Catherine and the Marquis (Bluestocking Brides Book 4)

by Samantha Holt

  “I—” Why was her tongue being so thick and unyielding? “Thank you, my lord. You—I…that is…”

  “I imagine you are eager to see to your sister. I wish you and her the best of luck.” He dipped his head quickly and mounted with such speed that she was unable to string another sentence together before he was gone.

  “Damn man,” she muttered. Turned her insides out then vanished. Typical.

  She picked up her skirts and took the rear steps up into the house. She entered via the rear doorway and so found no one there to greet her. A maid paused at the sight of her. “Oh, miss, the master is in the main drawing room.”

  “Thank you, is all well?”

  The petite fair-haired woman smiled. “As well as can be expected. His lordship is fretting somewhat.”

  “And my sister?”

  “She is in fine health. I am sent to fetch some water. Her Grace is here already.”

  How Julia had arrived here before Catherine she did not know but she could have been staying the night. Guy was due to travel to London the previous day so perhaps she decided to spend time with Emma.

  “I shall leave you to it.” Catherine made her way through the house to the drawing room, shoving open the door and barreling through it.

  She paused as she went to fling her arms around Morgan, intending to tell him to stop being a baby and cease his fretting. All the Chadwick girls were made of strong stuff and she had no doubt Emma would do a marvelous job of childbirth.

  However, this declaration dried up on her tongue. “What are you doing here?”

  The Marquis of Thornefield arched one dark brow.

  Morgan grinned. “Found him at the front of the house. Seemed like a fine time to have visitors.”

  A sheen shone on her brother-in-law’s forehead. Catherine scowled. It seemed he needed some male company, but did it really have to be the marquis? Her father would be along soon and perhaps Nicholas was in Hampshire at the moment. Far better to have either of those men at his side than this blasted marquis.

  “I shall fetch you a drink, Thorne. It is not yet time to celebrate but a little brandy would not hurt.” Lord Thornefield lifted a hand to protest but Morgan ignored him and began to ransack a drinks cabinet.

  “I was on my way home,” Lord Thornefield murmured. “Your brother spotted me and came out to greet me. I could not refuse.”

  Catherine shook her head and sighed. He did not want to be here anymore than she wanted him to be. Especially not after all that strange stomach flipping, heat creating time together. If anything, she needed distance and lots of it. Preferably he would not just head home but vanish to the depths of somewhere—London would do for now. At least then she could forget about what his body had felt like and how there was something about his icy eyes lingering on her face that made her breaths shorten.

  “I had better see how my sister is doing. It looks like you have been forced to be Morgan’s support. Best of luck to you.”

  “And to you and your sister.”

  “Oh we do not need luck,” she declared airily. “We are the Chadwicks. We make our own.”

  Chapter Eight

  Thorne was not quite sure what he had envisaged for the day. A brisk ride, yes. A little time meeting with tenants, addressing their needs, perhaps. Time spent cleaning the stables, almost certainly.

  Comforting a man whose wife was going through one of the most dangerous things a lady could do, certainly not.

  Morgan paced back and forth across the drawing room while Thorne stood by the front window. Offering generous views of the land surround the house, he stared out of it, forcing his gaze to the flowers laid out in rectangular patterns and the trees ahead.

  He saw little of it. Damn but he did not want to be here. It was not that he wished to abandon a man in a time of need, but he had little to offer Morgan by way of comfort. They knew each other from various events, though the Earl of Radcliff was known to spend most of his time in London and Thorne avoided it. Since his marriage, however, he had increased his time in Hampshire, presumably to be closer to his wife’s family.

  If it was him, he’d want to be as far away as possible. Women like Catherine did not just suddenly become brash and outrageous. The duchess was known to be quite outspoken too and he had no doubt the other sisters were just as unusual. As much as he loathed gossip, it was hard to avoid the talk surrounding these Chadwick ladies.

