As she and Charlotte were twins and mirror images, that was par for the course.
But to Miss Claremont's blatant attempt at flattery—emotional arm twisting as it were—Catherine suppressed the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes. She was not ravishing. Truly, she was not.
Reasonably pretty? Yes, that she would concede to. And some would even say beautiful on one of her better days when her hair decided to cooperate. But ravishing? Hardly.
Nevertheless, all claims of modesty aside, she’d be a liar if she said she didn’t welcome the stroke to her vanity when only five months before, Lucas Beaumont had dealt it and her heart a blow from which she had yet to recover.
Lucas.
She gave her head a mental shake to clear him from her thoughts, and resisted the urge to rub the ache that had suddenly formed in her chest; an ache she preferred to attribute to heartburn not heartache. Today, it must be the kippers she’d eaten that morning.
“While I am flattered by the compliment, there are women far prettier than I who would be far better suited for this sort of thing.” Natural flirts like Meghan Townsend and women like, Olivia Spencer, whose acting talents would make one believe she’d been born to take to the stage. And she could say this about them because they were her dear dear friends.
“It’s true that there are other women just as stunning. Your friends Lady Meghan and Lady Olivia, to be sure. However, before I came out, my cousin had asked Lord Jacobsen to name the three most beautiful ladies in all of London and he named you and your sister first.”
Catherine’s eyebrows shot up. Indeed? She’d sensed not a glimmer of admiration on his part. He’d been polite but nothing more. He hadn’t once asked for a space on her dance card or paid her special court. But perhaps a woman set on an unswerving path toward spinsterhood—no matter how attractively packaged—hadn’t been enough to entice him to look past her dubious lineage.
But who is their mother?
That question had plagued her and Charlotte since James had brought them to live with him ten years ago. It had haunted her and her sister until they’d learned the truth four years later. And now while they had full knowledge of from whom they came, the collective ton could not if she wanted to keep her precarious place in society.
Miss Claremont laughed gaily. “He remarked that he could scarcely believe you had not already married.”
She’d loved but once and that love hadn’t been reciprocated. And as she would not marry for anything less than love, she’d almost resigned herself to the fact she’d never marry. That she may never hold her own babe in her arms.
But almost was the operative word. She wasn’t quite ready to relinquish that hope just yet.
Pulling her mind back to the conversation at hand, Catherine asked, “And from that you took to mean that if anyone could tempt him enough to disregard his affections for you, it would be me? A man who has never once shown me any interest?”
“But I’m sure that is because you’ve never paid him any mind. Have you?” The latter seemed to come as an afterthought.
Truthfully, Catherine had seen him only a handful of times over the years and now that she thought more on it, she couldn’t recall if they’d even been formally introduced. Her memory of him was that of a quiet, studious, dark-haired, young gentleman of average height and build. Pleasantly unassuming.
“No, but—”
“I’m sure that is precisely why. Lord Jacobsen is the kind of gentleman who would require encouragement of some sort. Quite unlike Lord Ashmore, he’s not at all the brash and boastful type.” Her pink lips tightened in seeming displeasure at the mention of her former betrothed.
Catherine sighed in sincere regret. While she sympathized with the girl’s plight, she simply couldn’t bring herself to agree to such a plan. She wasn’t the sort of woman who could play the coquette—at least not convincingly—even if she were inclined to help.
Goodness, the last time she’d come even close to flirtation had been with Lucas, and look how that had turned out. He’d gone back to America and promptly forgotten about her as evinced by the lone letter she’d received from him when he’d first arrived. The letter had held all the familiarity and affection one would bestow upon a distant relation. She’d rather he had not written at all.
“Please, Miss Rutherford, I beg you. I thought you of all people would understand my circumstances. If I may speak frankly.” She scooted to the edge of the sofa, her hands having abandoned her pleats to clench tightly together in her lap. “I would be lying by omission if I didn’t admit to having heard about what happened between Lord Braddock and your sister’s maid.”
