Anne Barbour (24 page)

Catherine had almost gasped in astonishment. “But Drew could not have said anything of the sort! He—that is, I left him before he had a chance to respond to my severing of the betrothal, but there is no doubt in my mind that I have granted his dearest wish.”

Miranda smiled patiently. “Of course it is not his wish, my dear, and he knows it—at least underneath.”

“But—but this is abominable,” sputtered Catherine. “Does Drew believe he is doing me a favor by keeping quiet about the breakup of our engagement? How very condescending of him, to be sure!”

She was so angry she could hardly speak. What sort of game was he playing? First, he raged to the heavens that he wished to be free of her, then, when she acceded, he blushed coyly and said, “Well, perhaps not.”

“Where is he?” she asked in an unpleasant tone.

“Why, I believe he and the other gentlemen went out for some shooting, but they should be back momentarily.”

“Out shooting? Our future hangs by a thread, and he goes out shooting?”

“Now, Catherine .. .” But Lady Barnstaple spoke to the empty air, for Catherine had turned on her heel and stalked from the room.

* * * *

It was perhaps just as well, thought Catherine an hour or so later as she descended to the blue salon to join the other guests for dinner, that she had been unable to find Drew. She had been ready to disembowel him, but in the hour or so since she had left Miranda, her seething sensibilities had subsided somewhat. She knew that when she encountered Drew in the company of the others, she would be cool and controlled.

Approaching the blue salon, she tensed as Drew moved down the corridor toward her from another direction.

His mouth curved in the smile that always caused a melting sensation in her interior. “Ah,” he said, “just the person I wanted to see.”

Catherine returned his smile warily. “You’ll forgive me,” she replied tightly, “if I beg leave to doubt that.”

He did not reply for a moment, but gazed at her assessingly for a moment. “Do I sense a faint hint of censure in your tone? Perfectly understandable, I’m sure. However, now that I have found you—

Catherine knew a resurgence of the anger that had simmered within her all afternoon. “Found me? But I have been right here. Did you expect to find me lurking among the shooting party?”

“Shooting party?”

“Yes, Miranda told me where you spent the afternoon,” replied Catherine with some asperity.

Drew laughed, a little shamefacedly. “Oh, that. Well, I started out with John and Ceddie and the rest, but my mind was elsewhere, and when we passed—” He halted suddenly. “In fact—” He moved to her suddenly and caught her hand in his. Sparks of something disturbing danced in his dark eyes. “Catherine, come with me—right now. Please.”

“But—but...” She sputtered. “The dinner hour is on us. People will be coming down any minute.”

“Yes.” He pulled her along the corridor, bending on her a smile that was both mischievous and tender. “That’s why we must make our exodus quickly.”

Catherine said no more, but allowed him to draw her into the library and through the double doors that stood at one end of the room. Once outside, he hurried across the lawn until he came to a stand of oaks that stood between the parkland of the manor and the open field that marked the boundary of the home farm.

“Drew, where on earth are we going?” expostulated Catherine. “I am not dressed for a country excursion. And we will miss dinner! Whatever will everyone—?”

She fell silent suddenly, for Drew had pulled her beneath one of the oaks, and in a moment had made his way to the far side of the trees, where the branches bent low over a spreading hedge of hawthorne and brambles. A sort of cave was formed there, in which were set three crumbled stone benches and a rotting wooden table. Catherine gasped.

“Why, it’s—”

Drew turned to her and pushed her gently onto one of the benches.

“Do you remember this? Our secret place. Yours and John’s and mine.” He sank down on another bench. In the cramped confines of the little enclosure, he was very close.

Catherine was forced to laugh. “Well, it was really yours, and John’s—and whatever select friends you chose to let join you here. I was the interloper. I remember the day I discovered your secret club meeting here. I crept up with all the stealth of a Red Indian—or so I fancied—and when I sprang upon you crouched over your latest treasure—a dead badger, if I recall correctly, I thought my short life had reached its end.”

“Well, of course we were somewhat disconcerted to find that a female—a grubby six-year-old at that—had penetrated the fastness of our lair.”

