The Unscrupulous Uncle (16 page)

“True,” agreed Lady Debenham.

“But his behavior is incomprehensible,” complained Louisa. “He knows the rules. A lady must provide an heir before she consents to dalliance. And it is in very bad taste to conduct a liaison in her own home.”

“Perhaps it was retaliation. Alvanley claims Seaton and Oakridge had words at Watier’s last week, and we all know Seaton’s skill at seduction.”

Speculation continued for some time. Catherine said nothing, but she was appalled by the casual attitude toward infidelity. Did all gentlemen keep mistresses? Did ladies really take lovers? It was a notion that had never occurred to her. What were Damon’s thoughts on the subject? She shivered. He had spent little time with her since their marriage – which was still unconsummated. Who was he seeing in the meantime?

Louisa finally rose to depart, much to Catherine’s relief. They were barely out the door when the conversation changed behind them.

“I am surprised you would receive so scandalous a girl,” observed Lady Debenham, censure clear in her voice.

“And I am shocked that you would fall for the lies of that notorious young Braxton. Lord Devlin has a fine wife and is well rid of the scheming Lady Hermione,” declared Lady Beatrice.

“You cannot know her well if you believe her to be scheming,” declared Lady Debenham hotly. “She is all that is sweet and pure.”

“Thus speaks her father’s second cousin. An impartial observer must conclude that she drove Devlin away, which is no more than she deserves after her behavior last Christmas. He cut her very publicly a fortnight ago – as even you must admit, for you were there!”

The remaining callers joined the fray as Louisa and Catherine exited the house. They made four other calls, but the conversation was the same. Lady Oakridge’s indiscretion provided something to discuss while they were present, but every drawing room took up Sidney’s malice the moment they left.

Relieved to be home again, Catherine headed for the library to fetch a book. Reading was the best way to settle her mind. But Damon was entertaining Colonel Caldwell, their conversation preventing any intrusion.

“I still do not understand why you married Catherine,” declared the colonel. “Not that she isn’t a delightful young lady. I suspect she will make you an excellent wife. But you have always been honorable, Damon. How could you break trust with Lady Hermione?”

It was precisely what Catherine wanted to know.

“Poor Hermione. I know I damaged her reputation, Jack,” admitted Damon sadly. “But much as I cared for her, I had no choice. An earlier vow took precedence.”

“What?”

“I promised Peter that I would look after Catherine. I thought I had done so until I returned home. Then I discovered that not only was she unwed and in an untenable position, but her uncle was scheming against her. The only way I could counter his plots was to marry her. Unfortunately, I have not had the opportunity to explain the situation to Hermione. She must hate me by now, and who can blame her? Sometimes I hate myself.”

Catherine heard no more as she stumbled upstairs to collapse on her bed. Damon cared not one whit for her, she admitted, breaking into tears. That explained his shock that she was unwed. His proposal was just a quixotic gesture prompted by some absurd promise he had made to Peter. But promises would never bring happiness.

“Peter, you fool!” she raged, pacing the room in rising anger. “You have doomed us all.” Damon was already ruing the loss of Lady Hermione. No wonder he had not touched her. How could he when he loved another?

Damn all honor! It too often forced people into dishonor. How could men be so stupid? One of her schoolmates had been abducted by a fortune hunter. In the name of honor, the girl’s father forced her to wed the culprit, though she despised him. The village chandler had spent several months in debtor’s prison, unable to pay his suppliers because his three biggest customers had repeatedly ignored their bills – honor demanded they pay gaming debts first. And now honor had trapped her into marrying a man who did not want her.

 * * * *

The Wharburton masquerade was like nothing Catherine had ever imagined. Lady Wharburton had swathed her ballroom in blue and white, draping quantities of silk over walls and ceiling to imitate ocean waves and froth. A statue of Neptune that Lord Wharburton had acquired in Italy dominated one corner, while lesser marbles with ocean connections sat on pedestals and in alcoves. Cunningly wrought sea creatures twinkled in the light cast by hundreds of candles that were doubled by the huge mirrors that graced one wall.

