The Disdainful Marquis (35 page)

“As to that, I couldn't say,” Jenkins said mildly, “for he's not one to open his budget to another. But it seems to me, if you'll forgive the impertinence, My Lady, that you're the one that's got the only right to ask. And speaking of such, I couldn't ask Her Ladyship, but I can inquire of Miss Catherine, do you want to stay in this marriage?”

“Yes,” Catherine said simply, hanging her head.

“I can't blame you,” Jenkins commented. “A lovely home, fine clothes, no more worries about money. It's a soft berth, it is indeed.”

“How could you!” Catherine said, suddenly blazing with anger. “You know me better than that, Jenkins. I couldn't care if we had to live in a barn forever, as we did in France. It's Sinjun I love!”

“Love?” Jenkins asked, grinning when he saw her sudden dismay at the hastiness of her words. “Well, there's a horse of a different color. Love. And so then, you are sad because His Lordship rejects his wife's love? Ah now, that I can understand. But I can't understand him turning down such a lovely female.” Jenkins wagged his head slowly. “Well, I don't know what sort of maggot the fellow's got in his head, turning down the attentions of a lady like you.”

“He hasn't,” Catherine said guiltily.

“Hasn't,” Jenkins said with surprise. “Why, here you are languishing since he's left you, and now you say he hasn't rejected your love.”

“He has not,” she said in a rush, “because I haven't offered it. Jenkins, can't you see? If I tell him how I truly feel, I know, I just know what his reaction will be. He will feel sorry for me. He will offer me sympathy. Why, he's so kind, he'll stay on in a marriage with me, because he'll feel responsible. And all the while, it will all be only more courtesy. I could not bear that.”

“You could always leave if he offered you sympathy,” Jenkins reasoned. “But the thing of it is, you don't really know what he'll offer. You've been a brave lass since I've known you, Miss Catherine, I wonder at you not being courageous enough to hear what his offer will be. I should think it would be more comfortable to know once and for all where you stood than just standing on air like this. I should think the only thing you'd have to lose was pride. And that only for a moment, for then you could up and say, ‘Well then, thank you, but I think I'll be going along now,' and there's your pride back again.”

“It frightens me to death,” Catherine whispered, “when I think of the look of sympathy that will come into his eyes. For there's nothing worse than knowing someone loves you, I should think, and knowing that they ask the one thing of you that you can never give them.”

“Pride's a curious thing,” Jenkins said, as if speaking to himself. “It's a terrible thing to lose, but unlike a heart, once you've lost it, you can always grow it back.”

“You think I should bring up the matter once and for all,” Catherine stated defiantly. “You don't think I should shillyshally any longer; you think I'm making too much of my sense of pride.”

“I think,” Jenkins said straightforwardly, “that the Catherine I knew would rather have things clear and in the open, whatever the cost, than dangle and waver like a puppet, or like that fine bonnet of yours, on its strings. But I suppose that now you're a great titled lady, you've taken on new airs and graces to fit your situation. And if you count a moment's discomfort above a lifetime of doubt, I can't blame you. So if you'll excuse me, My Lady, I'm off to get back to business, for Fairleigh don't run itself. And I'm sure you've got important things to do, like watching fish and wondering about when life will straighten itself out and be kinder to you.”

“I'm going to London,” Catherine announced suddenly. “Oh Jenkins, I'm going to London!” she cried, springing up. “Here and now. For if I wait, I will lose courage and go back to waiting upon things to come right. And they will not, alone. I have to go out and face it squarely. And I shall. Jenkins, help me to go now. If I think about it, I know I'll change my mind again.”

“I'll ready the carriage,” Jenkins said, moving quickly, “and tell your maid to pack like devils were after her sweet body. We can be there by nightfall if we hurry.”

“But, Jenkins,” she cried to his retreating back, “you've only just returned. I can't chase you back again.”