  Apparently, they had to hold some appeal, though, as they had all married well with the exception of Catherine. He imagined even the strongest of men could not withstand that woman and who could blame them?

  Not he, to be certain.

  He glanced at Morgan who pushed a hand through his hair and paced back toward the fireplace. The man stopped, tinkered with the clock there then twisted back to march to the window facing to the east. He repeated the movement moments later. Before long, there would be a groove in the patterned carpet of the room.

  Thorne tried to stare outside again. A steady snore came from the armchair by the fire. Mr. Chadwick had arrived in a blur of action with his wife, who had flapped her hands at her husband and barked orders at him to look after Morgan before dropping into a deep curtsey in front of Thorne then hastening upstairs.

  The older man, however, had done little apart from close his eyes and settle into a sleep that Thorne envied. At least then he would not be thinking of Miss Chadwick and how she had smelled.

  He frowned when he caught his reflection in the glass. Straightening his posture, he glowered at himself. The scent of her was nothing spectacular. It must have been fresh soap and nothing more. He’d smelled soap before. That very morning, in fact, when he had bathed. What was so interesting about the fragrance?

  It was, he admitted to himself, that it was on her.

  Damn the woman.

  She’d felt so delicate in his arms. So…very right. But how could that be? She was too petite, too young, too...too so many things. Certainly not the sort of woman he should be expending brain power on. And yet, he could not forget it. The very remembrance of how perfectly her body had sat flush against his own made his skin heat.

  Morgan traipsed back to the fireplace. Mr. Chadwick’s snoring ceased for a moment before he drew in one extended snore and smacked his lips together.

  Thorne drew his pocket watch out and flipped it open. The day grew late and a gray light had settled across the land. “I should return home,” he suggested. “It is growing late, and I have imposed long enough.”

  Morgan paused halfway across the room. “How much longer will this take?”

  Thorne wished he could offer an answer but his experience with childbirth was limited. “Perhaps I should…”

  “Never again, Thorne,” Morgan declared. “I shall have no more children. If it’s a girl, I shall declare it my heir and be done with it. How any man goes through this more than once, I do not know.”

  Thorne resisted the urge to mention it was likely far worse for his wife especially as he knew Morgan’s main concern was his wife. He glanced outside then at the empty glasses of brandy.

  “I should check on my horse but let us have another drink after that. I think we have earned it.”

  Morgan nodded. “A fine idea. You worry about your horse, I shall worry about the drinks.”

  Thorne left via the front of the house and took a sharp turn to the left. He’d certainly not intended to stay so long, let alone at all. He had no place here during such a time, but it seemed Morgan needed the company.

  Once ensuring his horse was settled for the night, he opted for the long way around the house, drawing in extended breaths of cool evening air and relishing the quiet that lingered around the countryside.

  Quiet that was, until he nearly stumbled over Miss Chadwick who was sitting on the bottom step outside the back of the house.

  “Be careful, you big oaf.” She lifted her gaze up. “Oh.”

  “Who did you think it was?”

  She laughed. “A big oa
f.” She smoothed her hands down her skirt but made no attempt to stand. The passing of many hours had not been kind to her. Her hair hung in wild curls around her face and shoulders. Half of it had been roughly pinned up at some point, lending her an odd sort of lopsided look. Her clothes were creased and a little stained with water he suspected, though it was hard to tell in this light.

  “I did not realize you were still here,” she said.

  “Your brother-in-law seems to need company.”

  “It’s a shame Nicholas and Guy aren’t here. They would know exactly how to comfort Morgan.”

  Meaning he did not. Of which he was well aware. Social graces were one thing, male friendship was another. After years of looking after Lilith, he was not sure he had the capability for such a thing.

  He shifted and tucked his hands behind him after several moments of silence passed. “Well, I shall leave you in peace.”

  Miss Chadwick glanced briefly at him then fixed her gaze back on the distance. He turned and paused. He might not understand the complexities of friendship, but he knew a distressed woman when he saw one—his sister had at least taught him that much.

