“I’m very fond of cheese. Why do you think I tried to steal some?”
She watched as he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He began rolling up his sleeves.
“You’re really going to cook it yourself?” she asked.
He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I keep odd hours. I often can’t sleep. It would be unfair to ask my cook to maintain the hours I prefer keeping.”
“But that’s the whole point in having servants. They’re supposed to be at your beck and call.”
“They’re available when I need them. Presently, I don’t.” He lit the wood already stacked in the stove. “You see? My cook keeps things ready for me.” He looked at her, lifted a brow. “Omelet?”
“Yes, please. What can I do to help?” She started to rise but he stilled her actions with the raising of his hand.
“You’ve done enough, Catherine. Now it’s my turn to do something for you. Relax and enjoy the pampering.”
She watched as he moved about the kitchen. He knew where everything was. Leaning forward, she put her elbows on the table and her chin in her unwounded palm.
“Is that a hint of a smile on your face?” she asked, thoughtfully. It transformed him.
“I actually enjoy cooking.” He broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them around. “Brings back good memories.”
“Of your home? Before you were orphaned?”
He stilled for a moment, shook his head, and went back to preparing the eggs. “No, as we got older, Frannie began to do the cooking. I took pleasure in watching her. She was like a little mother.”
“When you were living with that man? Feagan was it?”
“Yes, Feagan.” He added the ham and cheese, then whisked the eggs some more, before pouring the batter into the skillet that had been warming on the stove.
“Your punishment for stealing cheese seems a bit harsh,” she told him.
“I thought so as well, and I was determined to never get caught again.”
“What was it like, truly, growing up as you did?”
He studied the eggs cooking in the skillet. She thought he wasn’t going to respond, but then he said, “Crowded, very crowded. We lived and slept in a single room, spooning around each other for warmth. But we weren’t hungry. And we were made to feel welcome. The first time I walked into Feagan’s was a very different experience from the first time I walked into a ballroom.”
“I suspect your age had something to do with the way you were greeted. Children are always more eager for new playmates than adults.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ve been reading Oliver Twist to my father. It’s the story—”
“I’ve read it.”
“Did Dickens have the right of it?”
“He painted a very accurate portrait of life in the rookeries, yes.”
“It wasn’t a very pleasant life.”
“Who would you die for, Catherine?”
It seemed an odd question. He looked at her over his shoulder, as though he were truly expecting an answer.
“I’ve never given it any thought. I suppose…I don’t really know. My father, I think. My brother. I don’t know.”
“The thing about the way I lived as a boy is that it gave me friends for whom I would die. So as awful as some moments were, overall, it was not such a horrible way to live. It bound us together in a way that living an easier life might not have.”
He slid the omelet onto a plate. Joining her at the table, he set the plate between them, handed her a fork and knife before giving her a wry grin. “I only know how to make one at a time. We either let this one get cold while I cook another or share.”
He seemed to be waiting for her to answer. Sharing seemed so intimate, but then she’d shared his bed, in a way.
“I’m perfectly fine sharing,” she said.
He grinned as though he found her answer amusing. “Would you like some milk?”
“Yes, please.”
He removed a bottle from the icebox, poured milk into a glass, and set the glass on the table. He rolled down his sleeves and slipped his jacket back on, before sitting at the table with her.
“Try it,” he ordered.
She sliced off a bit of omelet and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. Then she smiled at him. “It’s rather good.”
“Did you think it wouldn’t be?”
“I’ve never known a lord to cook.”
“But then we both know I’m more scoundrel than lord.” He cut off a much larger piece and ate it.
“I was having tea with some ladies the other afternoon,” Catherine began, “and one mentioned that you didn’t think children should obey the law.”
“Where would she get an idea like that?”
“She said from a letter you’d written in the Times.”
“No, what I argued in my letter was that children, even if over the age of seven, should not be held accountable for understanding the law and, therefore, shouldn’t be punished as though they had the reasoning power of an adult.”
“But the law should apply to all people.”
“Indeed it should. But a child doesn’t realize he’s breaking the law.”
“But if he’s punished, he’ll learn the difference between right and wrong.”
“You’re assuming that he’s taught what is right and what is wrong and that he is making a willful decision to do wrong. But that’s not the way it is if you’re a child growing up on the streets. You’re told it’s a game. Do you see that cart with the apples on it? You’re to take an apple without being seen. And if you’re seen, you must run as fast as you can and not get caught. Bring me a dozen apples and your prize will be one of the apples. And you’ll not go to bed hungry. They believe the carts are there for their games. And when they’re caught they’re punished as though they knew better. Recently I learned about an eight-year-old girl who was sent to prison for three months for stealing peppermints, for stealing sweets, which were probably valued at no more than a penny.”
The longer he spoke, the more his voice took on an edge of outrage that astounded her. She’d not have thought he’d care about children or prison reform. She’d thought he was a man who cared only for his own pleasure.
