How to Seduce a Scot (9 page)

Catherine did not sleep at all that night. After enduring prying looks from her mother all through dinner, she claimed that she had a headache and retired early. Once trapped alone in her room, even Mrs. Radcliffe's latest novel could not distract her from her oppressive thoughts. She ended up blowing out her candle and drawing the bed curtains closed against the firelight in her grate, wishing that she might suddenly sleep, and wake as someone else.

She went back over the events of the afternoon again and again in her mind, as if they were a river flowing through her thoughts that would not be dammed or channeled elsewhere. She remembered the sad old lion, and how she had wished she might set him free. She thought her gaffe in the royal menagerie, and of how Mr. Waters had dealt with it coolly, in a way that had left them both with their dignity intact. Her feelings had been hurt at that point, but at least it was an answer to the question she had been asking herself in her deepest dreams and wildest imaginings: could she and Mr. Waters ever consider a future with one another? And he had answered her with a resounding, quiet no.

If that had been all, she would only have a moment of wounded pride. But she had been schoolgirl foolish enough to accept the odd drink Mary Elizabeth offered her, not knowing how it would make her feel. Warm, and wonderful, as if the world were new, as if she were truly young, and need not fear the lack of money, or her future, or even think of the next moment. She had simply felt the need to draw close to Mr. Waters in that hour after she had taken that drink, and sit with her arm over his, and feel the strength of his firm muscles beneath her hand.

His heated lips on hers had been a revelation. Why had he kissed her back, when he did not want her? She could not understand that. But then, she knew absolutely nothing of the male mind, nothing of his thoughts, nothing of him at all except that he was her friend's brother, and the nearness of him took every sensible thought out of her head and replaced each with folly.

Catherine had never been touched by a man before. She could not believe how easy it had all been, how seamless, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, slid her hands into his hair, untied his ribbon, and pressed herself against the hard, masculine contours of his body, reveling in the touch of every inch of him.

She could not believe her behavior. Even the magical drink that Mary Elizabeth had given her could not excuse such conduct. She could not believe she had done it. How could the calm, quiet, biddable girl who her grandmother had raised possibly have been such a fool?

And yet, she had been. So be it.

Catherine rose from her bed and lit a candle as her grandmother had taught her. Though they were officially members of the Church of England for form's sake and attended services every Sunday at Saint George's when they were in London, she was a good Catholic, as her father's family had always been.

So she said an Act of Contrition from the old religion, and then asked for forgiveness from the Holy Mother simply and without flowery words. She found, as she knelt before the candle on her dressing table, a modicum of peace steal over her heart. Her heart was still wounded, her soul was still bruised, but she was forgiven. Nothing worse had happened. She had sinned, and badly, but she had been spared. She would simply have to take care and follow her grandmother's precepts to the letter, in order to avoid such darkness in the future.

Girls who kissed hulking Scots in their mother's hallways did not make good marriages. And she must marry. She knew her duty, and she would follow it. She would save her family from her mother's spendthrift ways and the loss of their fortune. Her grandmother had been clear: there was no one else to do it. Catherine must put all else aside, and be the woman her grandmother had raised her to be.

She had thought to become a woman on her wedding night. Now, she saw that it was not marriage that made a woman, but the acceptance of responsibility, both for herself and for others.

No matter what the temptation, she would not be a fool again.

After her prayers, Catherine finally slept toward dawn. She woke feeling bleak, and wondered if this was how a woman felt, her dreams discarded, realities taken up in their place.

She told herself to stop whining as she washed her face. She did not call Marie that morning, but braided her hair as she had when she was a girl, and tied it into a makeshift bun on her head. She was vain enough to let a few curls stay loose along her forehead and temples, but she did not spend too much time on vanity, dressing in an old gown from home. She would work in her garden, and receive no one that day. There was nothing like working in good, clean dirt to cleanse the spirit of folly.

* * *

Alexander did not take any of the duchess's conveyances but walked the next morning to see his angel. He reminded himself that he could not offer marriage to a girl he had known less than a fortnight. He was bound for the sea in a few months' time, and had to keep his wits about him, and his desire in check, while he was on land. If only desire were the sum total of what he felt for her. But there was something more between them, more than he had ever felt for any woman in his life. Catherine had named it as they stood in the lion's den. She might be young, but she had the wit and the courage to see that what they felt was rare. Not that their feelings changed anything. She was bound to marry a decent Englishman, and he was bound to let her. But he could not leave things as he had the day before. He must smooth things over, if only for Mary Elizabeth's sake.