Catherine paused at the top of the stairs, fear paralyzing her feet. Her first ball was nerve-wracking enough without the rumors, and the decor wasn’t helping. She felt like she was drowning. Breathing was difficult. Inside her gloves, her hands were clammy.

Her temper was not improved when Damon immediately crossed the room to speak with Lady Hermione, abandoning his wife at the foot of the stairs. He would have done better not to escort her at all than to declare his preference so publicly. Despite the distance and the swirling crowd, Catherine could see the longing in his eyes and the triumph in Hermione’s. Voices buzzed in speculation. Turning away, she began an animated conversation with Lady Sommersby, hardly aware of what they said.

 * * * *

Damon’s eyes devoured Hermione as he approached. Her costume depicted Aphrodite’s birth from the sea foam, making her one with the room. Diamonds threaded her blonde hair, sparkling in the candlelight like sun on the waves.

“Good evening, my lady,” he said with a smile. After hearing how she had cut Catherine, he was determined to prevent any further problems. At least that was what he told himself, but as he gazed into her green eyes, he was overcome by regret that she would never be his.

She stared in disapproval, then started to turn away.

“Don’t cut me, Hermione,” he begged.

“Why should I not return the favor?” she snapped, though her face retained its social smile. “There are just as many witnesses.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The cut you delivered on Bond Street two weeks ago today, my lord. It was bad enough that you returned to town without a word, but did you have to humiliate me so publicly? People were speculating about what I had done to you even before yesterday! You have ruined me.”

“Dear God! I had no idea. And I never meant to hurt you.”

“Then you go about your business oddly, sirrah!”

Damon reddened, guilt over his negligence and cowardice badgering him again. “Let me do what I can to prove the rumors wrong,” he begged. “We can get some lemonade and discuss it without an audience.” She nodded, so he led her out of the ballroom. As expected, the refreshment room was nearly empty.

“I did not intentionally cut you,” he began once they had moved into a quiet corner. “I had received some devastating news and was in too much shock to notice anyone.”

“Perhaps it was inadvertent. And there would have been no scandal if that were all. But it wasn’t. Why did you lead me to expect a declaration and then abandon me?” she asked bluntly.

Damon shrugged. “I had no choice.”

“No choice?” she mocked. “I saw no one holding a pistol to your head.”

“None. It was a vow I had made to her brother before his death. How could I honorably renege?”

“How could you honorably court me after making such a vow?” she retorted.

Damon sighed. “I thought that she was already married. It was a shock to discover otherwise, for there had been no hint of it before I returned home. And you must know the decision was the most difficult I have ever faced.”

“If you are seeking absolution, you won’t get it. You could at least have warned me,” she reminded him. “Learning of it from the morning paper is more than anyone should have to endure.”

Abashed, Damon groaned. “I was obviously not thinking clearly,” he admitted. “I had meant to call on you, but I have been so busy that there was no time.”

“You are either a liar or a coward,” she charged.

“Forgive me, my dear,” he begged, raising her hand to his lips. “My actions were inexcusable. I freely admit it and can only plead shock, but I want to repair as much damage as possible. Your reputation will only recover if we are seen to be friends.”

“To say nothing of yours,” she murmured, eyes narrowing in calculation. “Yet a public feud must hurt us both. You owe me restitution, and you will have to dance very hard to convince the gossips. I will expect a truly heroic effort.”

“Thank you.”

She turned watery eyes to his. “But I do not know how I can face the future. There is no one who can replace you.”

She might as well have stabbed him.

 * * * *

Catherine saw Damon and Hermione leave the room and fought to maintain her composure. Nothing would be gained by showing how badly his preference hurt. Marriage had been a mistake, she now admitted. If only he had not rushed her to the altar so quickly! Even a week of thinking about it would have shown her that this was a hopeless mésalliance. He had changed too much from the young man he had been, and he made no pretense of caring for her beyond the brotherly affection he had always shown. It was an omission that should have shouted warnings, but she had been too terrified and confused to listen. And it was too late to do anything about it. What would Peter think if he could see the misery caused by one misplaced vow?

