanket. No more than usual, she wanted to mutter. Nothing about her behavior had changed of late, it was only that her mother was paying more attention now the last unmarried sister aside from her had been scandalously married to an earl. Thankfully for her sister Emma, it had turned into quite the love match.
“I am trying, Papa, I promise.”
And she was. After all, it was not that she took pleasure in disobeying her mother. It was just that stars came out at night and the best place to see the skies was at the folly. And had she not indulged her mother many a time recently? Catherine had been letting her buy her new clothes and spent time with endless ladies in drawing rooms while they drank tea and talked of nothing in the hopes of her meeting one of their apparently eligible sons.
Goodness, she had gone through two whole seasons properly now. Since her sisters had married so well, spending time in London had become much more important in the Chadwick social calendar. As she aged, Catherine found she did not mind the dancing and distractions so much, but she still preferred to be at home, where all was familiar and pleasant.
Papa shook his head and creases deepened around gray eyes. “Do you call this trying?” he motioned to her damp appearance.
“I have not been out for weeks,” she protested. “The skies were so clear tonight.”
“Catherine, my dear.” He reached for her hand, the rough warmth of his palm softening her resolve just a tad. “Your mother misses your sisters. As much as she complains, you know she loves you all dearly. Would it be so awful to indulge her a little?”
“She wants me married, Papa. I have no interest in that.”
Her father lifted his wide shoulders. “That doesn’t mean you cannot allow her to pay you a little attention. You are an independent soul—all of you are—trust me, I am greatly aware of that. Your mother’s many, many letters always apprise me of the fact.” His smile grew a little. “Many, many, many letters,” he emphasized. “But all she has ever wanted is the best for you.”
“Despite the fact that I am a freckled, redheaded bluestocking?”
“You know she means little harm by that, and what part of that is not true?”
Catherine gave a little pout. It was true. All of them apart from their second oldest sister were freckled and red like their father—though his hair had faded to a pale ginger flecked with white. And they were bluestockings by nature. Whether they were still regarded as so now that all her sisters were advantageously married, she did not know, nor did she care. In her experience, bluestocking was used to describe only the most interesting of people.
“You know how Mama says it though.” She put the back of a hand to her head dramatically. “Oh, however will I marry off all these redheaded, freckled daughters.” She elevated her voice in mockery of her mother. “They are far too bluestocking and headstrong. No one shall ever want a single one of them.”
Papa chuckled. “Well, thankfully your sisters have proved her wrong. Now perhaps you can too.”
Catherine folded her arms and shook her head. “Never. It might have worked for my sisters, but I have every intention of being an eccentric spinster aunt.”
“All I ask is that you have a little patience with your mother. It is not easy raising five daughters.”
“It is not easy being one of those five daughters either.”
“And yet you have all come out wonderfully. I cannot take much credit for that, so I must thank your mother. And so must you. You’ve been afforded a privileged life, Catherine.”
Indignation began to fade away. She was lucky, she knew that. Her sisters liked to scold her too frequently and treated her like a child sometimes despite the fact she was nearly three and twenty, but they were the best sisters a girl could ask for and their mother’s insistence she could not control them had given them more freedom than the average girl.
“I will be around more in future,” her father said, releasing her hand and standing. “With your sisters’ welfares assured by way of their marriages, it is high time I looked at retirement. I can well afford one spinster daughter after all.” He smiled at her. “Though how your mother will take to my constant presence remains to be seen.”
She giggled. Her parents had been no love match and she could not say that they had ever been in love, but they seemed to get along companionably and had created a good life together.
“You shall be looking for more work before long, I suspect.”
Her father shook his head. “No, it is time I settled and enjoyed my lovely redheaded girls. After all, I am now a grandfather.”
“And you will be again soon, if Emma follows Amelia’s suit,” she reminded him. Amelia had given birth to a lovely baby boy several weeks before he was expected, much to her husband’s dismay. Thankfully all had been well and little Nicholas Wentworth had been as healthy as an ox with an instantly demanding attitude that reminded everyone of their sister Julia.
“Indeed. I cannot miss the birth of another Chadwick boy.”
“I think both Nicholas and Morgan would have something to say about that.”
“The Chadwick blood runs strong through our family, you know that. Another redheaded boy will be just what we need.”
“It might be a girl.”
He shook his head and drew her close for a quick embrace. “Let us hope not. I think we have enough girls in this family.” He gave her a little tap on the back. “Now off to bed with you and we will not say a word of this encounter.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“So long as you indulge your mother a little,” he added.
“Oh! That’s blackmail.”
“Indeed.” He waggled his bushy brows. “Do you not think I watched you and your sisters tattle on one another over the years? I learned from the best.”
Catherine shook her head with a sigh and a smile before heading up to bed. It was nice to have her father home as it usually gave her mother someone else to fuss over but she suspected things would not be quite so easy if he remained home. They had grown so used to functioning without him. And if he really meant what he said about her letting Mama continue with her effort
s to have her married off, any thoughts of watching stars and playing the devilish spinster aunt would be history.
Chapter Two
Thorne ignored the second huff of his sister Lilith. He ignored the third too. The folding of arms then the tapping of fingers combined with another huff could not be, however. His youngest sister was not the most patient of characters.
“I shall see what’s going on.” He opened the Brougham door and stepped out of the carriage. He should have brought the curricle, it would have been much easier, but with the weather they’d had last night, he expected the roads to be slippery and he could not risk driving his sister in such a lightweight vehicle.
“What’s wrong?” he asked the driver who was still perched in the driver’s seat.
“Tree across the road.” The driver motioned ahead where the two footmen were trying to drag the tree from blocking the road.
Though the weather had been inclement yesterday, Thorne doubted it had fallen then. Or if it had, it would have been ready to fall anyway. The rain had been unpleasant but there had been no wind.
Thorne eyed the tree and began to unbutton his jacket. The feeble attempts of the footmen would never get the tree shifted and if he knew his driver, he would complain of a bad back or a sore ankle or some other ailment that prevented him from assisting.
“Thorney!” his sister called from the carriage.
He turned and tried not to groan at the nickname. Lilith had always insisted Thorne was what men should call him and only men. It was not sweet enough for his dear sister apparently. At least she did not call him by his real name. He loathed the damn thing.
“Wait inside, Lilith,” he ordered. “I won’t be a moment.”
She pushed open the door and clambered down, holding her pale skirts aloft to avoid the mud. He held his breath as she came to his side. Lilith had never been a dainty character and was known to be wildly clumsy. He half-expected her to tumble over upon her first step into the mud and end up caked. That would ruin their afternoon plans entirely.
Catherine and the Marquis (Bluestocking Brides Book 4) Page 1
