Bertie’s sister was a beautiful woman with white-blonde hair, china-blue eyes, and a complexion of milk and roses. Bertie watched with inner amusement as Redmayne was clearly bowled over. “Any relation to Lord Ian Deveridge?” he asked.
“He was my husband,” she said softly, a blush rising to her cheeks.
Redmayne bowed over her hand. “Lady Deveridge, I am sorry for your loss. I was saddened to hear of your husband’s death. Capital explorer.”
Marianne bowed her head. “You are very kind, your lordship.”
After the receiving line was behind them, Bertie said to his sister in a low voice, “Bringing you was a stroke of genius. You tamed the bear. He doesn’t like me.”
“Anything I can do to help!” she said with a laugh.
“You can dance with me,” he said. He really was fond of his sister, and it was good to see her enjoying herself.
He recognized a few people from the ballrooms in London, but most were unknown to him. Beau made a few introductions, but though Bertie feigned interest, he was counting the minutes until his waltz with Lady Catherine.
At last the moment arrived. The string quartet struck up their second waltz. His chosen lady’s smile was radiant. As Bertie took her in his arms, she felt more than natural there. She belonged. He detected the scent of gardenias.
“Did you really think I was of the supernatural when you first saw me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “A troubled spirit.”
“You have surprised me, Sir Bertie, I must say. I had no idea you were so poetic. I am saving your letters for posterity.”
“You inspire me. Far beyond my station.”
“Your station is not low, Sir Bertie.”
Her words surprised him. “I’m afraid that’s not what your brother thinks.”
“He thinks you aspire to marry me.” She laughed. “Do not worry about him.”
Bertie’s spirits took a dive. Had he misread her fondness for him? Was she merely a flirt? Was she only using his attentions to prop up her self-consequence that had suffered so much when Cumberwell proved faithless?
He stiffened. Cumberwell had just entered the room. Surely she had not invited him?
“What is it?” asked his partner.
“Nothing,” he said. All ability to make polite conversation flew from his brain.
“Tell me more about the twins. I get the impression that your niece has you wrapped around her finger.”
“Possibly. The little thing enchants me. I find that children take a fresh view of the world. It is contagious.”
“I hope you brought them to Somerset. I long to meet them.”
“Gweet was put off that she could not come to the ball. They stayed home.”
For a moment, they danced in silence. “You have surprised me again, Sir Bertie. You are a very competent dancer.”
“Merely competent?” he asked.
“More than competent,” she said. “Inspiring.”
Could he take anything she said at face value? “Ah, your brother dances with my sister,” he said.
“He has an eye for a beautiful woman.”
“He is not married?”
“No. He’s a widower. But he still needs an heir.”
Cumberwell was watching their every move. Bertie had managed to steer the dance so she did not see him, but the waltz being the waltz, he could not do so indefinitely.
“You are looking grim,” she said. Just then, she spotted her former fiancé. Her eyes grew large. “He is here!”
He was dismayed at the shock on her face.
“The effrontery!” she exclaimed. “Robert will probably shoot him.”
“Your brother does not like him?”
“He does not like the insult his lordship dealt to our family name.”
From that point on, Lady Catherine was preoccupied. Bertie, never a skilled conversationalist, did not try to pry her away from her thoughts.
When the waltz ended, she said, “I must speak with my brother.” In a moment, she had vanished.
He made his way to the cardroom, frustration churning inside him. Had he misread her altogether? Women! Who could tell what they were thinking?
After a short hand of piquet, his curiosity spurred him to go back to the ballroom. He was just in time to see Lady Catherine commencing to waltz with Lord William. Bertie’s heart sank to his shoes. He couldn’t read the expression on her face, but the whole room was abuzz. He should never have come.
Walking out onto the terrace, he lit a cigar. How much of a fool had he made of himself? From her conversation—“he thinks you aspire to marry me”—it now appeared that she had never taken him seriously as a suitor. She probably thought he knew that and thought that he would never even presume such a thing. It was also plain that she was still powerfully affected by Cumberwell.
And why should she not be? Just weeks ago, she had been planning her marriage to him! He was her equal in rank and fortune. He was an Adonis.
Beau found him sunk in gloom, pacing the terrace.
“Chin up, old boy.”
“I have presumed too far beyond my lowly station,” Bertie said with bitterness.
His friend patted him on the back. “It won’t do any good for you to be found out here sulking. And it’s not like you. Come in and play whist with us. Penelope asked me to find you. She rather favors you as a partner.”
Chapter Sixteen
Catherine was trembling with anger. How could William do this to her? How could he appear at her ball with his new fiancée? And how could Sybil, who must know how it would look, allow it?
From behind a large orchid, she observed them. Sybil was speaking with animation while William looked down at her fondly. William had never looked at her with that expression. Their conversation had never been gentle, but like the thrust and parry of a fencing match.
She turned her back on the couple, but her brother found her before she could escape to the ladies’ retiring room.
“Did you really invite Cumberwell? Were you so anxious to see the man that you brought scandal down on our heads? What do you suppose people are saying?”
“I did not invite him; I merely invited Sybil’s parents. I had no idea at the time that Sybil and William were staying in Somerset. I would have thought they had the decency to stay away.”
