“She doesn’t have orange hair,” Catherine muttered under her breath in defense of the beautiful redhead who had as many beaux as her sister.
“What’s that you say? Do speak up, girl,” her mama ordered.
“Please excuse me, I need some air.” Then, without waiting for her mother to comment, she strolled across the room to the balcony, which, although less crowded than the ballroom, was not quite the haven she was looking for. She found a deserted corner and looked out at a garden that was all aglow with hundreds of translucent candles. How beautiful, she thought, before closing her eyes.
She had to regain her composure. Nothing tragic had happened, she told herself. Nobody had been hurt, nobody mortally wounded. Only a few unkind words had been spoken, and they were not even words she had never heard before. She had already known she was an ape leader—not the veriest quiz, of course, but an ape leader nonetheless. Evelyn was always reminding her of her failure to wed, and her mother, who most probably loved her, frequently called her a spinster to her face.
No, nothing tragic had happened.
Yet she couldn’t convince herself that there wasn’t something heartrendingly sad about hearing those words from his lips.
Catherine thought back to earlier that day, to the gentle smile he had worn as he wished her au revoir. What a fool she had been, thinking that maybe he wanted to see her again, too. He! Julian Haverford, Marquess of Deverill, one of the richest, handsomest, most sought-after peers in all of England, who could have any woman he wanted. Any fashionable Incomparable. Any diamond of the first water. It was laughable, really, to imagine him paying court to a drab mouse like her, to the veriest quiz, to a spinster firmly on the shelf.
It was so absurd it could make you cry, she thought, feeling the tears well up. Well, she wouldn’t. She would not cry over something that never existed.
She took another breath and waited for the tears to pass. It required only five minutes. There, she thought, patting her eyes dry, now I must look like the veriest quiz.
The idea made her smile, despite her sadness, and she considered returning to the ballroom. Not quite yet, however, because her eyes were probably frightfully red from the tears. She would give herself another few minutes. The balcony was dark and comforting, and she would have stayed there all night if she could.
She couldn’t, of course, and contemplated what she would do when she returned to the ballroom. She wanted to find Lady Courtland and hold her to account for the awful things she had said and done, but despite the confidence she mustered to confront her butler, she knew she would never muster enough confidence to confront the lady herself. No, she would, in fact, make it a practice to avoid her whenever possible. Deverill, too. She would not be their little project.
When Catherine felt as though a suitable interval had passed, she decided it was time to go back in. She took in a deep, steadying breath, pulled her shoulders back, raised her chin and—
“You look ready to do battle,” the Marquess of Deverill said to her in a conversational tone that knocked the wind out of her and forced her to clutch the handrail for support. He saw this and apologized. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She muttered a reply, but it was spoken so softly he couldn’t hear. When he asked her to repeat it, she said more strongly, “You didn’t frighten me.”
To her utter surprise, Catherine felt oddly calm. She didn’t know why, but now that she was confronted with him, her nerves had quieted. Perhaps because the worst was already over. She had been hurt so badly tonight that nothing else could touch her.
Hearing her voice, Deverill looked at her strangely before a delighted smile broke across his face. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
Seeing that smile, Catherine marveled at how well he played the game. He actually seemed happy to see her—her, the veriest quiz!
“Earlier today at the museum, wasn’t it?” he continued. “I’d hope we’d meet again. I enjoyed talking with you and your sister. An interesting child, quite precocious. You should bring her back to see the mummy exhibit. Unless your mother doesn’t approve of mummies. If I recall correctly, they don’t have noses either.”
When Catherine didn’t response to this joke, he said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to distress you by making light of your situation. Did you get a terrible scold upon returning?”
His concern sounded so genuine that Catherine felt compelled to answer. “Nothing too horrible. Fortunately, Mama was more concerned with the curl of her hair than the corruption of her child. I was repentant for five minutes or so, then it passed.”
He laughed and it was the same deep baritone as earlier that day, the one that made her heart skip a beat then as it did now. Why was it, she thought, that there in the moonlight, away from the crowd, he seemed nice and friendly and not at all cruel? But he was the same man who called her an ape leader and demanded perfection in a wife. She had to remember that.
“Ah, do you hear that?” He gestured to the open doors. “They are striking up the waltz. My dear,” he said bowing deeply, “much to my pleasure, I see no one else has come to claim you. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Catherine stared numbly at him for several seconds. The waltz! Any girl who nurtured the merest sliver of hope in her heart had learned the waltz. Even Catherine, whose sliver could be said to be slighter than most, had practiced the dance when she was alone in her father’s study. She knew she couldn’t trust him. She knew his motives weren’t pure, but for the moment she didn’t care. All she cared about was the chance to float around the dance floor in the arms of this tall graceful man who had laughed at her sallies and looked upon her kindly earlier that day. She would hate him again later.
“Yes,” she said, accepting his proffered arm even as she cursed herself for being so weak.
Their dance started awkwardly, with Catherine not quite sure where to put her hands. She had never actually waltzed with another human being and was momentarily disconcerted by how solid he felt. But within seconds, she adjusted and settled into the rhythm of the music. She even closed her eyes and relied on Deverill to guide her safely.