“Disconcerted! You threatened me with horrors too awful to speak aloud—although, I think you did mention decapitation.”

“Nonsense. We let you stay, did we not?”

“Only because I threatened to tell Nurse where you could be found all those times she called for you in vain.”

“Nevertheless, you eventually became a full-fledged member of the group. We had some marvelous times in here, didn’t we?”

Catherine smiled. “Yes, it was a splendid place for hiding away from the adult world. Goodness, we planned explorations through the jungle and over polar caps—and planned battle strategies and—”

“And the horrible revenges we would wreak on certain footmen and grooms and gamekeepers and tutors and anyone else who persisted in keeping us buckled under the intolerable rules and regulations of childhood.”

Catherine laughed and then fell silent. “We did have good times together—you and John and I—didn’t we?”

“Yes.” Drew took her hand in his. “I was thinking about that when I was here earlier today. Where did it all go, I wondered—the friendship, the camaraderie? What happened?”

“We grew up, I suppose,” replied Catherine, her eyes suddenly moist. “Only, some of us did not grow up quite enough.”

“I think you’re right. We both thought we were fully mature and capable of directing our own destinies in the weeks before I left for the Peninsula, and we both acted like children.”

A vision rose suddenly in Catherine’s mind of the little sixpence, flashing through the air just before it struck Drew’s cheek. She nodded, without speaking.

“And I’m afraid I haven’t been behaving much better now,” Drew continued, and Catherine glanced at him, startled.

“You’re right, you know. I have allowed myself to sink into a morass of self-pity ever since my, er, unfortunate incident at Toulouse. It seemed as though everything in my life had gone wrong—the woman I planned to marry had rejected me, and then when I thought I had found love again, that turned out to be a fool’s dream, as well. I lashed out at everyone around me, particularly you, whom I had by now come to think of as my evil genius.”

He drew a long breath.

“I guess I am trying to apologize—again, and I’m wondering if we could not make a new start in our lives. You have granted me my freedom, and I appreciate that. Ceddie convinced me to keep the pretense of our betrothal alive, and I’m not so sure that was a good idea, but I did agree. What do you think, Catherine?” He was very close to her, and she was aware of the familiar smell of him permeating her senses. “Can we at least be friends again?”

“I—” began Catherine, then fell into a helpless silence.

“Perhaps friendship will lead to something more—for there is still the betrothal to consider—and perhaps not. Our families still wish us to marry, and there is the succession to consider, for so far, Ceddie and Miranda have produced no children. I must marry someone—and—Oh, God—” He rose abruptly. “I’m making the most wretched mull of this.” He sank down onto the bench again. “What I’m trying to say, is that neither of us appear to have a great love waiting in the wings, and that being the case—perhaps we should each consider marrying a friend.”

“Yes,” whispered Catherine, her throat suddenly dry, “we could consider that, I suppose.”

“I propose we simply let ourselves drift in this situation for a week or two. Then, if either of us feels that we cannot go through with the marriage, we will call it off. It will raise a tremendous rumpus, of course, but we shall just have to stand together.”

There were a hundred objections Catherine knew she should make. She should say something about loveless marriages, at the very least. But it would not be a loveless marriage, would it? At least, not on her part. A voice rose in the back of her mind, clear and unpleasant.

And what about your Great Lie? He believes himself to be in love with another woman. What would he think if he knew the truth? Would your famous friendship stand up under the revelation
of your perfidy?

As though in counterpoint, another voice made itself heard almost at once, whispering slyly.

But does he need to know at all? We have progressed from outright loathing to an admission of friendship in just two days. He fell in love with the woman who wrote those letters. Do you not think you could make him fall in love with her again?

No, of course not. Such a course of action would be contemptible. She would have to tell him—but not now. Not now, when their new relationship was still in the bud, fragile and shiny. She would wait for a more appropriate moment—a few days from now. perhaps. She lifted her gaze to his.

“I have never ceased being your friend. Drew, even in my worst moments.” Her heart beat so loud in her ears, she thought he must hear it. “I will certainly agree to your proposal of—continued amity.” For, he had not really proposed marriage, had he?