“Well, you must hold your head up, gel. No slinking off to the retiring room! You are Lady Catherine, daughter of the Marquess of Westbury. You have a duty to our name.”
He strutted off, leaving Catherine standing with clenched teeth. As soon as she reentered the ballroom, her hand was solicited for a dance with Lord Rothberry, an aging roué who was her brother’s friend.
“I say,” the man said as they danced. “Thought you were engaged to that fellow, Cumberwell.”
“Not anymore, my lord,” she said, hoping her tone was sufficiently quelling.
“Maybe not, but he is watching you like a hawk. I had better mind my actions, or I shall find myself at twenty paces with a pistol aimed in my direction.” He laughed.
After their dance, he remained at her side, talking of his great admiration for Lord Ian Deveridge, Bertie’s brother-in-law. Robert was dancing with Lady Deveridge again.
To her surprise and discomfort, William joined them. “Good evening, Rothberry, Lady Catherine. The ball is a success, I believe.”
“Always enjoy a winter ball,” said Lord Rothberry. “Devilishly boring season.”
“Will you excuse us?” William asked. “I should like to dance with Lady Catherine.”
Helpless to turn him down in front of the older gentleman, she allowed William to pull her into a waltz.
“This is unseemly,” she said, once they were out of earshot of others. “What do you suppose people are saying?”
“I do not have a care for other people. I care only for what you are thinking,” he said.
“Do you?” she asked with a bite. “I am thinking that you treat Sybil very shabbily b
y exposing her to gossip.”
“You think only of Sybil?” His eyes caught hers, and she could not look away. Nor could she reply.
She felt uncomfortable in his embrace, especially as he tightened his arm about her waist and pulled her closer.
“What are you about, my lord?” she asked, pulling back.
“I cannot see you without wanting to hold you again,” he said, his voice low.
Her voice sharpened. “Well, you are not going to set me up as your bit of stuff, so I advise you not to act like it.”
“No, never that,” he said. He looked as though she had accused him of cheating at cards.
They did not converse for the remainder of the dance. She saw Sir Bertie emerge from the cardroom. He stood watching them, but she could not read his expression. Apparently he had reverted to the man she had first known, who was a master at hiding his feelings.
After the dance, she left William’s side as soon as she could. If only this were not her ball and she could leave! She joined her brother, who was conversing with Lady Deveridge following their dance.
“I am not in Lord Deveridge’s class, but I have done a bit of exploring,” Robert was saying. “Egypt, you know.”
Lady Deveridge nodded. “Ian had an extensive Egyptian collection. My brother is cataloging it. There are some things of his already in the British Museum now.”
Robert said, “Your husband must have had some amusing tales.”
Catherine detected wistfulness in the lady’s eyes. “Yes. Yes, he did.”
She doubted that amusing tales and a collection worthy of the British Museum were enough to make up for losing a husband.
Was love really worth it? It seemed to bring only heartache. Would it be better to marry someone to whom one was indifferent? Someone who could not wound you through infidelity or an early death? Love was a devastating emotion.
What would Lady Deveridge say to this? Would she rather not have married someone she loved than to feel this pain, which was likely to last the rest of her life?
At the moment, Catherine certainly wished she had never entered the drama-filled relationship she had shared with William. It had never been comfortable or easy but full of moments of doubt when she knew William’s heart was not fully hers. And she had been right, as it turned out.
Had it been worth it? It had turned out not to be.
But what about Sir Bertie? It came as a surprise to her that she would think of Sir Bertie as a husband.
Even now, she cared enough about him to understand her attraction for the man. Unlike William, he was careful of her feelings, and he made her feel safe and treasured. Had their attraction not begun that extraordinary day on the beach when she thought she had been in mourning for William?
She enjoyed his company vastly, and the more she came to know him, the stronger her feelings grew. Would she ever have attempted to hold William’s hand in Lady Clarice’s drawing room?
Never! She would have been too worried about what William thought. A sudden excess of affection had drawn her to Sir Bertie, and at that moment she had longed for his touch.
How had these feelings sneaked up on her? Had she mistaken the violent emotions she had felt for William? Yes. She had thought herself in love, but her feelings were not those of her finer self.
At that moment, Sir Bertie walked up and joined the conversation. He did not look at Catherine.
“My dear,” he said to his sister. “Lady Wellingham is not well. Beau has called for the carriage.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Catherine. “I am so sorry to hear that. Does she need me? Shall I go to her? Where is she?”
“In the ladies’ retiring room, I believe,” said Sir Bertie, his face holding no animation.
She missed the engaging expression that had been there the first part of the evening. Her heart fell. Had he mistaken her feelings for William? How she wished they were alone so she could explain!
Instead, she said, “I shall go to her.”
With Lady Deveridge behind her, she hastened off to the ladies’ retiring room, where she found Lady Wellingham wretchedly ill.
“Do you think it was something you ate?” she asked the woman with concern. “Upon my honor, the shellfish was fresh.”
The lady’s face was positively green. “It is far more likely because I am increasing,” she said. “I am so sorry to inconvenience everyone. It is such a lovely ball.”