“It's as well,” he called back across the wide lawn, “for I discovered I've left my best boots there, and I'm lost without them.”

*

Jenkins drove the coachman to hurry, as though they were indeed being pursued by demons. Catherine sat back and rehearsed her speech to Sinjun again and again as the coach fairly flew toward London. She did not have a word for the happy young maid sitting across from her.

She only looked out the window, not seeing the spring day flash before her as she argued with Sinjun in her mind. By the time they changed horses at the Owl and Cross, she had three excellent speeches to choose from. And by the time they had achieved the outskirts of London, there were two she was sure she'd begin with and two alternates to use, depending on his answers. She had decided that she would phrase her opening statements obliquely, to give her room to maneuver away from an outright declaration of her feelings if he so much as hinted he would be unhappy to hear of them.

In fact, she had so many excellent speeches, rejoinders, and face-saving devices at her command that by the time the coach finally slowed and came to a stop outside of her husband's town house, she felt as though she had been orating to an unseen audience for hours.

As she stepped from the carriage, Catherine looked down the street toward the duchess's house, the first home she had known in London. The knocker was off the door and there was no sign of occupation there. As Sinjun had told her, the dowager had retired from the high life and was now residing with one of her sons, happily spending the remainder of her days driving her relatives to distraction. As Jenkins came to give her his arm to assist her up the white steps to Sinjun's door, she drew in a deep breath.

He would be surprised to see her, but, as Jenkins had twitted her when they had stopped for a light luncheon, he seldom threw great orgies at his town house, so she need not worry about interrupting him at anything important. At last I am taking some positive action, Catherine told herself sternly as she mounted the steps, so there's no need for me to keep trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm. She raised her head high and when the door swung open, she walked in calmly, as befitted the Marchioness of Bessacarr visiting her house in town.

His Lordship was out, the butler informed them unhappily, but he said more positively, since the marquis had not sent orders to cancel dinner, he would most likely be returning soon.

After the staff had made its curtsies to its new mistress, Jenkins ordered a hip bath brought to Catherine's room and told her to go and refresh herself and change. He would, he promised, send Sinjun straight to her when he returned. “Head high, girl,” he whispered to her, bowing respectfully and wishing Her Ladyship a good evening.

Catherine washed and changed into a simple white at-home robe and brushed her hair. Then she sat poised on the récamier in her elegant room. She had time to pose herself in a variety of casual fashions and run through her speech several more times. She had time to admire the gracious chamber that was hers and count the exact number of cherubs carved into her bedposts, when she at last heard voices below stairs.

She forgot her pretense at languor and flew to her door to see Sinjun taking the steps of the long, curving staircase two at a time as he came toward her.

He came toward her with a delighted easy smile, but in a moment she saw it slip and by the time he had achieved her room, he wore his habitual cool expression.

“Catherine,” he said politely, entering her room, “I am surprised to see you. Is anything amiss? Jenkins said you felt you had to see me straightaway.”

“No,” she said quietly, with admirable control, “but I felt that I must speak with you, Sinjun, and I did not wish to put it off till you returned to Fairleigh.”

“Very well,” he said, standing before her, “here I am. What is it, my dear?”

She eyed him in dismay. All her rehearsed comments seemed to churn into one insoluble mass now that he stood before her. He looked so formidably immaculate. He wore high mirror-polished boots with gold edgings, clean carefully tailored buckskins clung to his legs, and his jacket fitted closely to his wide shoulders. An intricately folded white neckcloth completed the picture of the aloof aristocrat.

“Well, Catherine, what is it?” he asked with growing impatience.

“Sinjun,” she breathed with difficulty, “it is hard enough for me. But I cannot speak to you as you are now.”

Seeing a look of confusion upon his face, she said hurriedly, “That is, you are so…imperious looking. You look exactly as you did when I first met you and you so frightened me. On this very street. Not at all like the man I traveled with through France. It's as if you were two different men,” she complained, shaking her head.