He said nothing, but in the depths of his coal-chip eyes, a disturbing light shone. He bent to kiss her cheek. Just a butterfly kiss, really, and she expected that he would draw back immediately. But, he did not. His lips trailed, still with that feather-soft touch until he reached hers. Slowly and deliberately, his mouth moved on hers—almost teasing, and from somewhere deep within her, Catherine experienced a shudder of response. As the kiss deepened, his right hand caressed her back, moving upward to cup her head so that the pressure of his lips fairly burned its way into hers. Catherine felt as though she were drinking in Drew’s very essence, and that she was imparting hers to him. At last, he drew back and simply gazed at her for some moments.

“Well,” he said quietly, his tone bemused, almost startled.

“Yes,” she replied, willing her heart to stop its absurd leaping in her breast.

Drew said no more, but rose, and taking her hand once more, led her back toward the house.

The days that followed were the first truly happy ones Catherine could remember since Drew’s departure for Spain. Although there was no repetition of the scene in the tree cave, she and Drew spent endless, idyllic hours with each other. Nothing more was said between them of marriage, but when other guests teased them with the usual jokes directed at betrothed couples, there was no thought of denial. They merely laughed and, when the jibes grew ribald, Catherine blushed adorably.

Theo made two or three attempts to insert himself into their intimacy, but even he seemed to sense that his efforts were futile.

This blissful state of affairs lasted for almost a week.

Catherine had no portent of disaster the morning she awoke to find the skies leaden and opened her bedchamber window to discover a sharp, disagreeable wind blustering about the casement. She merely smiled, recalling the archery tournament that was to be held today. Perhaps, she thought dreamily, the gentlemen would decide on a shooting party instead, and the ladies would shop in the village, leaving Drew and her to dream by a cozy fire in the library.

Similar thoughts occupied Drew’s mind as he stood at his own window, clad in shirt and breeches. Too bad about the tournament, he thought. He’d rather been looking forward to giving assistance to his betrothed, his arms about her shoulders, his body pressed against her softly curving back. However, there was much to be said for tea by the fire, or perhaps a brisk walk to the cottage orneé situated in a spinney not far from the main house. All sorts of magical things might happen in a snug cottage, for two people taking haven there against the elements.

Was he wrong to have let things progress as they had? he wondered. He was teetering on the brink of parson’s mousetrap. Should he not be more concerned? Somehow, the rage he had built up at Catherine had dissipated like ghosts in the first shaft of morning sun—and after only a few days in her company. She had always held this power over him, even as a very young girl. How many times had he been furious with her over some trick she had played, or her latest display of temper, only to be won over moments later by her laughter and her teasing?

He was beginning to fall in love with her—again, he realized with a start, and it appeared she once more found the idea of marriage to him appealing. Why? he asked himself once more. Why would a lovely, vibrant woman, who could have her pick of any man in the country, want to shackle herself to a ruin of a man? His breath caught as he recalled the kiss of a few days ago. She had seemingly opened herself to him—given of herself as a woman would to the man she loves. A flame of hope shot through him, only to be squelched with a cold burst of realism. What a daft idea. She had certainly never said in word or gesture that she loved him. And yet, her passion had seemed genuine. God knew his had certainly been. It had taken everything in him to draw back from the sweetness of her mouth—from the pliant warmth of her body. She had made no move to prolong the moment. And yet...

It was in a thoroughly confused state of mind that he resumed dressing and left the room a few minutes later, whistling thoughtfully.

As it turned out, there was to be no intimate chat before a cozy fire that day. True, the others in the house party drifted away to find their own cold-weather amusements, but when Catherine and Drew headed toward the library, they were corralled by Miranda into a game of charades with several of the children in the house party.

It was with some irritation that Drew scribbled words and phrases for the youngsters to act out, but as he watched Catherine laughing with the little ones on her team, he experienced a peculiar stirring within him.

My God, he realized, with a heartstopping thud of finality, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this woman, to make babies with her, and to squabble and laugh together as they had for the past few days. In short, he concluded with a startling lightening of his being, he wanted very badly to marry Catherine Edgebrooke. Was she still willing to have him—for whatever reason?