Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (10 page)

All eyes turned to Catherine, who felt a tremendous urge to slide down in the curricle and hide from them, and from the imposing man on the chestnut mare in particular. But restraining herself, she maintained eye contact with him and said only, “Yes, of course.”

Deverill sketched a bow in return. “I shall look forward to it, Miss Fellingham.” After much contemplation of her, he finally looked away. “And I must thank Lady Sefton for arranging it so deftly.” He kissed the hand of the lady in question. “I don’t know when I would have danced with Miss Fellingham again if it weren’t for your clever handling.”

Lady Sefton laughed. “Doing a bit too brown, Lord Deverill. You are known for your clever handling of young ladies.”

“Ah, but not ladies with as much countenance as Miss Fellingham here,” he said, with a sidelong glance her way.

Hearing this, Catherine felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. All of a sudden, her head started to pound and she had trouble breathing
.
How could he be so cruel as to mock her like that?

Catherine regained her composure and examined the group to see if anyone had noticed her odd behavior. A quick glance at Arabella revealed that she wasn’t following the conversational undercurrent as carefully as she could be. Indeed, Lady Courtland looked delighted with this turn of events and completely oblivious to the derision Catherine had suffered at the hands of her friend. Lady Sefton was equally unaware, and Mr. Pearson seemed miffed at the impudence of the marquess in arranging a dance with her under his very nose.

Only Deverill appeared to notice something was amiss. His eyebrows furrowed and he seemed to be asking her with a look if she was well. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks again and looked away. Why must he be so perceptive?

“Lady Sefton,” said Deverill, “Wednesday at Almack’s seems so far away. Perhaps you can arrange for Miss Fellingham to come riding with me tomorrow?”

The patroness laughed, delighted by this ploy. “You are shameless,” she said admiringly. “Well, girl, will you do Deverill the pleasure of your company tomorrow for a ride around the park?”

“I’m afraid my family does not keep stables in London. Alas, I must decline,” she said with insincere regret, pleased that she had a legitimate reason to demure.

“Pooh,” dismissed the interfering Arabella. “Deverill keeps a full stable and would be glad to provide you with a mount.”

“It is true, Miss Fellingham,” he said gently, as if taking care not to disturb her again. “I do have a full stable, and the truth is you would be doing me a favor. My horses do not get nearly enough exercise.”

Catherine saw no gracious way out and, with an apologetic look at Pearson, agreed. “I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”

Deverill’s horse began to fidget, and he pulled the reins in tight. “I’m afraid I must be off. Gale here has no appreciation for the finer things in life. Lady Sefton, I must thank you for a very profitable afternoon. Is nine acceptable to you, Miss Fellingham? Yes? Good. Until then.”

Catherine bid him adieu and the two ladies followed closely on his lead. Catherine and Mr. Pearson resumed their ride, but for her the enjoyment had gone out of the afternoon. She responded to Pearson’s questions and even asked some of her own, but neither her mind nor her heart was in it. She was too busy thinking about other things—about what her mother would say when she found out Deverill was lending her a mount and dancing the waltz with her at Almack’s, what spiteful words Evelyn would hurdle when she knew, and how let down she would feel when this wretched adventure was over and she went back to spending her days in the study.

Catherine expected dinner that night to be a subdued affair—she planned to be on her best behavior and hoped that Evelyn would follow suit—and it would’ve been if Sir Vincent hadn’t asked about Deverill.

“What’s this I hear about my Cathy and that damned stiff neck Deverill?” he asked as he chewed some peas.

Evelyn made a pathetic little peep like a sparrow in pain.

Her father looked at her oddly for a moment and then continued. “They’re talking about it like a cackle of damn hens down at White’s.”

Again Evelyn squeaked in anguish.

“Errant nonsense, I told them. Catherine with the Marquess of Deverill,” he said with a muffled laugh, as if unable to decide whether to be amazed or amused by the idea. “A nonesuch like that interested in our Cathy! It defies logic. To be honest, it puts my mind at ease, for I cannot like the notion of having him in the family. Too high-minded.”