She no longer felt like eating, but he’d gone to such trouble to make it for her. “Is that how it was for you?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, I knew better. I don’t know how I knew, but I did.”
He sliced off more of the omelet and studied it on the end of his fork before looking at her. “You’re a charming conversationalist during meals. I do hope this isn’t what you’re teaching Frannie.”
No matter in what direction the conversation went, it always came back to Frannie. Catherine couldn’t imagine having a gentleman care for her so much that she was forever on his mind. She’d never really envied anyone, and she didn’t think what she felt toward Frannie was envy, but she did find herself longing for what the young woman had—what she had and was afraid to embrace.
“Have you spoken out on the matter in parliament?” she asked.
“No. I’ve yet to earn the acceptance of my peers, and until that happens they’ll not listen to anything I say or give it any credence.”
“You can hardly blame them. You don’t attend balls or social functions—”
“I can’t see that they serve any purpose.”
“Is that the reason you ignored my invitations?”
“You sound as though you were wounded.”
“No one likes to be rebuffed.”
He placed his elbow on the table and leaned toward her. “Why did you invite me?”
She angled her chin haughtily. She wasn’t about to reveal that he’d always intrigued her. “It seemed the polite thing to do.”
He had the audacity to laugh, and she was struck by how joyous a sound it was. As though he were truly amused, as though he suspected she’d not told the entire truth.
“Here I thought you in
vited me because you possessed a touch of wickedness and wanted to play with the devil. You believe it important to be polite?” he asked.
“I do. At all times. For example, it’s very rude to place your elbow on the table while we’re eating. I have to question whether or not you, as well as Frannie, need lessons in manners.”
“I promise you. When the situation warrants it, I have impeccable manners.”
“So you say. Perhaps I need proof. Do you think it would be possible for the three of us—you, Frannie, and me—to have dinner here one evening? Are your servants familiar with all that is necessary to serve guests?”
“I should think they are. The old gent hired only the best.”
“You never refer to him as your grandfather.”
“As you well know, he wasn’t.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
He dropped his gaze to the table, and only then did she realize that she’d leaned forward, placing her elbows, both of them—Drat it!—a much worse offense, on the table. She straightened. “You’re avoiding my question.”
“The old gent’s son and his wife had taken their six-year-old son to see a menagerie. The son and his wife were found murdered in an alley surrounded by garbage. I should think—if I was that child—I would not soon forget watching the horror of my parents being killed.”
“Unless you ran off, unless you didn’t see it.”
He seemed to ponder that for a moment, then shook his head. “I should still remember them. I don’t.”
“But the names Lucian and Luke are so much alike—”
“Coincidence.”
He was infuriating in his determination not to believe he was the rightful heir. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she wanted him to be—desperately. She didn’t want him to be a scoundrel who’d stolen what rightfully belonged to another.
“Who are your parents then?”
“I haven’t a clue. In my mind, it’s as though I didn’t exist before Jack took me to Feagan.”
“So you could be the lad.”
“It’s inconceivable that I could be.” He pressed his fingers to his brow. “When Jack took me to him, Feagan would have recognized by my attire that I was of quality. He would have taken advantage.”
“Perhaps your clothes were tattered by the time you were—”
He slammed his hand down on the table, making her jump. “Why are you determined to make me who I am not?”
“The very first Earl of Claybourne was granted his title for services to king or queen. He earned the right to pass that title on to his son. If you’re not a descendant of that first earl—as much as I like you—it’s a disgrace for you to hold the title.”
“As you’re well aware, I live for disgrace.”
“No, you don’t. You talk as though you do, but your actions show you to be a liar. You’re much more honorable than you give yourself credit for.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you think I should give the title to Marcus Langdon.”
“It’s not a matter of giving. It’s a matter of to whom it rightfully belongs.”
“The old gent believed it belonged to me. Out of respect for his wishes, I shall hold it until my dying breath.”
She couldn’t believe her disappointment in his words, or her relief. For all the reasons she gave for why he shouldn’t be earl, she had to admit that she couldn’t envision anyone else as the Earl of Claybourne.
Sighing heavily, he rubbed his temples. “How in God’s name did we fall into this argument?”
“Is your head starting to hurt again?”
“A bit. It’ll go away. And speaking of going away, I should get you home.”
She was surprised to discover their omelet was gone, although he’d eaten the lion’s share. She heard a distant bump and a thump.
“My servants are getting up,” he said.
They both stood. He walked around the table, took her cloak from the chair, moved behind her, and draped it over her shoulders. His hands seemed to linger, and she almost imagined that she felt him placing a kiss against the nape of her neck. A delicious little shiver cascaded through her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, his breath wafting over the sensitive skin below her ear. “For caring.”
“I need you in good health to carry out your portion of the bargain,” she said succinctly, before moving away and turning to face him. “I daresay you’re giving my actions too much credence.”