He didn’t talk and neither did she. Catherine was too caught up in the sensation of soaring to indulge in something as mundane as speech.
But then it was over. The musicians stopped playing, and the couples ceased twirling around the ballroom.
“You are a lovely dancer, m’dear,” Deverill said, leading her off the floor as couples assembled for the next set. “Here, why don’t I get us some punch?”
Catherine nodded and watched him disappear into the crowd, completely unaware of the strange looks she was getting from members of the ton who had heretofore never noticed her existence. But she did notice one thing in particular: Lady Courtland’s satisfied expression.
Mortified by how easily Lord Deverill’s effortless grace and handsome face had overcome her resolve, Catherine left the spot. She would not be there when he returned with punch. Instead, she would be back at her mother’s side, listening to the chaperones gossip as if fascinated by the wit of their bon mots. If Deverill tried to find her, she did not know, as she kept her eyes firmly fixed on Lady Fellingham’s face until it was time to leave.
For Evelyn the ball had been a disastrous experience, thanks mostly to the fact that her dowdy sister Catherine had danced the waltz with the eminently eligible Lord Deverill. She herself had never danced the waltz with Deverill. A minuet or two, of course. Perhaps a quadrille. But not the waltz.
Evelyn had never considered her sister competition for a gentleman’s favor, and that she had to do so now offended her. During the course of the carriage ride home, she made certain the other occupants knew it.
“I don’t understand it,” Evelyn said for what might possibly have been the sixth time. “Why in the world would he want to dance with her? I cannot credit it with any sense.”
Catherine, who had passed the journey in relative silence in an attempt to take the high ro
ad, decided that she’d been maligned enough. “Evelyn, cease your endless prattle now or I will forcefully eject you from the carriage. Do you understand?”
“Mama, I do believe that Catherine has just threatened my life. Did you hear that?” Evelyn cried.
Lady Fellingham, who had enjoyed herself so much at the party that she was thoroughly exhausted now, smiled sleepily at her pretty daughter. “Evelyn dear, you have no cause to tease yourself over Deverill’s defection. Gentlemen from good families were tripping all over each other tonight to fill up your dance card. Deverill is the first man to show an interest in Catherine in, well, years. I don’t know why he chose to dance with your sister. Indeed, he did not apply to me for permission, and I am already somewhat put out with your sister for waltzing without my approval. Nevertheless, I don’t think we should question her good fortune. Clearly, the Lord works in inexplicable ways and it is not up to us to decipher them.”
“But he was my beau, Mama, mine,” Evelyn whined, so distraught at this frightening turn of events that she stomped her foot on the carriage floor. “You know Deverill was my beau. Catherine hasn’t had a beau in six years, and I don’t think it’s fair that she be allowed to steal one of mine.”
“That is precisely why your sister should proceed unencumbered by us in this courtship,” said her mother, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the cushions. “Evelyn, your beauty obligates you to act graciously in this matter.”
“Courtship?” she screeched. “One dance does not a courtship make.” She turned to her sister. “The richest, most handsome peer of the realm who courts great beauties and Incomparables is not courting you. He…he probably lost a bet and was forced to dance with you. Or it was a dare from one of his friends. You know what fashionable gentlemen are like. They have their jokes.”
“You know, brat,” said her brother Freddy, who had planned at the onset to remain silent rather than get involved in the petty ways of women but decided with this last jibe that the time had come to choose sides, “you can be a really mean person sometimes and I am devilishly glad that an out-and-outer like Deverill has the sense to pursue someone like Catherine rather than a spoilt cat like you. Now cease your screeching and allow us to ride home in silence.”
Evelyn was so angered by this slight that tears welled up in her eyes. “Mama, tell Freddy he can’t talk to me like that.”
“Freddy, gently bred daughters of peers do not screech,” his mother instructed calmly. “Apologize to your sister.”
Evelyn smiled smugly at her brother, who made a face at her in return and refused to say he was sorry.
It was a very long ride home indeed.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Catherine came down for breakfast the next morning, the parlor was empty, and a place setting had been laid out for her along with the morning paper. The staff knew quite well that after a ball, Catherine was the only family member who ever made it down for breakfast—the rest were sad layabouts who needed hours to recover after a night’s dissipation. This well-documented pattern explained why Catherine and Hawkins, who was pouring coffee at the time, were entirely shocked to see her mother enter the room.
Lady Fellingham was attired in a Devonshire brown walking gown, just the sort she always wore for shopping expeditions with Evelyn. Catherine watched as her mother took the seat adjacent to hers and felt a tinge of fear at what this might mean. Nobody ever sat next to Catherine in the morning. They always left her at the far end of the table with her newspaper.
“Hawkins,” said Lady Fellingham, sinking deeply into her seat, “I’ll have some juice please and an assortment of whatever you have there on the sideboard. What’s Catherine eating?”
“Kippers, my lady.”
“Then make sure I have some kippers, too,” she ordered pleasantly before turning her smile on Catherine.
Examining her mother’s happy expression, Catherine felt an awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she had not experienced in almost six years. She was positively terrified of what would come next.
