Anne Barbour (19 page)

“Oh, yes, Mister Dench fell head over tail in love with Helen the first day they met. That was”—she swung toward her husband—”oh, almost a year ago. wasn’t it, Martin? Of course, he was so shy—Why, if it hadn’t been for Catherine, I don’t think he ever would have brought himself to the sticking point, and poor Helen would have spent the rest of her life as a lady’s companion.”

Drew’s blank gaze shifted to Catherine. “Indeed?” He spoke the word through clenched teeth.

Catherine tried out a light laugh that was not wholly successful. “Really, Mama, all I did was make opportunities for them to be alone once in a while.”

“And to make sure that dear Mister Dench sat next to Helen at the harvest festival last fall, and the choir recital, and last Christmas you did all but push them under the mistletoe together. And do you remember Valentine’s Day? Why, you—”

An almost inaudible sound made Catherine turn toward Drew. He was glaring at her with a malevolence that shocked her. His voice when he spoke, however, was cool and sardonic.

“You seem to have devoted considerable energy, my dear, toward bringing the two together. Now, I wonder why.”

This time Catherine eschewed the light laugh, making do with a bland smile. “They were so obviously in love, of course. It would have been a shame to keep them apart.” Drew’s eyes darkened and Catherine gave a small gasp at her maladroitness.

“Ah, yes, you always were an advocate of true love, weren’t you?”

Catherine clenched her cup in whitened fingers and murmured incoherently. Drew rose, and it seemed to Catherine that hurt and disappointment, blended with his rage at her, fairly radiated from him like tremors from a simmering volcano. He bowed to Sir Martin and his lady.

“I really must not stay. I only stopped in to pay my respects, for I have—business in the village.”

Lady Edgebrooke’s face puckered in dismay. “But, you just arrived, and I know that you and Catherine . . . That is—”

“It’s all right. Mama,” interposed Catherine hastily. “Drew must have a great deal to see to. We will speak later.”

Drew turned to leave and John followed, as though to escort him to his carriage. He was forestalled, however, by a sharp nip from his mother. She nudged Catherine before saying pointedly, “Dearest, after you have seen Drew out, do come to my rooms. I wish your opinion on that new scarf I purchased to go with my puce muslin.”

So saying, she grasped both her son and her husband by an elbow and hustled them from the room via another exit.

Drew had not halted during this exchange, and, after a moment of indecision, Catherine followed him outside. When he prepared to enter his carriage without so much as looking at her, she laid a tentative hand on his sleeve.

“Drew—I am so sorry. I—

Drew swung about, and for the barest instant, Catherine thought he might strike her.

“Sorry for what?” he snarled. “Sorry for removing the only bright spot in my life? Tell me, Catherine, how did you know? Did Helen confide in you that we were corresponding? Perhaps she even showed you some of my letters. Knowing me so well, you must have divined instantly that I was growing attached to her. That knowledge must have been most gratifying, for it suited your plans so well. Was it you who encouraged her not to tell me of her growing devotion to this—Dench, is it?—so you could watch me disintegrate in front of you when I found out?”

“Drew! It wasn’t like that. Truly, I—

Drew shook her hand from his arm. “Well, you’ve had your revenge. And now, let me conclude the real purpose of my visit. I realize I am a few years late with this, but I have come to grant your dearest wish. You may, with my blessing, at last declare our betrothal at an end.”

Catherine almost gasped with the pain his statement caused her. She knew now that this was going to be more difficult than she had dreamed. What in the world was she to say to him?

Her gaze dropped for a moment before she lifted her eyes to his.

“Drew, I know I have given you cause to—to be angry with me, but, believe me, I have no wish to dissolve what our families have put in place.”

Drew stiffened. “What? You cannot be serious! ‘Cause to be angry’ with you? Why, how could I be angry with one who informed me she’d like to see me dead rather than marry me, whose most devout wish was that I never return from the Continent?”

Catherine placed her hand on his sleeve. “Drew, you must know I did not mean any of the dreadful things I said. My temper—”

“Ah, yes, the famous Catherine Edgebrooke temper. You always blamed it for getting you into trouble as though it were some sort of foreign entity over which you had no control.”

“Yes, I did,” replied Catherine quietly. “But I do so no longer. Since that miserable episode, I have strived, with reasonable success, to master my temper. I tried to apologize to you. Drew, but you never even read my letters—at least, that’s what you told John.”

