“I shouldn’t like anyone to get ahead of themselves. I’m not entirely certain that Lucas and I will actually suit.” A barefaced lie so she would not appear as utterly spellbound as she was and so easily won over. The man had abandoned her for an entire year. That should not be forgotten so easily despite his reasons.
“Well I am quite certain of it. It was obvious from when I first saw the two of you together, how smitten you were with him. Even had Lord Braddock not turned out to be the scoundrel he was, I’m convinced you wouldn’t have accepted his proposal because you never loved him. And it became painfully clear to me that you were still heartbroken over Lucas leaving. I’m just happy he finally realized that he loved you and returned to claim you.”
Claim her?
Catherine looked askance at her sister, an eyebrow cocked. It couldn’t have sounded more medieval had Lucas arrived on horseback wearing chainmail armor. Unfortunately, she couldn’t manage to suppress a delighted—yet completely involuntary—shiver. She hadn’t thought herself the type of women to whom such chauvinistic tendencies would strike an agreeable chord in her.
“In the metaphorical sense of course,” Charlotte was quick to add. “Although, I’m almost certain something of that sort had been going on in the literal sense behind those locked doors.” A knowing smile and a nod to the door in question accompanied her remark.
Catherine’s face flamed hot and it became quite apparent the vein of the conversation had to be redirected.
“Is Alex aware Lucas has returned? I’m worried about how he’ll react. He was unaccountably rude to him when Lucas was here last.”
Charlotte heaved a sigh, her expression sobering instantly. Her husband’s ill feelings toward Lucas were the one sore point in the whole affair. “No, he does not but of course I must tell him when he returns from the city with Nicholas. They will be there for three days.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware they’d gone to London.” Alex preferred to reside year round at Gretchen Manor, their country home, which was only ten miles from Rutherford Manor. The relative proximity between their respective residences made seeing her sister and her family an almost daily occurrence.
“Yes, he went there on business but took Nicholas along to see his grandparents.”
“I don’t understand why Alex despises Lucas so much. It is not as if anything occurred between the two of you in America.” Catherine could understand a certain amount of jealousy given the closeness of Charlotte and Lucas’s friendship but both had assured her that their relationship had never been romantic.
“You needn’t worry your head about that. I shall speak to my husband to make certain he will be, at the very least, civil to Lucas from here on out.”
“The man is so besotted with you, I’m sure if anyone can perform that miracle, it would be you,” Catherine said with a dry laugh.
Her sister preened. “I should very much hope so. Now you must tell me how construction on your school is coming along.”
“It isn’t my school,” Catherine protested, and not for the first time.
“It was your idea,” her sister countered.
Goodness, she didn’t even like to take credit for coming up with the idea of building a school which would be open to girls like Jillian, since it had largely been driven by guilt. Guilt at all she had: the generous pin money, the large estates she called home in both in the country and the city, a wardrobe full of expensive gowns and frocks, and extravagant vacations to places like France and Italy. But also guilt of what she had done, the trouble she’d caused a sister dearer to her than any other person in the world.
After Charlotte had brought Jillian into her life, Catherine had soon become as protective of her as her sister was. By the time they’d discovered the identity of their aunt, thoughts of the school had fermented in her mind into something real and attainable. It had become a cause, a project she knew she had to convince her brother to take on.
The school would be able to board thirty students and instruct as many as one hundred, and should be ready to open come summer. Its construction drew Catherine to the site rather frequently. At least three times every month to track the progress.
“Credit truly belongs to James and his friends. Without their funding and fund raising efforts, I may as well be wishing on a shooting star.”
Charlotte let out a huff. “You don’t give yourself enough credit for your good deeds. Lucas says he knows you’ll make a wonderful mother. He’s seen how you are with your nieces and nephews. Which naturally means the children at the school shall adore you just as we all do.”
In that moment, Catherine forgot how she intended to make him work to win her affections. She forgot the year they’d been apart and only felt the warm glow in her heart.
He intended to make her his wife.
He admired her.
He wanted her of all the women he could have had.
She might very well be able to sleep soundly tonight.
She smiled. Or perhaps she would not for the same reason.
Halford House didn’t scream wealth and position, it whispered it so one wasn’t overwhelmed by the sumptuous furnishings, silken cream walls and ornate moldings. Nothing ostentatious or boorish to mute the effects of superior taste and elevated class.
The principal staircase curved like a bell arc, rising to the third floor in one dramatic sweep of polished mahogany and hand carved spindles and balustrade. In the great room—the centerpiece of it all—no less than five hundred candles lit the room to a dazzling brilliance, casting even the most unattractive guests in the most favorable light.
After waiting in the queue to greet their hosts, Lord and Lady Halford, Catherine, Meghan, and Olivia made for the back of the room. Men, young and old, plain and pleasing, approached, numbering five in all. The women graciously handled the fervent requests to dance, sending each along their way with a place on their respective dance cards for later in the evening.
Privacy was never expected in a gathering of this sort, but the women managed to locate an area bordering the ballroom and a hallway that led to the private rooms of the sprawling estate, that was largely unoccupied. Mrs. Griffin, Meghan’s chaperone who had accompanied the women to the ball, had already abandoned them to their amusements to seek out several acquaintances—other chaperones—gathered in a cluster next to the massive, marble fireplace.