  Sinking down beside her, he eyed the darkening gardens. The difference was, of course, he had known Lilith all her life—had raised her in many ways, he supposed—and she was the sort of girl who was not averse to a little weeping. A weeping woman was easy enough to comfort.

  Miss Chadwick, however, was an entirely different story. He did not think he had ever met anyone like her and could safely say he could search until the ends of the earth and still not find anyone similar.

  Minutes of silence passed. Bloody hell, he had to do something. Say something. Anything. As much as he might find her frustrating and too brash, he did not wish to leave her distressed.

  A little touch was all that was needed. A string of words, perhaps. Just something to say all would be well and then he could leave her to it and return to the pacing earl.

  He reached out, forcing himself through the hesitation to put a hand to her shoulder. He gave her an awkward pat and retracted his hand with haste.

  Catherine turned to look at him, amusement in her gaze. He could not help but smile back. She nudged him with a shoulder. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

  “Terrible,” he admitted.

  She sighed, remaining slightly tucked against him. “Being the youngest, I do not even know what it is like to not have four sisters.”

  Thorne took the opportunity to ease an arm around her. Her body softened into his. He was reminded how snugly she fit against him, how oddly natural it actually was once he had committed to comforting her.

  “All will be well,” he murmured, aware of a strange tightness in his chest as though his heart had grown too big for the confines of his ribs. “All will be well,” he repeated.

  “I hope so. I do not know what I would do without Emma and her blasted knitting.”

  “Knitting?”

  “Her favorite hobby,” she explained. “Once it had been singing, and painting. The violin for a while too I think. She tried poetry and card tricks too.” Miss Chadwick laughed. “There were so many things, it is hard to keep track. But since marrying Morgan she has settled on knitting. She is so terrible at it too. But I would miss the scratchy scarves and odd shaped mittens terribly.”

  He chuckled. He might not know how to comfort a woman or what to do during childbirth but affection for one’s sibling, he understood. All his siblings had their quirks, but he could not imagine life without them. If Lilith ever had a child, he would no doubt be fretting as much as Catherine. And while she fretted in a restrained manner, he knew well enough she was reeling inside.

  How he knew that much about this woman already, he was not sure.

  “I do not know all of you that well yet, but I do know this,” he said, “the Chadwick women are reputed to be strong and courageous.”

  “You mean bold and outrageous,” she corrected, effecting a nasally, overly refined voice. “And bluestocking and frightful and not at all eligible and why the devil would any lord want to marry them?”

  “Well, yes, I heard those things too. But as far as I can tell, that means someone who does not give in easily.”

  “Stubbornness does run in the family,” she admitted. “Julia’s the worst for it.”

  “And not you?”

  She glanced at him, a smile curving her lips. “I am the least stubborn of them all, naturally.” She turned her head away and eyed the gardens sprawled out in front of them.

  The silence gave him time to think. Time to consider how snugly she fit against him, how he could not remember ever sitting with someone like this, simply taking in the world. Time to wonder why it was he enjoyed having her so close to him.

  “This is quite pleasant,” she said after a while, the words slightly hesitant.

  “It is,” he agreed because how could he do otherwise. “Better than being kicked in the shins,” he added.

  Chapter Nine

  Catherine shoved open the door to the drawing room and had to pause to drag in a breath. She shook her head and grinned. Slumped in an armchair by the fire was Papa, his hands clasped across his stomach and his legs propped up on a stool. She did not think he had moved all night and had clearly had the easiest night of them all.

  The two other men were on the sofa, their heads tilted together and touching. She wished she could summon a portrait painter and capture the moment for them to remember forever. In sleep, the slightly hard features of the marquis were soft and rather appealing. Her fingers twitched with the need to touch his relaxed mouth.

