His arms tightened and his lips slanted more forcefully over hers. A second gasp gave him the opening he sought, and his tongue slid possessively into the shocked heat of her mouth. Catherine felt her knees give way and her stomach turn to jelly, hot jelly, heavy as molten lead that slithered downward into her limbs on each silky, probing caress. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Her fingers spread open across the velvet thickness of his frock coat and inched higher … higher, until her hands were circling his neck, clinging to the powerful breadth of his shoulders. She pressed eagerly into his embrace, thrilling to the strength in his arms as they enfolded her.
She thought she had known every kind of kiss a man could offer—what mystery could still remain in the simple touching of lips? Hamilton’s kisses, to be sure, warmed her deliciously and sent tiny shivers of satisfaction through her body, more so than those of any other man before him. Yet he had never inspired this surge of liquid heat that was now setting her veins on fire. His body had never commanded hers to melt against him, to move with him, to question the cause and cure for this incredible, burning tension. Even her skin had grown tauter, tighter, and her belly was fluttering with urges that made her want to move closer, to feel the heat of him with her bare flesh.
She was kissing him back, she knew she was, but Montgomery ended the kiss suddenly, breaking away with an abruptness that brought a cry of disappointment from her lips. His face was in shadow—she could barely discern more than the black slash of his brows—but she sensed a shared feeling of surprise. As if he had not expected the rush of pleasure she could feel thundering through his chest.
He held her away from his body, as if he did not trust any further contact, and when he spoke he tried to make his words sound light and casual.
“I did warn you about unscrupulous rogues who would not hesitate to take advantage.”
“So you did,” she murmured. “You also threatened to teach me a lesson in reality. Was that it?”
“Reality?” he whispered. “I’m not even sure I know what that is anymore. I thought I did.…”
Catherine shivered as he brushed his fingertips along the curve of her throat. She turned her head slightly, the better to feel the warmth of his flesh on hers … and her eyes opened wide in horror.
The figure of a man was standing less than five paces away, his silhouette framed in the glare of lights that spilled from the open french doors. His hands were rigid by his sides, the fingers of one fist crushed around a tiny crystal glass.
Catherine gasped and jerked out of Montgomery’s arms. “Hamilton!”
“I hope I am not intruding,” the lieutenant said, his voice cracking with anger.
She took several halting steps toward him. “Hamilton … it isn’t what you think.…”
“Is it not? Pray then, by all means, tell me what it is. You send me for a glass of water, then dance away with a fellow to whom you have only just been introduced. Ten minutes later I find you wrapped in his arms and”—he finished the sentence with a sneer—“you tell me it isn’t what I think.”
“Hamilton, please …”
“I think, madam, you were kissing this gentleman, and with no great show of reluctance. The act hardly requires more explanation than that … unless, of course, you have recently formed the habit of kissing perfect strangers and see nothing untoward in the deed.”
Montgomery gave up an audible sigh. He reached to an inside pocket and extracted a thin black cigar. “You are not giving the lady much of a chance to explain. If you did, she might be able to tell you the kiss was entirely my idea, and that she simply … endured it.”
“Endured it?” Garner’s face remained impassive, carved out of stone, as he watched Montgomery strike a sulfur stick and touch it to the end of his cigar.
“It is her birthday, is it not?”
“And you thought to take advantage of the situation by forcing yourself on her good nature?”
“I did not force anything on anyone,” Montgomery said quietly. “I was merely expressing my felicitations.”
Hamilton’s fist tightened around the crystal glass. “Catherine … I think you should go back inside now and rejoin the party; the air has developed a distinct chill.”
“Will you come with me?” she pleaded in a whisper.
“Not just yet. Montgomery and I have not finished our conversation.”
She reached out and touched the sleeve of his tunic. “Hamilton, please—”
“I said, go inside.” The iced green eyes turned to her as he pulled his arm away. “This is between Montgomery and myself now.”