When Evelyn let out yet another grief-stricken wail, her father threw down his fork and knife. They clattered loudly in his plate. “That’s it. Eliza, what the devil is wrong with the chit?”

Evelyn stood up in her chair, tears crawling down her cheeks. “I can’t
take
it,” she cried. “I just can’t take it anymore. Why does no one care about me? Everyone’s so happy for Catherine. Well, I’m not.” She screeched and stomped her foot. “I’m not. Catherine doesn’t deserve him. She’s too old. She’s too old,” she said again and ran, crying, out of the room.

For a moment they all watched the door where she had passed through. Then Sir Vincent yelled, “Hawkins. Hawkins?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where’s my port?”

“Coming, sir.”

Freddy and Melissa kept their eyes on their plates, and Catherine could tell they were holding in smiles. Catherine felt one tugging at her own lips. No, she thought, it wasn’t right to laugh. But then Melissa let out a giggle and all was lost. Hawkins was carrying in the port as the three broke into laughter.

Sir Vincent took a reviving sip and considered the group of Bedlamites sitting around his table. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on? What the devil was Evelyn prattling about?”

His question only made them laugh harder. Their mother gave them each a stern look to no avail. Their laughter was beyond chastisement.

Deciding it was best that she explain, Lady Fellingham said, “It’s true, Sir Vincent. It seems that Deverill has taken a fancy to Catherine.”

Catherine, hearing this and knowing the truth, laughed even harder. Tears started to stream down her cheeks.

“They did dance the waltz together last night at Lady Sefton’s ball. Although you know I don’t approve of the waltz, I thought they made a handsome pair, to be sure. And he is taking her riding tomorrow in the park, lending her a mount and everything. It is so exciting.” Seeing no answering gleam of excitement anywhere in her husband’s countenance, she continued. “However, Evelyn had counted him among her beaux and she is a teensy bit upset at the defection.”

“A teensy bit?” said Freddy between bubbles of mirth. “She was a teensy bit upset when she couldn’t get that sable-lined pelisse.”

“Remember how she wouldn’t eat for three weeks?” laughed Melissa. “Said she’d rather starve than face life without the pelisse.”

“But then she had Betsy sneak her up meals when she thought nobody was looking,” Freddy added with more than a little lingering amusement.

Their mother did her best to ignore their ill-timed humor. “Evelyn is full of sensibility. She feels things deeply. No doubt this will pass quickly.”

“No doubt,” echoed Freddy, who was beginning to get hold of himself.

Sir Vincent looked unsatisfied with this explanation and downed some more port in response. “I don’t like Deverill dangling after Cathy.”

“He’s a gentleman.”

“He’s used to cavorting with high-fliers and dashers and Incomparables in their first blush of youth. What does he want with Cathy?”

Abruptly Catherine stopped laughing, as did her siblings. She looked at her father and thought again how easy it was for people to be carelessly cruel. “I don’t know,” she said, standing up and leaving the room in much the way Evelyn had, only she managed to take her dignity with her.

CHAPTER FIVE

The following morning,
Catherine woke with a new resolve. She would not go riding with Deverill. She would not play her role in Lady Courtland’’s drama. She would not be a pawn who was moved around the chessboard at another’s will. It was humiliating, and although her confidence had taken several direct hits recently, she had enough self-respect left to find it unbearable. With these thoughts in mind, she dressed in a lavender walking dress and went downstairs to wait for Deverill.

She perched in the window of her father’s study to watch for the marquess—discreetly to one side, of course, so her presence wasn’t revealed to persons passing. Deverill arrived not fifteen minutes later, and as soon as she saw the horse she was meant to ride, her resolve began to weaken. It had been so long since she had been bestride and surely their stables in Dorset did not have anything as fine as the chestnut mare that was now occupying the street in front of her town house. Oh, what a beautiful creature.