Catherine’s next breath felt pulled roughly from her, the ragged sound emerging before she could stop it. Although the fact that Miss Claremont had heard shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Servants were bound to talk and some had witnessed the aftermath of the event.
James had all but escorted Lord Braddock from Rutherford Manor.
Miss Claremont’s expression instantly became contrite. “Oh, I meant you no discourtesy or to cause you any distress. It is just that I thought given the similarity of our circumstances, you of all people would understand how I feel. And for that reason, I prayed you’d see your way to assisting me.”
The girl had certainly done her homework and presented a compelling argument. Lord Braddock had begun to court her one month after Lucas’s departure, but some would say it may not have been Catherine he’d truly wanted, or the only woman he wanted.
The memory alone was enough to spark her fury, but Catherine forced a level of calm to her voice when she spoke. “As far as my family and I are concerned, Lord Braddock was a guest like any other at Lady Windmere’s house party. Had he been a duke instead of a viscount, his actions toward my sister’s maid would have been deemed just as reprehensible. Now whether his intention toward me was marriage, I can never say as no formal offer was ever extended.” Thank God.
What had occurred between she and viscount could be laid squarely at the door of Lucas Beaumont. A broken heart and bruised ego plays havoc on a person’s judgment. Had she not been smarting over Lucas’s abrupt return to America, she would have quickly seen that Lord Braddock’s charm, handsome countenance, and appearance of prosperity was a veneer as thickly coated as the paint used to deface the public walls in Covent Garden. Unfortunately for him, the debts owed to his creditors couldn’t be gotten off with turpentine and a rigorous scrubbing.
Far more intolerable had been the improper advances he’d made toward Jillian, the then seventeen-year-old mulatto girl her sister had brought back with her from America. To Charlotte, Jillian was more than a servant, she was family, and her sister treated her as such, as the rest of the family was inclined to.
Jillian’s beauty, however, had become her own cross to bear in the form of much unwanted attention from gentlemen—gentry and aristocrat alike—who thought her ripe for the picking. A beautiful young thing they could trifle with, with no fear of consequences.
“Miss Rutherford, I feel you are the only one I can turn to.” Miss Claremont’s voice broke and her eyes implored. “After the whole affair with Lord Ashmore, I no longer trust my own judgment or a man’s word. I don’t think I could survive another scandal, another broken engagement. And I would be miserable in a marriage in which I’m expected to tolerate a husband dallying with other women.”
Catherine couldn’t agree with her more on that. But what she’d proposed—wasn’t this its own form of deception? But an almost negligible bit of deception for a much bigger and worthier cause. And what could be more worthy than a person’s happiness.
It simply wasn’t fair. Men were heavily favored in the whole manner of courting and marriage. The choice was theirs to make in picking this girl or that one. And should a wife decide to take a lover, her husband could ruin her with divorce. But if he were to take a mistress, his wife, of course, would have no grounds to divorce him.
As if sensing the tumult of her thoug
hts, Miss Claremont said, “You don’t have to give me an answer now. But I do beg you to think on it.” She then offered a tentative smile and stood, drawing the meeting to a close.
Catherine quickly followed her lead and then proceeded to escort her out.
Five minutes later, she stood at the window in the morning room and watched Miss Claremont depart in a black-lacquered carriage.
She sighed as she turned from the window. What was she to do?
I don’t trust my own judgment. Those words haunted her for she knew the feeling well.
Prior to Lord Braddock’s courtship, several gentlemen had courted her but she hadn’t been in love with any of them. And despite some regrets she had in regards to those courtships, marrying someone she didn’t love was the one thing she refused to do. At least her judgment in refusing those men had been sound.
Lucas had been different.
