The Pride of Lions (3 page)

Damien Ashbrooke offered up an easy smile. He was of medium height, not much taller than Catherine, with pale blue eyes and a shock of long, wavy chestnut hair worn neatly clubbed at the nape of his neck.

“No, the lovely Mistress Chalmers has not snubbed me. If anything, I was hoping to use these few brief hours of solitude to catch up on my reading.”

Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “She will have you wed, regardless of how you try to avoid her company.”

“Is that so? Well, unless I have missed something along the way, the man is still the one who does the proposing.”

She stuck out the tip of her tongue and pertly misquoted, “Thou dost protest too much, methinks. I have seen the way you ogle Harriet: like a wide-eyed lapdog, oblivious to everything but the wealth of charms that pour over the top of her bodice.”

He arched an eyebrow as he took in the tumbled state of her hair and clothing. “Can that be the voice of jealousy I hear? Or just envy over her sense of proper fashion?”

Catherine followed her brother’s gaze and swatted at a fold of velvet that had become stuck in the cuff of her boot. “And just what should I be envious of? The way her bosoms threaten to spill out of her gowns at every breath? Or the fact that they probably already have, and your hands have been most willing to catch them?”

Damien’s cheeks darkened beneath a flush, and she huffed. “There, you see? And you still insist you have some control over your fate? A month, brother dear, and five gold sovereigns say she will have you so frustrated you will be dragging her to the altar.”

“You’re on,” he murmured. “But only if we can set the same time limit and stakes on your conquest of Lieutenant Garner.”

“Have your money ready,” she said tartly, “because he has already proposed. He intends to speak to Father tonight at the party so we can make the announcement official.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He was genuinely impressed. “I thought for sure he was only playing at courtship.”

“Only because you sadly underestimate the extent of my own charms—spilling forth or not.”

“Does Mother know?”

Catherine’s smile turned bitter. “A better question might be: Does Mother care?”

“She cares enough to have been conspiring with Father to marry you off to Pelham-Whyatt for the past three years.”

“Him!” Catherine wrinkled her delicate nose in distaste. “He is an absolute
boor
. He wears clothes ten sizes too big and ten years out of date. He speaks with a lisp and smells suspiciously as if he hasn’t bathed since I pushed him in the duck pond when we were children.”

“He is also in line to inherit the land that borders ours. He is rich, and not too dreadfully ugly—”

“Not ugly! He’s missing most of his teeth, and his skin is so badly pocked it is a wonder he can shave it. The last time
he
rode to hounds, he fell headlong into the pack of dogs and they started to chew on him, mistaking him for the fox! Marry him? I would sooner marry myself to a convent, thank you very much.”

“You should not speak in haste, darling Kitty. Father has promised that and much more besides if you dare involve the good family name in any further scandal.”

“Scandal? It is usually considered an honor when one man duels another for the sake of his lady’s reputation, is it not?”

“Not when her champion gives the distinct impression he enjoys running a man through with his saber.”

“Good heavens, you talk as if Hamilton
killed
Charles Waid. The fool isn’t dead, he merely suffered a scraped cheek.”

“Only because Lieutenant Garner knew a novice when he saw one and had no desire to be brought up on charges of murder.”

“Charles challenged Hamilton. What choice did he have?”

“He could have waited until the fool sobered up and realized the gravity of his error.”

“His error was to offer me an insult within Hamilton’s hearing,” she countered primly.

“Brought on by your trying to make the good lieutenant jealous. Well, it worked. And even though I know you were suitably repentant, I shall still warn you to be careful around Father until you are safely wed and away from his parliamentary eye.”

Catherine’s anger prickled warmly in her cheeks, as it usually did when she was caught at fault and boxed into a corner. “Since you seem to show such concern for my well-being, perhaps it would interest you to know I was accosted in the woods today.
That
is why I am home from the hunt so early, and why my appearance invites such sarcasm.”

“Accosted?” Damien’s features hardened instantly. “Where? By who?”

“By
whom
, my Oxford-graduate brother. By a poacher, that’s who. A vagrant. A trespasser. A cutpurse hiding in the woods. An arrogant brigand who had the nerve to accuse
me
of being where I should not have been.”

Damien relaxed slightly. He knew his sister well enough to recognize the bright flecks of indignation in her eyes and to know it was only her temper that had been accosted. It explained the cutting edge to her wit and the sharp remarks directed at Harriet—her best and closest friend since childhood.

“He sounds interesting. Was it anyone I know?”

“I would not doubt it for a moment. He looked the exact type who would keep your company in gaming houses and … and other places a lady would be no lady if she mentioned. On further consideration”—her eyes slitted vindictively—“I believe five gold sovereigns would be a small price to pay to save Harriet from committing a horrendous error in judgment. I shall speak to her the instant she returns from the hunt. By tonight, Damien Ashbrooke, you will be able to count yourself among the fortunate if she so much as glances your way.”

With a toss of her long blonde hair, Catherine walked past him into the foyer and began mounting the wide, massive wooden stairway to the upper floor. Damien followed her to the bottom step and rested his hand on the carved mahogany newel post, his thoughtful blue eyes admiring the agitated swing of her skirts. He had no fear of Catherine’s threat coming to pass—she had schemed too long and too hard to awaken him to the fact that Harriet Chalmers had outgrown her pinafores and developed into a beautiful young woman. What she could not know was that his and Harriet’s commitment to each other had already gone well beyond the stage of casual flirtation, and it was only because there were so many other houseguests staying under the same roof that Harriet was forced to share Catherine’s bed, not his. A moment here and there had been all they had managed to steal so far, and with everything happening so fast …

“Kitty?” He half-expected her to ignore him and keep climbing, but she didn’t. She stopped on the first landing and glared down at him over the dog-gate, a delicate eyebrow raised askance.