Pushing thought aside, she turned her mind to enjoying the evening, though reminders of her precarious position were never far away. Lady Beatrice greeted her with pointed cordiality that prevented any cuts. Lady Debenham had done the same to Hermione. The battle lines were drawn, and Catherine felt trapped in a tug of war with no way to escape. It stretched her nerves even further.

She had not yet seen the dancing master so had to refuse many of the sets. Louisa whispered constant admonitions in her ear. Damon retired to the card room after dancing with Hermione, pricking her again with his public disdain.

A tall, blond cavalier with light aqua eyes led her out for a country dance. The color was odd enough that it triggered a memory.

“Lord Rathbone?” she asked hesitantly, then blushed at her forward tongue. And more. She had entertained a girlish
tendre
for the handsome lord with the twinkling eyes the summer he had visited his friend Toby, heir to Sir Mortimer. She had been sixteen at the time.

“Peter Braxton’s sister!” he exclaimed, his mouth curving into a delighted grin. “There cannot be another with eyes that precise shade of violet. You have become a beautiful woman, my dear.” His voice stroked her like the softest velvet.

“How can you tell with my face covered by a mask? You have certainly mastered the art of flirtation, my lord,” she riposted with emphasis on the formality.

“Not with you, it would seem.” His mouth twisted into exaggerated mourning. “That disapproving frown confirms that you still haven’t forgiven me for stealing a kiss in Sir Mortimer’s apple orchard.”

“You should not revive ancient history,” she objected, cheeks flaming. “Especially where you might be overheard. I’ve enough trouble with rumors as it is.”

“Very well. Anyone who knows you could never suspect you of misbehavior. This tempest will blow over. For now, we will agree that you are a very proper lady-in-waiting who is not subject to the wiles of even the canniest cavalier. But I cannot ignore the most delectable lady-in-waiting in the room, or people will assume we are lovers.” His eyes caressed her face and neck, stopping to admire the full bosom swelling above the tight bodice of her Elizabethan costume.

Heat rose from her toes to the ends of her hair. Rathbone was still as much a flirt as he had been at age eighteen, though his delivery was smoother and much more conceited. But it was not only his admiration and suggestive repartee that prompted her blushes. After eight years catering to her aunt, she felt uncomfortable dressed as another form of servant. It enhanced the irrational feeling that she did not really belong here.

“Forgive me,” he begged when she did not respond. “You are newly arrived in London and not so very different from that lass I insulted all those years ago. I must have lost all my usual address. Perhaps we should begin again – as friends. Damon is a lucky man.”

“Do you remember him that well?” she teased, relaxing now that his expression had changed from a leer to an easy grin.

“Of course. I live most of the year in town, so we often meet. He could not always get home – as you must know – but his duties frequently brought him to London. I was sorry to learn of your brother’s fate, Lady Devlin, as I wrote at the time. He was a good friend, as lighthearted and carefree as myself.”

“Thank you.” So Rathbone was another whose letter had disappeared. How many others had she inadvertently cut by not replying to their cards of condolence?

He misunderstood the annoyance that must have twisted her mouth. “Enough of sadness. If I promise to behave, will you drive with me in the park tomorrow? I have not seen Toby in a couple of years and would like to hear about his heir.”

“I would be delighted … to relay news of your friend,” she added firmly.

He laughed as he twirled her down the line.

Not all of Catherine’s partners proved as congenial as Rathbone. Sidney commandeered her hand for a cotillion, whisking her onto the floor without giving her a chance to refuse. Nervousness already overset her, for it was eight years since she had last executed the intricate steps of the dance, and the figures had changed slightly in the meantime. Sidney did not improve her temper any. Once he had her in the set, he made no attempt to conceal his antagonism. Even worse, Damon was partnering Hermione in the adjacent set, his warm smile sending stabs of despair through Catherine’s heart. He had not spoken with her since arriving.

“Can’t you keep your feet away from mine?” growled Sidney, loud enough to draw the attention of nearby dancers.

She did not respond, but her reticence did nothing to dissuade her cousin.

“Devlin should have left you in the country where you belong,” he groused.

“What concern is it of yours?” she murmured.