It was almost as if she had loved him from the start, and she’d been convinced he intended to court her—to marry her. And the liberties she’d permitted him and the ferocity of her response had surprised and thrilled her. She’d never thought a kiss, a touch could spark that kind of desire and passion. But one day he’d been kissing her senseless and breathless, the next day he was gone.
Gone.
While Lord Braddock actions had embarrassed and humiliated her, had she loved him, his betrayal would have wreaked utter emotional devastation. It had not. Lucas had taken care of that. For as sure as the sun rose and set every day, he had broken her heart, so in that, she could and did sympathize with Miss Claremont.
I shall do it, Catherine thought with a decisive nod. If this would save Miss Claremont the fate of an unhappy marriage and a broken heart, it would be well worth whatever discomfort she’d have to endure.
CHAPTER TWO
London – Seven months later
A mink shawl covered her shoulders and arms, warding off much of the cold, but it complemented the fairly modest “V” of the neckline of her ball gown. Catherine pulled it tighter about her.
Ears perked, she heard his approach seconds before the length of his shadow crept like a sinister fog across the red stones of the terrace. The dark blanketed her, forcing her to adjust her vision to the nebulous gray of the London night. A deep breath helped to calm her nerves as she readied herself for the role of the guileless seductress.
His scent preceded him by a good dozen feet, just as overpowering and citrusy as she remembered from their introduction a quarter hour ago. It hadn’t taken him long to come. In the past seven months, men had proven to be singularly predictable creatures, never once veering far from their anticipated path.
Although there had been some like Lord Jacobsen, who had not followed her to the terrace. He and Miss Claremont had wed two months gone. Unfortunately, the viscount had turned out to be the exception and not the rule.
For Lord Landry, Catherine had retained a gossamer thread of hope that he’d prove to be another Lord Jacobsen—if not for Miss North’s sake alone. Not once during their conversation had his gaze wandered to inspect other parts of her person—a common occurrence with many of the gentlemen in the ton. Here is a man who might very well be steadfast and true, she’d thought when she’d cast her lure in the form of a come hither smile over her shoulder and sauntered away, her hips swaying that age-old invitation.
His presence here dashed her hopes clean and proper. The only manner in which Lord Landry separated himself from the others was his adroitness at hiding it—his perfidious ways. On the side of full knowledge and fairness—the side she championed—another young lady would be spared a life of misery a philandering husband would bring. It mattered naught that Catherine’s faith in men had been dealt yet another blow.
Just as his shadow enveloped her whole, she started and spun on her heels, facing him with her hand splayed at the base of her throat. A ragged expulsion of air passed her lips in feigned surprise.
“Oh Lord Landry, ’tis you. You gave me quite a fright. I thought myself quite alone out here.” While her acting talents would still be considered mediocre at best, they were sufficient to the task of exposing a man’s true character.
He stepped closer. Clad in a hunter-green dress coat tailored to mold his lean frame and broad shoulders, he was handsome if one liked fair hair and refined aristocratic features. She did not. They now stood several arm lengths apart. With a bat of her lashes, he would come closer still. But Olivia hadn’t yet given the signal. Catherine would need to stall.
“You really should not come out here unescorted.” If his gaze hadn’t gone directly to her décolletage, his solicitous tone might have convinced her his concern was for her safety. But as with many men in the past who’d stripped her bare with their eyes, the glint in the viscount’s told her he had already dispensed with her corset and was now mentally divesting her of her chemise.
Catherine quelled the urge to cover herself and call him on his hypocrisy. The only person she need concern herself with at the ball that evening were faithless men like him. Instead, she forced a laugh, simple and unaffected. “There is no danger out here, my lord.”
A predatory smile curved the viscount’s mouth. He advanced another step toward her. “Perhaps you are right. But a lady as comely as yourself alone in the dark might give a gentleman certain ideas.”
But only a cad would act on them. Before the temptation to voice her thoughts aloud overtook her, the signal came—the almost imperceptible squeak of a door—to indicate all the players were in place. It was time to charm with deliberate intent.