“On the contrary,” Raefer said, studying the glow of ash at the tip of his cigar. “If there was anything further to discuss, it would be between me and Mistress Ashbrooke. However … if an apology will put an end to this simple misunderstanding, then I offer one freely. I had no idea the lady’s time was spoken for.”
Hamilton ground his teeth together. “Catherine’s time is her own. If she chooses to throw it away in the company of unprincipled bastards, then so be it.”
Montgomery stared at the dragoon officer for a long, taut moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and deceptively silky. “I have offered my apologies. If you will excuse me—”
He bowed politely to Catherine and started toward the french doors. There was a shrill whisper of steel on leather, and an instant later Hamilton’s saber slashed down in front of Montgomery, the flashing silver point touching the ruff of lace at his throat.
“An apology is not enough,” Garner hissed. “Not unless you beg your further pardon for being a coward as well as an ill-mannered boor.”
“What the deuce is going on here?”
Catherine flinched at the sound of her father’s voice booming out across the terrace. What little color she had remaining in her face drained down to her toes when she saw him striding out of the doors with Damien, Harriet, and Colonel Halfyard close on his heels.
“Well? Speak up! What is the meaning of this? Lieutenant Garner, put that damned thing away and explain yourself.”
“Indeed,” the colonel barked. “You are a guest in Sir Alfred’s house. This is no place for swordplay.”
“Nor for insults, which this … gentleman … has seen fit to tender to both myself and Mistress Ashbrooke.”
“What? What manner of insult?”
Catherine wished she could shrink away into the shadows. Damien and Harriet were both gaping at her as if they knew, somehow, she was the cause of it all. Colonel Halfyard had his hand on the hilt of his own sword and looked prepared to cut down the first person who dared to move.
Sir Alfred’s face darkened through several shades of crimson. “I said, put the sword away, Lieutenant. If there has indeed been an insult tendered, we shall get to the bottom of it.”
The sword wavered, then descended slowly from beneath Montgomery’s chin. With a sudden, well-practiced flourish, the blade was whipped about and flashed into its sheath again.
“Now, then.” Sir Alfred’s voice was grave. “What manner of insult would have you drawing swords under my roof?”
Montgomery had not so much as blinked since Garner’s saber had appeared. He did so now, as he turned to address Catherine’s father. “It was a simple misunderstanding, for which I have already apologized.”
“The apology was a mockery,” Garner declared. “Delivered out of the side of his mouth, and for that I have demanded satisfaction.”
Raefer continued to hold Sir Alfred’s gaze. “I have no desire to kill this man.”
“Kill me?” Hamilton surged forward. “It would be my pleasure to let you try.”
“Hamilton, for God’s sake—” Damien stepped forward quickly, placing himself in the lieutenant’s path. “Raefer?” He turned and searched the placid features for an explanation.
The dark eyes flicked to Hamilton’s face, and he allowed a slight smile to tug at one corner of his mouth. “The lieutenant seems to have taken offense at my bringing your sister out to
the terrace for a breath of fresh air. He seems to feel I was out of line, yet he says he has no claim on the lady himself. To my way of thinking, that leaves the decision up to Mistress Ashbrooke as to whether there was an insult delivered here tonight or not.”
“No claim?” Damien cursed under his breath. “They’re engaged to be married, for God’s sake.”
Hamilton’s gaze broke away from Montgomery’s long enough to cast a startled—and even angrier—glance in Catherine’s direction. She felt her cheeks blush a hotter, more humiliating red, and she had to blink hard to keep the sting of tears from blinding her.
“Well, daughter?” Sir Alfred’s voice came down on her like a gavel. “We’re all waiting. Did this gentleman insult you or not?”
She looked helplessly around the ring of hostile faces, wishing she had never ridden into the forest that morning, never learned to dance a gavotte, never been born eighteen years ago this night.
“At least tell us the nature of the supposed insult,” her father insisted, his patience nearing its limits.
“He … he …” Her words were barely above a whisper, and she needed to swallow to make any sound at all. “He kissed me.”