Although she knew it wasn’t at all the thing, Catherine opened the door before the marquess even knocked and immediately peered over his shoulder at the impressive specimen.

If Deverill found this behavior unusual, his greeting gave no indication. “Ah, Miss Fellingham, you look lovely this morning.”

Catherine barely spared him a glance as she bid him good morning in return. Reconsidering the matter, she thought that perhaps it was best if she did go riding with him. For her scheme to work, she would have to be seen with Deverill, and a morning trot along Rotten Row was the perfect opportunity. Perhaps they would meet some of the marquess’s friends, eligible men who did not find her the veriest quiz.

“Miss Fellingham, you are not wearing your habit,” Deverill observed, still standing on the step, although Caruthers now loomed in the hallway, waiting to reinstate proper decorum. “Has there been a change of plans?”

“What?” Forcing herself to look away from the mare, Catherine turned to Deverill and had to concede that he was an impressive specimen, as well, in his white lawn shirt, buckskin breeches and Hessians. “Um, no, there hasn’t,” she said, quickly thinking of a reason for her inappropriate dress. “I merely had not expected you to arrive so early.”

“We said nine, did we not?” he observed with a wry smile, amused at being upstaged by his own horse.

“Uh, yes,” she agreed, feeling foolish. “I hadn’t realized it was so late in the morning. Is it really nine already? My, where did the morning go? Please, take a seat in the drawing room while I change into my habit. I really can’t believe it’s already nine.”

Hearing his cue, Caruthers stepped forward to lead Deverill to the appointed chamber in the appropriate fashion and offered him tea. Catherine tensed at this, imagining her mother coming down for her morning repast and finding the most eligible bachelor of the season comfortably ensconced in her own drawing room sipping tea. Such a development would send her into transports of delight so overwhelming, she might never recover.

Without waiting to hear Deverill’s response, Catherine ran up the stairs, into her room and opened her wardrobe to look for her riding habit, which she had not worn since coming to London. Determined not to tarry a second longer than necessary, for she had told her mother Deverill was arriving a full hour later to avoid an awkward scene, she tossed several articles carelessly on her bed and groaned in frustration when her habit didn’t magically appear.

“May I help you, miss?” asked Betsy, observing the ruckus with a patient expression.

Catherine gratefully sought her assistance in locating her riding habit. She longed to ask Betsy not to mention the episode to Lady Fellingham, but she knew as soon as the maid found the garment, she would run to her mistress to report the marquess’s presence in the house. For this reason, she sought her help in putting on her habit and even requested that the maid retrieve her pelisse for her. By the time Betsy returned to the second floor, she and Deverill would be gone.

“Thank you, my lord, this is very kind of you,” she admitted graciously a little while later as they entered Hyde Park, a groom following at a discreet distance. “It is my brother Freddy’s dearest wish that we keep a stable in town, but I’m afraid it is simply too impractical to seriously consider.”

“I thought we agreed on Julian,” he said.

Surprised, she raised her eyes to his. “Yes, but that was before—” Her speech broke off as soon as she realized what she had been about to say.

“Before?” he prodded.

“Nothing, my lord,” she said quietly, appalled by the blunder she had very nearly made. Imagine—revealing her knowledge of his and Lady Courtland’s scheme! Nothing would bring about the end of the game more quickly and, she realized in that instant, she very much wanted it to continue, at least until the end of the morning.

After examining her silently for a moment, he nodded. “Very well. But I would prefer it if you would call me Julian. Then I could call you Catherine without seeming too forward.”

The absurdity of this statement made her laugh, for she had never met anyone more forward than he, and she felt some of the tension drain out of her shoulders. “I sincerely doubt, my lord, that you’ve ever worried about seeming too forward.”

He smiled, perhaps conceding the truth. “And what about you?”

“Me?” she asked, at once surprised and amused by the notion. “I daresay nobody has ever thought me forward. Indeed, ’twould be very much the opposite.”