“My lord, if I wasn’t aware of your complete and utter devotion to Miss North, I would think that you are making improper overtures toward me.” For the benefit of anyone else who might stumble upon the scene, Catherine made certain she sounded properly affronted, but the veiled look she cast up at him may or may not suggest otherwise.
Apparently encouraged—in that she hadn’t discouraged him—the viscount’s smile turned positively carnal as his hand sought the curve of her waist and applied a gentle but unrelenting pressure. When Catherine refused to budge, he advanced another step, breaching what little remained of her personal space. Her eyes began to smart and her nose to twitch at the strength of his cologne. Did the man know nothing of subtlety?
“The marriage is being forced upon me. If the choice were mine, I would have chosen someone whose charms were more…to my tastes.” Lifting his other hand, he stroked the crest of her cheek with the flat of his thumb, the fabric of his glove a welcome buffer between his bare flesh and hers.
Since knocking his hand away might be too discouraging a rebuff, Catherine retreated a step. But the viscount’s hold tightened, not permitting her room enough to dislodge his other hand from her waist.
Lord, how disdainful he sounded of poor Miss North. Catherine prayed the young miss had a spine of steel and pride aplenty.
“Then you must be an actor of extraordinary talents. You’re excessively attentive to her. Everyone believes you completely smitten.” Until tonight, she’d been of a similar mind.
“I do what I must.” His hand slid to the small of her back.
Catherine fisted her hand at her side to refrain from jerking away. “And what is it you want of me, my lord?”
His lids fell to half-mast as he angled his head back to subject her person to an appraisal no doubt meant to flatter, but which in fact was an insult she’d not soon forget. “A kiss would be a fine place to start,” he said, his voice rough with lust, his gaze having now reached her mouth.
“But Miss North—”
“Will never know,” he interrupted smoothly. And with a sharp tug of his hand, she landed solidly in his arms.
A choked cry told her Miss North was already privy to the information. Lord Landry relinquished his hold on her with such haste, one would think he held a live grenade. Catherine swiftly moved closer to the French doors and next to the stone fountain with an angel spouting water from its mouth.
A mom
ent later, the two women emerged into the dusk of the gas-lit terrace. Stalwart, Olivia stood a head above the younger woman’s diminutive stature, a soothing hand on Miss North’s shoulder.
“Miss North.” Her name punctured the air in one horrified masculine gasp. Color receded from the viscount’s visage, leaving him a chalky gray. He blinked twice as if praying the woman who stood pale and teary eyed before him was no more real than the wax figures at Madame Tussauds.
Miss North took an unsteady step forward, and then another. Her next action took even Catherine by surprise. In a move strife with tension, she frantically tugged the pale-pink glove from her right hand while they all watched on, captivated and uncertain. Catherine’s breath remained suspended in her throat in bated anticipation. Any question of what Miss North intended to do was dispelled when she raised her bared hand and delivered the viscount a slap that put color back in his face. A palm and five fingers of vivid red.
For a moment, Lord Landry stood stock-still as did they all, including Miss North. His jaw might well have dropped to the ground had his hand not flown to cradle his injured cheek. “Miss North, I—”
“You, my lord,” she spat the address as if assailed by something foul, “are the worst sort of man, and I see you would have made a deplorable husband.” A swipe of her hand across cheeks awash with tears did nothing to dam their flow. Despite her obvious distress, she stood tall—all five feet two inches of her—her brown eyes lit with a glacier fury and unbearable hurt. “Your talents lie at pretense. But I will be gullible for not one second longer. Tomorrow you will seek out my father and ensure he withdraws his approval of the marriage. You will bear the brunt of it. Although neither is palatable, I would rather endure Society’s pity than their scorn and be ignored.”
Lord Landry moved his mouth as if to speak but the ire lighting Miss North’s eyes commanded he not utter another word.
Twice the Temptation Page 2