He hesitated, then went to close her door. As he returned, he began to strip off his jacket. He flung it to the side and in a moment the white neckcloth followed suit. With his shirt open at the throat, he sat in a fragile gilt chair and took both hands to disarrange his careful Brutus haircut. Then he threw one booted leg over the other and grinned at her.

“I would,” he said ruefully, “scuff up the Hessians if I could, and if I dared face the rage of my valet. But if you wish, Catherine, I'll nip below stairs and get some earth from the garden to rub over them.”

She relaxed and gazed happily at him, for he had shed some of his coldness with his garments.

“Now,” she said carefully, finding it easier to look at her own clutched hands than at his face, for it had been so much simpler to discuss the matter with the Sinjun in her mind than with the vital, handsome actuality before her. “Sinjun, I must know, exactly why did you marry me?”

After a brief pause, his voice came coolly to her ears. “Catherine, you know that as well as I. Why did you marry me?”

“Don't answer my question with a question,” she retorted, daring to look straight at him. “I came here to see you, to talk with you, for I do not think we can go on as we are.”

“That is true,” he agreed, which was an answer she had not thought he would make, and which stopped her for a moment.

“And I have been thinking,” she said wretchedly, feeling all her resolve fading and all her craven subterfuges coming to her command again, “that we must not go on so. For I have come to realize that we cannot continue to live a lie. It is too hard, Sinjun. It is too difficult. I find that I cannot even explain it to you.”

She bent her head and railed at herself, for she did not have the courage to suddenly declare love to this watchful collected stranger.

He came, sat beside her, and wrapped one long arm about her to comfort her, but she kept her face averted.

“I know,” he sighed. “It was a bad beginning and you should not bedevil yourself. I do understand.”

His nearness and the soothing tone of his voice made Catherine wish to curl up and hide herself.

“It's just,” she sniveled, “that now I find that it is too much for me. Especially now when I know my own heart. And what I was prepared to say to you straight out, I discover I cannot say at all, out of fear. Fear of your sympathy, Sinjun. For I do not want that. Nor any pity either,” she went on, feeling his body stiffen and his hand pause in its stroking of her hair.

“I do understand, Catherine,” he said in the iciest voice she had ever heard from him, “and I do not offer you pity. Quite the reverse, in fact. I congratulate you. And so, do not worry, for you shall have your freedom just as soon as it is lawfully possible. Who is the lucky fellow? He must be a paragon, to send you haring to London to settle matters so swiftly.”

She looked up at that, to find him looking at her from eyes that seemed to be narrowed and carved of marble.

A sense of outrage at having so thoroughly blundered in what she had assumed to be a perfectly clear statement of her case made her gasp, “What are you talking about? What fellow?”

“The one you have discovered you love and wish to make your true husband,” he said with weary patience.

“There is no other I love,” she blurted, “or could ever love. You are the only man upon this earth that I want for a husband.” The enormity of what she had said, the way she had put the whole matter, plain and unadorned, caused her to stop and stare at him with an expression of horrified guilt. She had to restrain herself from clapping her hands over her mouth.

“What did you say?” he asked, incredulously.

“Oh Sinjun,” she almost wailed, “it is not how I wished to say it. Indeed, it is nothing like the way I had planned to say it. And you do not have to dissemble. I beg of you, talk frankly to me for I am not a child. And do not be so noble that you will sacrifice your future life to spare me a moment's dismay. For I will not keep you tied to me, indeed I will not,” she almost babbled, for now that he had discovered her, she was trying to say all the things she had hidden, all at once.

“Catherine, Catherine,” he said, taking her in his arms, and holding her closely, “what are you talking about? Are you mad? Tie me to you for the rest of my life? Why, you have done that already, and so securely that I find I cannot break free to save my life. Nor do I wish to. For I love you, and have done so for so long that I would feel empty without it. As I have done this past week.”