“Kissed you?” Sir Alfred leaned closer and peered into his daughter’s face. “He kissed you? Against your will?”
“I …” She curled her lower lip between her teeth and bit down savagely on the fleshy pad. What could she say? If she said no, she would lose Hamilton as surely as if she slapped his face in public. If she said yes, his damned code of honor would require him to defend her reputation. “I … One minute we were dancing, and the next …” She faltered again and lowered her eyes. “I did nothing to encourage the liberty.”
Colonel Halfyard sucked in a deep breath and glared at Montgomery. “Explain yourself, sir!”
Montgomery’s attention remained fixed on Catherine’s face a moment longer, then switched indolently to the colonel. “There is nothing to explain. It is a beautiful night, I had a beautiful woman in my arms; I saw something I wanted and I took it.”
The colonel’s nostrils flared through a hot gust of indignation. “Insolence, sir! It appears Lieutenant Garner was justified in taking offense. By God, in his place, I’d likely do the same.”
Hamilton’s mouth flattened into a sneer as he glared at Montgomery. “Will you or will you not give me satisfaction?”
Raefer exchanged a dark look with Damien before he answered the lieutenant’s challenge. “Where and when?”
“Tomorrow. Dawn. Kesslar’s Green.”
Montgomery smiled faintly. “I have pressing business in London. By dawn tomorrow I plan to be well on my way down the road. I would as soon have this over with by then, if you don’t mind.”
Garner’s expression became whiter, more pinched at this additional mockery. Even Sir Alfred stared at the tall merchant, surprised by his audacity.
“Then you shall meet here and now,” he declared. “The courtyard in front of the stables, in one half hour. Damien—since Mr. Montgomery is here by your invitation, you shall act as his second. Weapons, gentlemen?”
“The lieutenant seems to be comfortable with sabers,” Montgomery said wanly. “I have no objections.”
“Hamilton—” Catherine raised imploring eyes to him one last time. “No, please. He has already apologized.…”
“Daughter! You are a little late with your concerns.” Sir Alfred took her roughly by the arm. “I have no doubt you were more than slightly at fault here—if, indeed, not entirely to blame.” He started to propel her toward the door, leaning close to hiss in her ear as he did so. “I warned Lady Ashbrooke we should have married you off years ago. I warned you as well, young lady, that I would tolerate no further scandals. You will take yourself to your room at once, and there you will remain until I decide what is to be done with you!”
Catherine could no longer hold back her tears. They brimmed over her lashes and streaked down her cheeks, dripping dark stains onto the rose silk of her bodice.
“Father—”
“Now! At once! Do not even dare ply me with any of your missish tricks. Your days of having your own way are over. Over, do you hear me!”
Catherine heard nothing over the frantic beating of her heart. She fled the terrace, fled past the startled, staring guests in the ballroom, and did not stop until she was safely locked away in her room, with her head buried in the muffling blindness of her bed quilts.
4
A ring of brass lanterns had been set up in the courtyard. Light fog had drifted in from the river, no more than a haze, but enough to blur the yellow posts of light and distort the ghostly shadows on the damp cobbles. Word of the impending duel had spread through the party like a bushfire, and every man worth his salt was present, forming a second murmuring ring around the lanterns. Some of the more daring women, cloaked and hooded to preserve a semblance of modesty, huddled in small, excited groups by the stables. Servants, liveried coachmen, and grooms perched on the carriages, hung from window ledges and doors, eager anticipation on their faces.
Two stories above, her hand clutching the sheer lace curtains, Catherine stood at the window of her bedroom, grimly watching the scene unfold below. Her face was damp with tears, her eyes polished and red. Harriet stood behind her, twisting a lace handkerchief to shreds.
“Someone has to stop this madness,” Catherine whispered. “I never meant it to go this far. I didn’t want anyone to be hurt. Oh, Harriet, you do believe me, don’t you?”