Of course, as he was a man and not a liar, he knew that he was smoothing things over chiefly for himself.

He could not get the last look on her face out of his thoughts. She had looked as if he had stabbed her through the heart with a dirk—a thin blade, but a deadly one.

When he knocked on the front door, Jim the footman opened it.

“Good day, sir.” Jim stood wearing his best officious expression, and said nothing else.

“May I inquire if Miss Middlebrook is at home to callers?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, you may inquire. She is at home. But she is not receiving.”

The young man looked so proud to have remembered that much that Alexander had to swallow his smile. He soldiered on. “Do you know if an exception might be made? It is urgent that I speak with Miss Middlebrook before tonight.”

“I am sorry, sir. She is not at home.”

“To callers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But she is home.”

“Yes.”

When Alexander did not speak, but took a moment to gather his thoughts, the footman–under butler closed the door in his face.

If he had not felt like such a bounder, Alexander would have laughed out loud. He walked slowly down the stairs and along the walk, past the back garden. Through the garden gate, he thought he caught a hint of golden hair. He thought for a moment of Mrs. Angel. Her hair was blonde, but fading a little. And Miss Margaret's hair was a burnished bronze, like Robert's. He smiled. He had found his quarry.

Not at home to callers? He would see about that.

Catherine was minding her own business, cutting lilacs in the back garden when a hulking Scot vaulted over the wall and back into her life.

“I beg your pardon!” she said automatically, idiotically, standing with her pruning shears in one hand and her basket over her other arm. Part of her wanted to toss those shears at him in a fit of ire. But in the next moment, her calm reason asserted itself and she took a series of deep breaths. Blast him, Alexander Waters was still a beautiful man. She had hoped that he might have grown toady warts overnight.

No luck there.

His shoulders, encased this morning in black worsted wool, were as broad as they had ever been. His handsome jaw was just as chiseled, his eyes just as dark. Instead of throwing her shears at him, she turned her back and returned to pruning flowers for the sachets she was making.

“You aren't going to speak to me?” Mr. Waters asked. “I've just leaped over a six-foot wall for you, and you do not even mention it.”

Catherine did not look at him but examined her roses for aphids. “It is not polite to leap over walls or to comment on such an occurrence. When you leave, there is no need for such theatrics. The garden gate is well oiled, and will serve.”

“You are still angry with me, then.” He came to stand beside her, his wide shoulders and broad back blocking the sun. Still, she did not turn to him, but stared blindly at flowers that she could no longer see. What little peace she had been able to cultivate that morning began to slip away. She must work harder, and breathe deeper, for she would be seeing Lord Farleigh at Lady Jersey's ball that night. She must have a clear, serene mind by then. By then, she must be the kind of woman a decent man would wed.

Nothing like the ill-behaved wanton she had been yesterday.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. She clipped a rosebud that was not yet even beginning to turn pink. She would have sworn under her breath at the destruction of such a blossom before it could even open, but she was a lady.

“So you have forgotten my villainous behavior?” he asked.

She turned to him, her bonnet shading her eyes. Her white bonnet was still in her room, Marie cleaning and re-trimming it with silk flowers from one of her mother's discards. She wore her blue bonnet that morning, and a light muslin gown to match. Her heavy gardening gloves, meant to protect her soft skin, made her hands itch. Perhaps it was because she itched to slap Alexander Waters's smug smile off his face.

She could not believe the depth of her anger. Surely it was overdone, and she was overwrought. Surely a true lady would never feel such fury at the mere sight of a man. No lady would wish a man to perdition where he stood.

“I am not receiving,” she said.

“So I gathered from your footman.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Catherine sighed deeply, setting her shears and basket on a nearby bench. She glanced toward the house, and saw that they were shielded by the great oak that still shaded the house from the summer sun. The oak was in full new leaf, obscuring the sight of them from any prying eyes that might be peering down from the breakfast room or the family parlor.

Thank goodness for small blessings.

“Your behavior, Mr. Waters, was no worse than mine. I ask, on your honor, that we forget the entire afternoon ever happened.”

“What if I don't want to forget?”