“I was just thinking—” He hesitated and offered her the smile she knew was reserved for her and her alone. “We could make it a double announcement tonight. I think I could scrape up five gold sovereigns from somewhere.”

Catherine stared at her brother’s handsome face. He did not approve of Hamilton Garner—what brother would? He considered the lieutenant pompous and overbearing, cruel to his junior officers, and indifferent to anyone not directly beneficial to his career. Be that as it may, Damien loved her dearly. He had been more than just a brother to her; he’d been father, confessor, adviser, and friend when it seemed as though she was growing up all alone in the vast emptiness of Rosewood Hall. He wanted her to be happy, and if winning Hamilton Garner—if becoming
Mrs. Hamilton Gamer—would make her so, then he would support her choice all the way.

She took a deep breath and released it on a wistful sigh. “That would be wonderful, a double announcement. I could not wish for a happier way to welcome in my eighteenth birthday.”

“Then it shall be so,” he whispered. “Happy birthday.”

2

T
he festivities at Rosewood Hall progressed through an afternoon of croquet and archery contests. The younger ladies squealed with delight and vied for attention as their chosen champions displayed their skills. Heavily corseted matrons and chaperons hovered nearby like a swarm of blackbirds, for although scarcely able to breathe without the ominous creaking of whalebone ribs, they would sooner be dead from suffocation than miss a single word of gossip.

By four o’clock the bustle moved indoors, where preparations began in earnest for the banquet and evening ball ahead. Corsets and stomachers were loosened to permit a few hours of normal respiration. Huge vats of water were supplied for the dozens of slender hands that needed to dip and splash away the effects of the day’s heat. Hair was crimped and curled and tortured into elaborate pilings. Some added enormous wire contraptions to existing coiffures and then had false curls of horsehair pinned and woven in place before faces were shielded by funnels while clouds of flying white rice powder were applied to the whole. Artful additions of flowers, ribbons, jewels, even small artificial birds and animals were set to roost in the heights, making the ability to balance such a headdress an essential skill for a young woman of substance and fashion.

Catherine took her sweet time in the upper chambers, adjusting curls that required no adjustment, fussing over a smudge of rouge or a faded line of kohl. She was moderately pleased to see that no one had dared attend her
birthday party in a gown anywhere near as sumptuous as her own. The rose-colored watered silk, cut in the latest Paris style, molded snugly to her narrow waist and pushed her breasts high enough to mound impressively over the bodice. The sleeves were tapered to the elbow and from there flared to allow the falling cuffs of her chemise to spill forth in a delicate profusion of creamy lace. The skirt was full and bell-shaped, spreading its width sideways over panniers, while the front and back panels fell in straight, shimmering folds to the floor. The hem of the skirt was pinned up in scallops to display the richly embroidered petticoats beneath, which consisted of more tiers of exquisitely delicate French lace.

She had chosen to wear few adornments that might detract from the effect of the rose silk. A single strand of blazing white brilliants circled her neck, drawing attention to the long, slender arch of her throat and the two soft half-moons of her breasts. Free of horsehair curls or dull dustings, her hair shone with gold and silver threads in the glow of the candlelight. Studying it critically in every mirror she passed, Catherine was almost thankful for her intolerance to rice powder; even the lightest coating caused her eyes to start weeping and her nose to leak and—horror of horrors—her skin to break out in a spiny rash of itchy red bumps.

“Lieutenant Hamilton Garner should be honored I am even considering his proposal,” she murmured, giving her ostrich-feather fan one last flick to gauge the effect. Satisfied, she tucked her hand through Harriet’s arm and walked out of the bedchamber and along the corridor.

“Considering?” Harriet frowned as she glanced over. “Whatever do you mean, considering? I thought you had already accepted.”

“A girl can have second thoughts. Or thirds. Or fourths.”

Harriet’s soft brown eyes grew rounder. She did not possess Catherine’s classic beauty. Her eyes were overly large in a rather plump face; her mouth was a shade too
generous and there was a persistent spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose despite the mercury wash she used day and night to bleach them away. All of her features combined to produce a cherubic countenance, one that contrasted dramatically with the luscious hour-glass shape of her body. Men stared with the aplomb of guttersnipes, and it was just as well she had been enamored of Damien Ashbrooke from the tender age of three. She and Catherine could never have been friends otherwise; she would have been too much of a rival.

“On the other hand,” Catherine said, pausing at the top of the staircase and tipping her head as if to appreciate the strains of music drifting out of the ballroom, “he hasn’t exactly put his proposal into so many words.”

Harriet, in the middle of descending a step, reached out and clutched at the balustrade in an effort to maintain her balance. “What?
What did you just say?
”

“You heard me.” Catherine glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone had noted the startled outburst. “And for heaven’s sake, keep your voice down. Of course he has asked me. I mean, he has hinted broadly enough, it’s just that—”

“He hasn’t … actually … proposed?”

“I’m sure he is only waiting for the perfect moment. Tonight, for instance. What better way to wish me happy birthday than to offer me a pledge of undying devotion?”

“But you told Damien—”

“Hush!” Catherine pinched her arm as a couple strolled past. Harriet smiled and nodded, and waited until they were well out of earshot before nearly exploding with impatience.

“You told Damien that Hamilton was going to ask your father’s permission tonight. You told him you were going to announce your engagement!”

“Well … he was baiting me. He was being a brute and teasing me and … and I simply said the first thing that came to mind. I wasn’t
lying
. Not completely. Hamilton
does
want to marry me; everyone in Derby knows that.
And he would be a proper fool indeed if he let someone else steal away my affections, now, wouldn’t he?”