Conversation didn’t commence until after the orchestra struck the first note of the waltz and couples began to glide and swirl on the glistening planked floors.
Catherine waited a beat before angling her head toward her friends and announcing, “I am being courted.” Thank goodness she didn’t have to shout to be heard.
In unison, Olivia and Meghan’s heads swiveled to turn and stare at her. Meghan recovered after a pause and chuckled softly. “You say that as if that is something new. Beauties with thirty thousand pound dowries are in high demand. Of course you are being courted.”
“No, I don’t mean by your common fortune hunter or roué who has every reason to look beyond the matter of my birth.”
“Ah, so you are being courted by a blue blood.” Olivia looked entirely too pleased, her twinkling eyes appearing solidly blue tonight, matching the cobalt blue of her gown.
“Well not precisely.” Lucas was so much better than any aristocrat she’d ever met.
Meghan raised an eyebrow in response. Clearly intrigued, she asked, “Then who is this mystery gentleman who has brought a flush to your cheeks? Certainly not anyone we’re acquainted with.”
“Lucas Beaumont.” Catherine tried for a casual tone, braced in anticipation for their shock and surprise, which would surely be followed by peals of laughter.
Silence.
Her friends locked eyes, eyebrows raised, pink and red lips compressed as if suppressing smiles. They quickly positioned themselves to include her in a tight circle, the dance floor no longer visible in her direct line of sight.
“But you’ve long claimed you’r
e completely over him.” Meghan directed guileless green eyes at her.
Catherine gave a small nod, the heat in her face as telling as her silence.
“My, he was certainly something to look at. And rich too. I remember there were a fair amount of ladies willing to turn a blind eye to his lack of title and rank to become just plain Mrs. Beaumont.”
As if Catherine needed a reminder. “Well he is intent on making me his wife.” Her friend’s words caused something primitive and downright territorial to surge within her.
He’s mine.
Again, Meghan and Olivia exchanged a look almost as if they could read her thoughts.
“I knew your denials about him were all fluff and nonsense.” Meghan managed to sound both smug and accusing at the same time.
Catherine let out a breath and shifted on her feet, stretching her toes inside the tips of her new patent-leather shoes. “You’re my dearest friends so I shan’t dissemble. I love him. I think I’ve always loved him. And he says he loves me and that nothing would make him happier than to marry me.”
“So you are finally admitting to still being partial to his attentions,” Olivia said, her voice possessing no evidence of the merriment that danced in her eyes.
Meghan deftly flicked open her fan to cover her mouth while her shoulders shook with laughter.
“Very partial,” Catherine replied, as if it had been a question to which an answer had been expected. “Although I must say, he can be quite arrogant.” She wasn’t so smitten that she was blind to his faults.
“But it would appear that arrogant, exceedingly attractive Americans are very much to your taste.”
Lest Catherine ever forget that with her friends, she was as transparent as glass, remarks like that were delivered to remind her.
“It would appear so would it not?” Catherine generously conceded. She had fooled no one when she’d claimed she no longer cared for him. “But that isn’t the whole of it. I—”
“Olivia, you won’t find a dance partner hidden away over here.”
Catherine lifted her gaze, and there behind Meghan stood Olivia’s brother. Formally attired in a black evening coat, a cream-and-gold embroidered waistcoat, and black trousers, the Earl of Granville looked impossibly dashing.
Meghan’s head shot up at the sound of his voice, her expression going from animated to somber in an instant. She turned to face him in a move like that of a swan’s transition from stillness to motion.
“Rhys, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the city?” Olivia beamed up at her brother, her affection evident.
A half-smile curved the earl’s mouth. “Is that to say, you have no desire to have me home?”
“Oh, don’t be silly.”
“Good evening, Miss Rutherford,” he said with a nod in her direction. “You look stunning as usual.”
Catherine dipped into a small curtsey, her face warming at the compliment. A woman couldn’t help but respond to the earl’s charm. His tall, leanly muscled build, handsome visage, and roguish smile caused many pulses to flutter and the occasional cessation of breath.
“Thank you, my lord,” Catherine replied graciously.
His gaze then shifted to Meghan, who watched him, her lips unusually tight. “Lady Meghan.”
“Lord Granville.” Meghan’s greeting was clipped and cool.
In the ensuing silence, while the two regarded each other, tension settled in, so oppressive it seemed to force the oxygen from the air.
Her friend wore a turquoise, satin gown, the bodice cut low off the shoulder with a row of ribbons as shoulder straps leaving the majority of the flesh above the tops of her breasts bare. To Meghan, who was undeniably the most beautiful woman at the event, he uttered not one complimentary word, merely flicking his gaze over her person while his expression gave nothing of his thoughts away.
Without uttering another word, and in a manner not at all befitting his character, Lord Granville returned his attention to his sister. Meghan had been dismissed.
“As I said, Olivia, you won’t find a husband hidden away in the corner. I advise you to mingle.”