Catherine stared up at him, wondering what new game he might be playing. Whatever it was, it had to stop, here and now. She must make a decent marriage, and she could not let this man stand in her way.

“I can only imagine what you must think of me,” she began, only to be interrupted.

“I doubt very much that you can.”

She waved one hand impatiently, then drew off her heavy gardening gloves, casting them down on the bench with her shears. She breathed again, forcing clean air past her stays and into her lungs, so that she might think clearly. This man always did nothing but damage her calm. She must set those feelings aside, just as she must set him.

“Whatever the case, you gave me your word of honor to forget the entire incident. I must hold you to it.”

“I gave you my word of honor never to speak to another about what went on between us, and I have not. I will not. But I will not forget it.”

Catherine glared up into his face and saw a small smile playing across the sensuous plane of his lips. She remembered what it felt like to have those lips on hers. As her gaze traveled downward, she remembered what it felt like to have his hard body pressed against her, from breast to thigh.

She trembled and turned away from him, moving to her lilacs again, where she bent down and took a deep breath of their cloying sweetness. They had never been her favorite flower. They were her mother's. But their scent drove away any memory of Alexander Waters's body, save for the taste of his lips on hers. No matter what she did, that memory simply would not go away.

“Sir, I beg your pardon, but I have no dealings with married men. No doubt you think to dally with a young girl who knows no better, then return to your wife and children tucked away in the Highlands. But I tell you, you will dally no more with me.”

He laughed out loud at that, and she thanked God in His heaven that she had set her shears aside, for she truly would have run him through had they been in her hand.

“I have no wife, Miss Middlebrook, and no children, in the Highlands or anywhere. What put this foolish notion into your head?”

He touched her arm and she flinched away. The heat of his touch moved up her arm and into her heart before she could stop it. She felt tears begin to rise, and she blinked them away. “Yesterday, you stated very clearly that you cannot marry. Your reasons are, of course, your own. I ask only that you leave my presence now, at once, and do not come back.”

He simply stared at her, his own breath coming as fast as hers was. She waited, but for once he did not have anything quick to say. Catherine swallowed the tears in the back of her throat, fighting for control. “And do not call me a fool. I am a lady, in spite of my behavior. I will thank you to remember that, until you walk away and never see me again.”

“I could not leave you and never see you again, Catherine. So put that idea out of your head.”

She felt her ire rise again, and she welcomed it. Anger was preferable to tears. “Get out of my garden.”

He raised both of his hands, the black leather of his gloves catching the morning light. She shivered at the sight of those gloves, and cursed herself for a weak and wanton fool.

“I came to apologize, Catherine. And I am making a hash of it, just as I made a hash of our dealings yesterday. I am sorry to intrude on your morning. But I cannot leave this anger between us. The kiss we shared—”

“I beg your pardon? What kiss?” she asked, trying to take a different tack by feigning ignorance.

If he was so indiscreet as to discuss this openly in a garden only ten feet from the street, where anyone might hear, who knew whom else he might tell? She could not admit to the kiss ever having happened. To kiss a man like that and not become his wife made her damaged goods. She could not afford to be ruined. Handsome, ne'er-do-well Highlanders would simply have to step aside.

“Catherine, you cannot pretend to have forgotten.”

“I pretend nothing, sir. I remember nothing, because no such kiss occurred. Now, since you will not leave me in peace, as I have requested more than once, I must go inside to my mother.”

She left her flowers and gardening things on the bench behind him. She could not risk passing him to pick them up, for she did not trust herself. Even among the sweet spring scents of her garden, she caught the heady smell of bergamot and cedar rising from his skin.

She did not make it far. His hand was on her arm in the next instant, drawing her close, so that all she could smell, all she could see, was him.

“Let me go,” she said, her breath coming short. Her body rebelled against her better judgment and sound mind, leaning toward him, hungering for his touch. She shook with the need for him to kiss her as he had the day before. She tried to pull away, but found herself drawn to him as inexorably as a wave is drawn by an outgoing tide.

His lips were gentle on hers as he leaned down and blocked out the sun. All thought fled in that moment, and she was taken up with pure sensation. The sight and sound of the world faded, and there was only him, and the heat of his mouth. He did not draw her too close this time, and she kept her sanity enough not to press herself against him. Still, the taste of him overwhelmed her, an exotic delicacy that she would never get enough of, not if she lived a thousand years. She had been transported to some exotic place, a world where his touch and all the joy it contained were her birthright.