Catherine rang the bell for the chambermaid. “Is there anything that would help? You have rather a long ride home. Some tea, perhaps?”
“Oh yes. Some tea might settle me. And perhaps a bit of toast? That sometimes helps.”
When the maid arrived, Catherine sent her for tea and toast. Lady Deveridge was rubbing the viscountess’s back in small, circular motions. The lady said, “I had no idea, Lady Wellingham! This is very exciting news for you and dear Beau.”
* * *
In the dawn hours after the last guest had departed, Catherine was free to examine her feelings as she lay in bed. Sir Bertie’s impassivity as he said good night had struck her like the bitter winter wind.
He had come all the way from Oxfordshire with the clear intention of surprising her, and now he obviously thought there was something still between her and William. Now she was wondering how she had ever found herself so heartbroken over the cad. How could he be so beastly to Sybil? Even when she was engaged to the man, he had always been as unsteady as quicksilver. She was never certain he was really hers. It had always been rather like he was in the market for a wife and was never certain he had made the best choice.
Her heart had been so bruised that she had never really thought about finding another husband. Sir Bertie had eased himself into her life. But now he was proving changeable as well. She had danced with her former fiancé only once, and Sir Bertie had withdrawn behind a mask of diffidence, as though there were nothing between them.
When Catherine woke at noon, she dressed listlessly. Sun streamed through her windows—a welcome change from the weeks of gloom—however, her spirits did not match the weather.
While spending some time with her father gardening, the gnawing irritation of uncertainty plagued her. Had Sir Bertie left for Oxfordshire yet?
After a late luncheon, she resolved to ride to Somerset Vale to find how Lady Wellingham did and to see Sir Bertie if he had not yet left for home. She had Ginger saddled and galloped off toward the south of the county.
The day was clear and beastly cold. She felt icy even inside her riding habit and cloak. The previous evening’s late night had also caught up with her, and a headache began to pound behind her eyes. What had driven her to make this journey today?
When at last she reached Somerset Vale, she was heartily welcomed by Lord Wellingham. “How kind of you to call on Penelope! She is feeling much improved today but is so full of regrets that her illness cut our evening short. I am sure she would love to see you. I will send Hartford up to bring her to you.”
The butler having been dispatched, Catherine sat down to wait in the salmon-colored sitting room, trying to warm herself by the fire. She shivered from head to toe. Lord Wellingham excused himself. It certainly did not appear that Sir Bertie was anywhere about. Catherine tried to quell her sharp disappointment.
It was not long before Lady Wellingham appeared. She carried an extra Shetland shawl over her arm.
“My dear Lady Catherine. How kind of you to come all this way. I am certain you must be frozen! Here is a nice wool shawl. Please put it around you, and I will order some tea at once.”
Catherine felt warmed inside by the lady’s manner. “How kind you are. I was mad to come out in the cold, and now I believe it might begin to snow.” She wrapped the shawl around her. It was blissfully warm. “I came to see how you did, and now you are taking care of me!”
“Oh, I am much improved, thank you very much. My sickness seems to come on in the evenings, when I understand it is supposed to come in the mornings. It is most annoying.”<
br />
“But how delightful that you are to have a child,” said Catherine.
“Yes. Both Beau and I are ecstatic. Now”—she sat down and leaned forward in her chair—“you must tell me how the ball went. It seemed like quite a success.”
Catherine tried to display enthusiasm. “It did go well. My brother and I were very pleased.”
She noticed that her hostess was looking at her expectantly. “You must tell me about you and Sir Bertie. Beau has known him for years and years and has never seen him show partiality for a lady as he has for you.”
The words flustered Catherine. “Oh!”
“Imagine him coming all the way down from Oxfordshire! And bringing his sister to meet you.”
“I am afraid I did not know his behavior was so unusual. Has he left for home already?” Catherine asked.
“Yes. They left this morning. Lady Deveridge was quite anxious to return to her twins, and Bertie seemed uneasy. I assumed it was about the weather. It turns out he was right to be worried. It appears to have clouded over.”
“Have you ever been to his home?” Catherine asked.
“I grew up in Northamptonshire. I have not had a chance to visit Oxfordshire yet, though I am looking forward to it. I understand it is a beautiful place.”
“I am certain it is. I have never been there, either.”
Conversation was in danger of lapsing. Should she go? Catherine really did not wish to ride in a snowstorm. “Tell me about your family,” she invited.
The lady gave a sad little smile. “It is just me. My parents have both died in the last year. I am very lucky to have Beau. He has a large family—two brothers and a sister. His sister is here with us, and Arabella is a darling. Their brothers both live away. Ernest is a naval commander, and Manfred has an estate in the north. I have not yet met him.”
At that moment, a young lady appeared in the sitting room, bursting with life. “Beau said that Bertie’s true love is here!”
Heat rushed into Catherine’s face.
“Oh, Arabella!” Lady Wellingham said, vexed. “Come meet Lady Catherine properly.” Turning to Catherine she said, “I apologize. This minx is Miss Arabella Saunders, Beau’s sister. Arabella, this is Lady Catherine.”
Not an Ordinary Baronet Page 11