Drew smiled tightly. “Quite true. I felt I had enough chaos in my life without adding your particular brand of venom to it.” He paused before continuing. “Apologized did you? Well, I am sorry I missed that. Your efforts at wriggling out of the consequences of one of your tirades would have been entertaining, if nothing else. At least, they always were.”

Catherine sighed. “I know you do not wish to hear this right now, but we are betrothed, and, as you said so many times to me, that is a fact. If you cannot bring yourself to actually marry me, I shall certainly not force the issue, but, I remind you of our families’ feelings in the matter.”

Drew smiled sourly. “Oh, yes, I had it dinned into my head since I was in leading strings that it was the fondest wish of dear Papa and Sir Martin that our families someday be joined. We’re fairly trapped, aren’t we? You in your family’s desires, and me in Ceddie’s sensibilities. He is bound and determined, you must know, that the wedding will march forward as scheduled. Now, of course, it’s all in honor of dear Papa’s memory. Or perhaps”—for a moment his sardonic grin gleamed whitely against the scar—”perhaps, you have formed a tendre for me. Am I not, after all. the answer to a maiden’s prayer?” He turned away from her with a grimace and swung into the carriage, slamming the door behind him. As the vehicle prepared to rattle off down the driveway, he thrust his head through the window. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have married Ceddie.”

Catherine shrank within herself. He was, she knew, referring to his older brother, Cedric, the present earl. The elder Barnstaples had decided that Ceddie, of course, as the heir, could not be wasted on the modestly endowed daughter of a baronet, and he instead offered for the hand of the Duke of Brentmore’s daughter. No, it was Drew who must marry Catherine. Not that Drew had objected. He was by no means smitten with her, but as much as said that if he must marry someone, he wouldn’t mind being leg shackled to his childhood friend. No, it was she who had taken exception. She might have been just as amenable as Drew if she had not already fallen madly and wildly in love with Randolph,

She smiled ruefully. She had not thought of Randolph Sills in months, which was perhaps not altogether surprising since her infatuation with him was as brief as it was intense. Not a month after Drew’s departure, she had discovered that what everyone said about Randolph Sills was true. He was a gazetted fortune hunter who had worn out his welcome among the wealthy families of the ton and had turned to the modestly endowed baronet’s daughter in his desperate need for funds.

No one could convince her of this, however, while the flame of passion burned bright in her. She was appalled when she discovered her parents’ plans for her and Drew. She had flailed out in all directions, sparing no one her outrage and her temper. Drew had remained remarkably equable throughout, although in the end, she had alienated him to the point where, if he were not bound by his sense of duty, she was sure he would have acquiesced in her desire to be free of him.

Her hand went once again to the pendant she wore concealed beneath her gown. It was a gesture that had become increasingly frequent in the last few months, as though even a brief contact with her talisman could make her troubles disappear. Her eyes filled, and, shaking her head at her own foolishness, she turned and entered the house.

In his carriage, Drew stared unseeing at the fields passing before his view. He had noted Catherine’s stricken expression at his words, and a pang of regret shot through him at the realization of the pain he had caused her. He shook himself. What nonsense! After the anguish she had caused him, he should feel nary a twinge that he had discomfited Catherine Edgebrooke.

For, indeed, it was not just the thought of her machinations in his relationship with Helen Carstairs that caused a slow burn of anger and heartache to rise within him. He had truly loved Catherine—or, at least he thought he had. Not, perhaps, when the idea of his betrothal to her had been presented to him. He’d been only three and twenty at the time, poised on the threshold of an army career and all the other challenges and rewards of adult life. The idea of his marrying anyone, let alone the chit he’d known since she wore her unruly hair in plaits, seemed ludicrous. When the plan was put to him, however, with the proviso that the betrothal would not interfere with his joining the army, he began to think it a very good thing. The fact that little Cathy Edgebrooke of the knobby knees and toothy smile, the barely tolerated little sister of his best friend, had blossomed into an attractive, vibrant young woman, about whom the other sprigs in the neighborhood buzzed like so many bees, was of some influence in his decision, it was to be admitted. A fellow had to marry someone, after all, and both sets of parents agreed that the actual marriage should be held when his service in the Peninsula was concluded and, hopefully, he would be safely embarked on a career in diplomacy. The notion of carrying against his heart the miniature of a pretty girl as he rode off to war, of receiving tender
billets-doux
from same, and knowing there was someone back home besides his mama and papa worrying about his well-being appealed to the admittedly overdeveloped romantic side of his nature. Thus, he agreed, with the utmost goodwill, to his parents’ plans.