Before his sister could respond to his statement, he dropped at the waist in a formal bow. “Good evening, ladies.” With that, he turned and walked away, his stride unhurried and confident.
Once he was out of earshot, Catherine touched Meghan’s arm, which was encased in a turquoise silk glove up to her elbow. “I didn’t know it was that bad. I’ve seen sworn enemies treat each other more cordially.”
When Meghan turned back around, her features were composed. “We were perfectly polite,” she said mildly. “I thought it went rather well.”
“Precisely what occurred between you and Lord Granville? I can’t imagine he tried to force himself upon you,” Catherine said in jest. It wasn’t in Meghan to treat anyone unkindly. She had a smile for everyone, even those she found the most trying. And gentlemen had long been the recipients of her generous smiles and her flirtatious ways.
“Neither of them will talk about it,” Olivia remarked. “I no longer ask.”
Meghan fixed a bright smile on her beautiful face. “’Tis nothing. Nothing,” she said, her tone airy and unconcerned. “Come, let us move on to a more interesting subject.”
Suddenly Olivia stilled, her gaze directed toward the entrance of the ballroom. “It appears Lord Billings has arrived,” she announced softly.
His arrival was expected, but Catherine swallowed hard anyway. She shot a glance over her shoulder, her heart giving an anxious thump at the sight of the viscount milling by a group of men in front of one of the large Greek paintings that covered much of the acreage of the walls. Inhaling a breath, she then attempted to exhale her anxiety. It was always like this, the way an actor might feel before taking center stage, terrified they would forget their lines, thus reminding the audience none of it was real.
“As you’ve already refused the man before, you must handle him differently than the others. He’ll suspect something if you show too much interest,” Olivia continued, her expression impassive as she looked over at him again.
Catherine nodded, well aware the baron would require a different touch. She needn’t act so much the coquette, she merely needed to give him reason to hope.
Moments later, he turned and began scouring the ballroom as if in search of someone. Their gazes locked over the top of Lord Tissell’s balding head and Catherine held his long enough to encourage, but not so long that an observer could ever accuse her of staring. With a demure sweep of her lashes, she looked away.
“Perfect. He is coming this way.” Meghan snapped her fan closed with the flick of her wrist. “I am to meet Miss Fairchild in the refreshment room in exactly five minutes. You can remain here as this area is private enough. We will be there.” She waved her hand toward an arched alcove off the adjacent hallway. The space could more than adequately fit two women and their billowing skirts despite the presence of a side table and a decorous chair.
A glance beyond Catherine’s shoulder had Olivia’s eyes narrowing. “Come, let’s go quickly, Meghan. Lord Blakely looks like he’s in search of a dance partner and I, for one, have no desire to have my toes tread upon tonight.”
In the span of seconds, her friends vanished from sight like two gazelles running from an amiable lion with two left feet. Lord Blakely halted briefly to turn and stare at their retreating backs, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Swiftly he changed course, resuming his pursuit with hurried strides.
Catherine couldn’t help but chuckle. Olivia would have her hands full tonight. She, on the other hand, must act as bait to the man who courted her in vain.
From her peripheral—for she couldn’t very well acknowledge that she was observing his approach—she watched as he weaved his way toward her. In the time it took him to reach her side, she accessed him with a critical eye wondering what it was about the baron that left her so unmoved.
Slender and of average height, he wore his sandy brown hair sho
rt. Some might call him handsome—although, not on the level of Lucas or Lord Granville. Indeed, save his lack of funds, he would be considered a fine catch.
“Miss Rutherford.” He gave a tentative smile, appearing uncertain of his reception. She, with her veiled look and half smile had given him reason to hope. He was failing the test and she’d barely begun.
“Lord Billings, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
His eyes widened at her lie. “Miss a ball hosted by the Halfords? I think not.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
“I only meant that when I heard of your recent betrothal, I thought perhaps…” She deliberately let the sentence trail off.
A flush crested the top of his cheekbones. “Engaged? Where, pray tell did you hear that?” His hand rose to adjust his cravat in a move so patently self-conscious, Catherine had to bite her inner cheek to quell a smile.
“If I told you my source, I fear I’d never hear another tidbit of gossip ever again.”
When Lord Billings stepped closer, it occurred to her perhaps they shouldn’t have picked a spot so tucked away from the crush.
“The truth is I am not officially betrothed. Miss Fairchild and I are—” his brow furrowed as if searching for the best way to phrase it “—becoming acquainted.”
“From all accounts, I’ve heard she’s a lovely girl. Surely you’ll suit?” Suddenly, Catherine forgot the role she’d come to play, the sincerity of her words quite genuine. She’d come to the ball that evening expecting him to fail, especially given their history. But somewhere deep inside her, she’d hoped—prayed that he would not.
The next step he took toward her seemed impetuous, as if he couldn’t help himself. Instinctively, Catherine retreated. She needn’t allow him to get that close. There might be no one in their immediate earshot but they could still be observed.
He gazed down upon her with adoration in his eyes. “You need only say the word, Miss Rutherford.”
Don’t. That was the only word she wanted to say. But the whole situation was hopeless.
Twice the Temptation Page 6