That was a lie. He did not belong to her.

She stepped back then, and he let her go.

He was breathing hard, harder than she was, and his gloved hands were shaking. He reached for her again, as if against his own will, but she took two more steps back.

“This is not over,” he said.

“It is, Mr. Waters, I assure you. One more thing to add to the list of all we must forget.”

“I am not much for list making. I only know that I will kiss you again.”

“You need not trouble yourself. I make excellent lists. And you will never be close enough to me to take a liberty after this morning.”

He smiled, and the light of challenge came into his dark eyes. She cursed herself, for her grandmother had warned her about issuing challenges to a man. Men liked nothing better than the thing they could not have, whether that thing be a horse, a fine gun, or a girl. She had just thrown down a gauntlet, and as she watched, he picked it up.

His breathing evened out as if by magic and his smile became a bit arrogant, as if he knew more than she did, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. And there was little doubt that he understood worldly things far better than she ever would. But she was a Middlebrook. She would not be forsworn. If he would not marry her, so be it. She would go about finding a man who would.

“I will leave you now, Miss Middlebrook, by the garden gate. But I will see you tonight at Lady Jersey's ball.”

“You may see me, but I would thank you not to speak to me. I think we have said enough.”

Alex's smile took on another level of heat, and she felt an answering heat beneath her skin. She took one more cautionary step back, but he did not try to approach her again.

“It is not words I wish to bandy with you.”

“You will get nothing else, and not even words will pass between us, if I can help it.”

“Indeed, Miss Middlebrook, I will get a dance. The supper waltz will do. Then we can spend another pleasant hour discussing what you will and will not allow.”

She straightened her spine, working valiantly to ignore the tingling in her fingertips, and the heat pooling beneath her stomach. She wanted to reach for him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She could not see him alone again. She could not think to control herself, though she had no clear idea as to what she would do with him if she put her hands on him as she had yesterday afternoon. She would kiss him, but it seemed she wanted more than that. She could tell by the wicked gleam in his eye that he knew a good deal about the “more” of what she wanted.

“That waltz is taken, Mr. Waters. Now, I would thank you to leave.”

He stepped close again, and this time, she stood her ground. She would not be intimidated by a beautiful man in her own back garden, no matter how much he made her flush. She did not feel faint, as a true lady would, but exhilarated, as if fighting him had given her life again after her night of misery and sorrow. Fighting a Scot was much better than pining for him.

“If that waltz is spoken for on your dance card, then that Englishman had better get the deuce out of my way.” He spoke low, his voice filled with more danger than if he had raised it in a shout, but Catherine did not back down even then. She met his eyes with what she hoped was cool aplomb, and she would not drop her gaze come Halifax or high water.

She had lied. No one had taken that waltz. But she would hide in the ladies' retiring room for the whole of supper rather than spend it with him.

Alex Waters must have seen something of her defiance in her eyes, for his own flare of temper seemed to cool. For some strange reason, he looked almost proud of her.

“I have done enough to spoil your morning. I will go, through the gate this time. I bid you good day.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Waters.”

He left without speaking again, and true to his word, he stepped out through the garden gate instead of vaulting over the wall. She pulled off her bonnet as soon as he was gone, fanning herself with the flower-and-straw confection. There did not seem quite enough breeze in the garden, though it was early May.

She collected her things and went into the house, certain that she would find calm and comfort for her frazzled nerves in the making of her mother's sachets. Her nerves seemed to sing with the joy of battle. She could not tell if she had won or not. He had left her in possession of the field. Perhaps that was something.

When she stepped into the cool of the kitchen, Mrs. Beam was waiting for her, a look of worry on her face. For one horrible moment, Catherine thought that someone might have seen her in the garden with Mr. Waters, but when she saw the missive in the older woman's hand, she felt a sinking in her stomach that only came from financial matters gone awry.

She wondered silently if her mother had managed to run up two awful butcher's bills within a week. When she broke the seal of the letter and read it in the light of the kitchen window, she saw that it was far worse than that.

Miss Middlebrook,

I regret to inform you that the mortgage taken out against your family property in Devon is three months in arrears. Your mother has failed to respond to my previous inquiries, so I am turning to you. Please visit my office at once, with your esteemed mother, so that we might come to an understanding of this debt, that your family might draw up plans to retrench.