  Enough of that, she told herself. “It’s a boy!” she announced so loudly that her voice rang out into the hallway.

  Morgan awoke first, jolting up so that Lord Thornefield slid sideways and his head landed on Morgan’s lap. Both men blinked blearily and Lord Thornefield pushed up hastily, throwing an embarrassed look her way.

  “What’s going on?” her father demanded, giving a great yawn but not bothering to move.

  “It’s a boy!” She could not keep her grin to herself. After a long and far too exhausting labor for her sister, a scrawny, bald little boy had been born with a strong cry and an already determined temperament. Lord Thornefield had been right—her sisters were far too strong to let the odds defeat them.

  “A boy?” Morgan stood and stared at her for a moment. “A boy? She…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Emma is well? We have a baby? A baby boy?”

  Catherine nodded.

  “Oh boy, a boy. I have a boy. I would not have minded having a girl of course. But…” Never had she seen the self-confident earl look so addled.

  “You had better go see her, I think.”

  “Oh, yes. I better had. That is…is she ready to see me?” Morgan shook his head and grinned. “A boy,” he repeated, the words tinged with wonder.

  “Go,” Catherine ordered.

  Julia entered the room and was nearly mown down by Morgan as he raced up to see Emma. The night had taken a similar toll on her sister as it had Catherine. Curls hung haphazardly and there were dark circles visible under the freckles around her eyes.

  “He is relieved, I take it?” Julia asked, looking back at Morgan while he bounded upstairs.

  Catherine giggled. “Just a little.” She looked to her father. “Papa, will you not go and see your grandchild?”

  Their father had plucked up the nearest newspaper and buried himself behind it. “I will, I will. When the baby is nice and clean, and Emma is rested. Why your generation insists on being so involved, I do not know. I did not see you until you were a good day old.”

  Julia glanced at Lord Thornefield. “Lord Thornefield, it seems you were drawn into our family drama. I thought you had left.”

  He shifted a little, looking awkward if not handsome with his loosened cravat and mussed hair. “It would have been remiss for me to leave the earl at such a time. It seemed he needed male company.”


  “Well, we shall be eternally grateful for your kindness. I know Guy will regret he could not be here, but it will be of some comfort to him that you were.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes at Julia’s formal manner. She so loved to play the role of courteous duchess to a frustratingly ridiculous extent but anyone who knew her, understood Julia to be almost as blunt as herself.

  He acknowledged her words with an incline of his head. “I am glad I could be of help.”

  “I must thank you for looking after Catherine too.” Julia’s smile was mischievous.

  Catherine shot her a look that she ignored. Lord Thornefield straightened, his lips tightening. Oh she knew she should not have said she had spent a little time with him, but everyone had been asking where she had been when she had taken a break and commented that her cheeks were a little rosy. Under such stressful circumstances, could she really be blamed for saying something?

  “My pleasure,” he said stiffly.

  No idea of pleasure lingered in his gaze, however. That man from last night had been carefully tucked away underneath a hard, glittering gaze and tight lips. Blast, she loathed him, really she did. She should not have let herself be lured in by his awkward attempt to comfort her and the reassuring strength of his body.

  “I had better write to Guy.” Julia whipped a sheet of paper from the writing desk in one corner and moved to the door. “And Lavinia too of course. Catherine, why do you not see if you can rustle up some food? I think the serving staff are a little in disarray without Emma to order them about.”

  Catherine said nothing, merely narrowing her gaze at her sister as she breezed out of the room.

  Papa cleared his throat and stood. “I think I shall hunt out sustenance too. I might be a little out of place in the kitchen, but I shall see if they are organizing my breakfast. Will you be staying, Lord Thornefield?”

  He shook his head. “I have imposed long enough and though I sent a message to my sister yesterday, I am sure she shall be fretting.”

  “Yes, yes, well I do not blame you for wanting to quit this place. The women shall descend on us before long and no one need witness that.” Papa winked at Catherine.