“I believe you,” Harriet murmured, giving the lace another savage twist.
The truth was, Catherine often hurt people—herself included—simply because she acted without thinking and worried about the consequences when it was too late. There was goodness in Catherine, and kindness, but she was too stubborn to admit she was vulnerable, too proud to reveal to anyone that she wasn’t nearly as strong or self-sufficient as she professed to be.
“Did Lady Caroline say anything when she came to see you?” Harriet ventured to ask.
“Mother?” There was a derisive sigh. “She was more irritated at having her tryst with Lord Winston interrupted. I don’t think she listened to a word I said. Perhaps I should have told her Montgomery raped me; that might at least have roused some curiosity.”
“Oh, Catherine …” Harriet bit her lip, not knowing what to say to comfort her friend. One of the reasons they were friends was that they understood the loneliness of growing up in an empty household. Harriet’s mother had died giving birth, leaving her to be raised by indifferent nurses and nannies. Catherine might as well have been an only child—and an orphan—for all the attention her parents had given her. “You shouldn’t speak so harshly of your mother. She cares for you, she just … doesn’t know how to show it.”
“She knows how to show it to her lovers. Oh …” She dropped the curtain and whirled around. “Why is this happening? Why? It was such a stupid little thing. A kiss, for pity’s sake. I’ve kissed dozens of men before tonight. Why make such a fuss now? And why could Hamilton be satisfied with nothing less than a duel?”
“Because he is Lieutenant Hamilton Garner of His Majesty’s Ninth Dragoons,” Harriet said on a gust of exasperation. “What did you think he would do, Catherine? What were you playing at when you let Mr. Montgomery take you out onto the terrace?”
“I didn’t let him take me anywhere. We were dancing and … and I didn’t even realize where we were until it was too late.”
“You didn’t realize where you were? It must have been some dance … and some kiss.”
Catherine felt her cheeks warming in response to Harriet’s accusing tone, but how could she possibly explain what had happened? She couldn’t even explain it to herself. It was as if Montgomery had cast a spell over her, had swallowed her into his eyes so that she could not think or move or even breathe without his command. And the kiss.… Her lips still burned with the memory, but that was all it had been: a kiss. A simple kiss that was threatening to turn her whole
life upside down. Undoubtedly it would cost her any hope of winning a proposal of marriage from Hamilton. And likely it would cost the London merchant his life. The lieutenant was a master swordsman, an instructor for his regiment. Catherine had heard stories about his instinct and agility, and despite Montgomery’s bravado—or perhaps because of it—Hamilton would take delight in cutting him to bloody ribbons.
“Oh, God.” She leaned her brow against the cool pane of the window and saw a new commotion below. Hamilton had emerged from the shadows around the courtyard and was walking with his seconds—two junior lieutenants—into the center of the lighted ring. He had removed his scarlet tunic and decorative white leather belts and wore only his nankeen breeches and collarless white linen shirt. He halted by the stone fountain while one of his seconds unsheathed his sword and handed it to him. He held it lovingly, running a finger down the gleaming surface of the steel before he held it in both hands and flexed the supple blade in a slight arc. He whipped it free almost at once, slicing the air with spirals and deadly swift slashes to warm his wrists.
A smaller stir rippled through the crowd at the opposite side of the courtyard as Raefer Montgomery and Damien approached the ring of lanterns. Montgomery had also removed his frock coat and satin vest, his fancy lace jabot and starched neckcloth. His shirt was silk, opened at the throat. The formal wig had been discarded, and his jet-black hair lay like splashes of ink against his neck and temples.
Catherine’s hand twisted into the curtain again. Hamilton moved like a dancer, preparing for the macabre performance ahead; Montgomery stood motionless, the smoke from his cigar rising in thin tracers above his head.
“Why didn’t he leave?” Catherine asked in a horrified whisper. “Why did he not just get on his horse and leave? He didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him earlier; why should he care if they think him a coward now?”
The Pride of Lions Page 5