“Mama, I was sure you would still be abed after an exhausting evening like last night’s,” she said, only briefly glancing up from the newspaper.
“Pooh, don’t be silly, my dear.” She accepted the glass of juice from Hawkins, took a reviving sip and said, “How could I sleep on a glorious morning like this?”
“Glorious?” Catherine asked, her alarm growing. There was nothing particularly glorious about the day. Outside clouds covered the sun, threatening rain.
“Yes. Isn’t is exciting?” Lady Fellingham asked.
“Exciting, Mama?”
“Yes, exciting. Your triumph last night has made me so happy I could weep.”
“My triumph?” Catherine squeaked.
“Really, Catherine, why are you parroting me like that?” her mother asked impatiently as she removed the newspaper from her daughter’s grasp. One could not have a proper coze with a newspaper on the table. She handed it to Hawkins. “You never used to be a stupid child.”
“I haven’t any triumphs,” she said, watching the paper disappear with a mixture of regret, fear and confusion.
“Don’t be modest, dear. Deverill is quite the catch. You couldn’t do any better. And I couldn’t be more proud.”
Appalled at the egregious misunderstanding of the situation, she stammered, “But, Mama, he isn’t…I haven’t…we are not—”
“Don’t worry about Evelyn,” she said whilst buttering toast. “I know she was horribly upset last night, but she is young. She will recover from this disappointment. Besides, I don’t think she was truly besotted with Deverill. He’s handsome and well-to-do and full of consequence, and she was momentarily dazzled. But he has a certain gravitas that would not suit her. Whereas you, my dear, you are not as flighty as your sister. You don’t jump from one beau to the next. If you have set your cap for Deverill, then by all means, you shall have him. You realize, my dear, that I only want what’s best for you, and there’s none better than Deverill. I imagine his income dwarfs ours several times over. Oh, how lovely, to never have to worry about your father’s gambling debts ever again.” Lady Fellingham reached a hand over and gently patted her stunned daughter’s cheek. “Dear child, you have made me so happy.”
As her mother stared at her teary-eyed, Catherine wondered what was the best way to deal with this wretched situation. She could not let her mother go on daydreaming in such a fanciful fashion, and yet how could she explain that Evelyn had been right, that Deverill had indeed been put up to it by her very dear friend Lady Courtland, that she herself was nothing but a project for a bored gentlewoman. She was too humiliated to admit the truth, even to her mother, but she knew she must lower her ladyship’s expectation of impossible future events.
“Really, Mama, you should not get so excited. It was just one dance.”
Much to Catherine’s surprise, her mother smiled understandingly. “You might not believe this, but I remember what it is like to be young. And despite your advanced years, you are still youngish. I know you are feeling uncertain now. You don’t want to get hurt. Yes, darling, it was just one dance, but oh, what a dance it was. The waltz! I know. I’ve never approved of it before and were Evelyn to start twirling around a dance floor held indecently in the arms of a man, I would box her ears, but you are more mature. And you dance so beautifully.”
“I do?” she whispered, unable to remember the last time her mother complimented her on anything but her good sense.
“Indeed,” she said before gobbling down a forkful of ham. “And that’s why you and I are going directly to Bond Street to buy you some new dresses. The one you wore last night was horribly out of fashion. We can’t have the Marquess of Deverill squiring you around in anything that isn’t of the first stare.” Lady Fellingham waved her fork in the air. “Upon consideration, Catherine, it occurs to me that I can’t remember the last time you and I went shopping together. What have you been wearing these last six years?�
�
“But I’m not—” she protested, trying to assure her mother that the Marquess of Deverill would not be squiring her around, but she did it with only half a heart, and when her mother interrupted, she didn’t really mind.
“I think we shall go to Madam Bonnard. She has made some excellent dresses of late for Evelyn. She has a very good sense of style, and simply everyone frequents her,” Lady Fellingham said. “She’s the height of fashion. You can’t wear white like Evelyn, but I think some nice pastels will look very well on you. I’ve always thought you looked best in pastels. But I’m sure I’ve told you that before.”
As Catherine sat there clutching her fork, she felt as though she were being seduced by some dark demon. It had been years and years since anyone cared if her dresses were the height of fashion—since her first season, in fact. When it had become clear that her eldest daughter wasn’t going to take, Lady Fellingham lost interest in her. The casual indifference with which her mother treated her hurt Catherine, of course, but it also gave her the freedom to do the things she enjoyed, like reading and going to museums and taking long strolls in the park.
Now it was all starting again, and Catherine could feel herself getting caught up in the excitement. She knew she should tread carefully, but she couldn’t help wondering if this time it could be different. She was older and, as her mother liked to remind her, more mature. Surely she could handle herself better and not be so overwhelmed and bewildered by the social whirl. Lady Courtland believed Deverill’s attentions alone would make her fashionable. What if it was true? How would the beau monde appear when she looked at it from the top, rather than from the bottom? Perhaps the very act of being popular would make her feel popular, which could have the beneficial effect of putting her at ease and letting some of her personality shine through. Under those circumstances, she might very well meet a man she could love.
Miss Fellingham's Rebellion Page 6