He was completely astonished at Catherine’s response to the arrangement. When he had arrived at Greengroves, shoes polished and cravat starched to within an inch of his life, she met him at the door. Her gray eyes, red and swollen with angry tears, flashed at him like warning beacons, and he had no sooner begun his carefully prepared proposal than she began railing at him like a Billingsgate, using language he didn’t even think she knew. She loved another, she said. She was not about to be forced into a marriage, the idea of which revolted her very soul, she said. She said a great deal more, all of it apparently dredged from particularly awful Gothic novels and all of it at the top of her lungs.

Despite his best efforts, Catherine’s heels had remained firmly dug in against the prospect of becoming affianced to him, and over time, her insults and her diatribes began to wither the seeds of his newly burgeoning passion. As the date of his departure grew near, he had become heartily sick of her, and, if it were not for his obligation to his family, would have called the whole thing off with a great deal of relief.

His thoughts drifted to that last afternoon with her. Chivvied by his mother, he had come to Greengroves, the Edgebrooke’s estate, for a duty call, and Lady Edgebrooke had lost no time in bustling the beleaguered couple into the garden. Catherine had been stiff and uncommunicative, remarking only that if he had the slightest trace of backbone, he would inform Lord Barnstaple that the betrothal was a colossal mistake.

He had turned to grasp her arm, and giving it an impatient shake, he growled, “For God’s sake, Cathy, can’t you get it through that stubborn head of yours that you are going to marry me? Our betrothal is a fact, and you can’t escape it—not unless you want to break the hearts of two sets of parents.”

“Oh, what fustian. Drew! They care nothing about my heart—why should I care about theirs? I just wish you’d stop pretending that all this is agreeable lo you. I know you don’t care tuppence for me—

“If that’s true,” interrupted Drew rudely, “it’s because you’ve effectively destroyed any scrap of affection I might have felt for you. I hope that by the time I return from the Peninsula, you will have grown up a little. I must say I do not look forward to being married to a spoiled brat.”

At this, Catherine had fairly exploded. She would have struck him if he had not grasped her other hand, thus effectively spiking her guns. He released her after a moment, and she remained glaring at him. He smiled grimly. Even at such a moment, he had observed with a quickening of his pulse the rise and fall of her softly curved bosom, her flashing eyes, and the glints that shimmered in her polished mahogany hair.

He walked away, and after a moment she followed him, still muttering mutinously. As he strolled along the path, his eye was caught by something small and glittering that lay in the blossoms bordering the graveled area. Stooping, he picked up a sixpence, shiny and new, and he turned to hand it to his betrothed.

“Here you are, Cath,” he said mockingly. “A sixpence for your shoe. No bride should be without one.”

To his appalled astonishment, her cheeks reddened even more furiously and, raising her clenched fist, she hurled the coin at him. It struck his cheek, and rattled faintly as it fell into the small stones at their feet.

“Damn you. Drew Carter!” she had shrieked. “I will get out of this betrothal, and I’ll make you sorry you ever agreed to enter it. I—I hope you never come back from Spain!”

Breathless, she had picked up her skirts and run back into the house, leaving him staring after her. He did not see her again before he embarked for the Peninsula.

It was with some degree of satisfaction that he had burned unopened the few letters she had sent. He corresponded with John regularly, and when he told his friend that he had no wish to hear from Catherine, the letters had ceased. It was not long afterward that the first missive from Helen had arrived. He had been slightly acquainted with her since the time she had arrived to serve as Lady Edgebrooke’s companion. She was in her early twenties, small and quiet and attractive, with short, dark hair that curled becomingly about her pale cheeks. That first letter had been almost apologetic in tone. She knew, she said, that she was committing a solecism in writing to a gentleman, but because of his association with dear John, she quite thought of him as one of her family. She feared he might be lonely in such an alien environment and wondered if he might like to hear news of the neighborhood, items that perhaps young John would not think to include.