Could he tell that she was having difficulty breathing, that his nearness caused inexplicable pleasures throughout her body?
Chuckling low, he strode past her and opened the door. She was only halfway through the doorway when he said, “So you don’t want me to kiss you again?”
He was slightly behind her, so he couldn’t see her face. Still she slid her eyes closed and shook her head. She felt his ungloved hand—his fingers strong and warm—cradle her chin and turn her head back. She opened her eyes to find his gaze on her mouth.
“Pity,” he said quietly.
“The first time you kissed me to intimidate me. The second to distract me. What would be your excuse this time?”
“Damned if I know.”
She took immense satisfaction in his answer, but she had no desire to reveal her thoughts. “A gentleman doesn’t use profanity in the presence of a lady.”
“But then, you and I both know I’m not a gentleman.”
She licked her lips, wondering what harm there would be in having one more small taste of him.
Groaning, he released the featherlike hold he had on her and ushered her through the doorway. She could hear the city coming to life, deliveries being made. She waited while he had the coach readied.
He didn’t say anything when the coach arrived or as he helped her climb inside. He held his silence as they traveled through the streets. It wasn’t until they were at her gate that he finally spoke.
“You intrigue me, Catherine Mabry.”
“I’m not certain that’s a good thing.”
“I’m sorry I’m not the man you wish I were.”
“Actually, I give you a good deal more credit for your honesty than you probably deserve.”
“Probably.” He touched the tip of her nose. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She nodded. “Indeed.”
Only when she’d closed the gate behind her did she hear him walking back to his coach. He was a contradiction. Was he a scoundrel? Or was he not?
She no longer knew. More disturbing than that was the fact that she no longer cared.
Chapter 12
Exhaustion claimed her the moment she walked into her bedchamber. Her bed called to her like a siren’s song. It was all she could do to remain patient while Jenny helped her out of her clothing. She wanted to simply rip it off and fall into bed. Dealing with Claybourne was always tiring—and exhilarating. Which only served to make it more tiring.
She had to keep her wits about her at all times, although this morning they’d seemed to settle into a kind of companionship. Perhaps they would become friends and when he married Frannie and they moved more frequently within Catherine’s circle of acquaintances, the blasted earl would at last accept her invitations. Or at least his wife would.
Catherine had been drawn to him that first night—that first ball. But what she felt now ran more deeply. She wanted to know everything about him. Once she knew everything, perhaps she’d no longer be intrigued.
She crawled into bed, yawned, and told Jenny, “Wake me at two.”
She needed to pick up the invitations. And even though Winnie would be appalled, Catherine was determined to send one to Claybourne. If for no other reason than to irritate him. He wouldn’t come to the ball, so what was the harm?
Winnie would never know, and it would give Catherine a sense of satisfaction.
Before she was even finished contemplating Claybourne’s reaction, she was asleep. It seemed as though only seconds passed before someone was gently shaking her shoulder
.
“My lady? My lady?”
She squinted. “What time is it?”
“Two o’clock.”
Groaning, she threw back the covers.
“A package arrived,” Jenny said. “I put it on your secretary.”
“A package?”
“Yes, my lady. From Lord’s.”
“Lord’s?” The shop specialized in the finest of accessories. But Catherine hadn’t purchased anything there of late.
Her curiosity piqued, she padded in bare feet across the room to her secretary where she spied the oblong package. She unwrapped it to reveal a gorgeous hand-painted floral glove box. Inside, lying on the puffed satin, was an exquisite pair of cream colored kidskin gloves.
“Is something amiss, my lady?”
Only then did Catherine realize that tears dampened her eyes. How silly. She never wept.
“Was there no note?” she asked.
“No, my lady. The gent who delivered it said simply that the package was for Lady Catherine Mabry.”
Of course, there’d be no note, because if there was, she’d have to burn it. The gloves were from Claybourne. Her injured hand was too sore, but she couldn’t resist having Jenny help her tug the glove onto her uninjured one. It was a perfect fit.
Oh, dear Lord, she wished he hadn’t done this. It was so much easier to deal with him when she believed he was the devil, so much harder when she realized he was a man who could easily win her heart.
“You’ve lost your knack. She spied you following her around.”
Luke had decided that he needed a word with Jim, before he picked Catherine up for their nightly ritual. Now he was pacing in Jim’s lodging. When had it grown so small? He barely had the room to stretch his legs. Ever since Catherine had left his bed that morning, he’d felt like a ravenous beast on the prowl—with no clear understanding of what it was he was seeking.
Whatever had possessed him to ask if she wanted a kiss? For more than a year, he’d been fiercely loyal to Frannie, not taken the least bit of interest in another woman. Whatever madness had claimed him? What was he thinking to tempt himself and Catherine with the promise of a kiss? He’d been disappointed. Well, and truly, disappointed when she’d shaken her head. Then he’d gone to Lord’s and purchased her new gloves like some besotted fool.
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