Velvet Lightning (6 page)

She looked up slowly as her father made the defiant statement. His face was mulish. “I see. Father, Dr. Scott said that you should rest more—”

“The hell with Scott. Man’s a goddamned quack. Lettia sets a fine table, Catherine, and I’m going.”

Well, then she would go too, though she hadn't been invited. It was just one of the things she forced herself to do, facing Lettia Symington’s stiff scorn, intruding where she wasn't wanted. She didn’t look forward to it.

“I'm going,” Lucas repeated in a rising voice.

“All right,” Catherine said calmly. “That’s fine, Father.”

He subsided, muttering to himself.

She hoped Tyrone wouldn’t be at the dinner party. It was doubtful that he would be. He generally took care to avoid Lettia’s matchmaking snares. Still, he occasionally appeared at a reception or dinner party, especially if he knew she would be attending. And that was dangerous.

He was looking at her differently now, she realized. It was obvious that he had for some reason grown discontented with their relationship. He was a highly perceptive man, a man given to observing those around him with unusual clarity; if he had for some reason become interested in the part of herself she withheld from him, then he wouldn’t stop until he knew it all.

Catherine felt her throat close up, felt panic stir in her mind.

“You aren’t eating, Catherine. Do you feel unwell?”

“I’m fine, Father. Quite all right.’’

Something flashed across his brilliant blue eyes, something like disappointment. He was half hoping, she knew, that she wouldn’t feel well enough to accompany him to Lettia’s dinner party. He always hoped he could go alone, and he would be unusually affectionate toward her both to hide his guilt and to convince her that there really was no need for her to accompany him.

They both knew she would go.

“You should have an early night, Catherine,” he said now, persuasively.

“Yes. Perhaps I will.”

“It will do you good. You're pale.”

“Yes. All right.”

Satisfied, he returned to the meal, sipping the wine she allowed him. One glass. Only one glass.

Catherine pushed the food around on her own plate, trying to fight the dread she felt, trying not to feel at all. But she couldn’t stop feeling now. She had forced herself to be content with her life, to avoid asking for more. But the ache that was longing tormented her more with every day that passed.

Tyrone.
Damn him
.

He was staying longer this time. Looking at her in a new way, with a new intensity. He would see more, see things she didn’t want him to see. As an occasional lover he had been kept apart from the rest of her life, kept separate. Kept safe.

“I’ll have another glass,” her father said suddenly, truculently.

Catherine looked at him for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll pour it for you, Father.” She rose and went around to get his glass, then stepped to the sideboard, where a bottle of wine stood open; she would, as always, return it to the kitchen after dinner, hide it away where he couldn’t easily find it. She glanced back once to see a glimpse of her father’s satisfied expression. He thought he had won a point. Fine. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt and smoothly pulled out a small bottle. Quickly, making certain Lucas didn’t see, she poured a splash of liquid into the wineglass and then capped the bottle and returned it to her pocket. Within seconds wine had been poured to join the liquid, and she stirred it quickly with one finger.

She took the glass back to her father.

“Thank you, Catherine,” he said genially.

“You’re welcome, Father.” She returned to her chair, wondering tiredly how long she could keep from him the knowledge that she had been systematically drugging him for months.

“Catherine.”

She halted on the sidewalk but concentrated on pulling on her gloves, keeping her expression icily aloof. It was early the following afternoon, and she had had a wakeful, restless night. A glance around beneath her lashes had shown her that the street was deserted, but she knew only too well the interest that would be kindled if she were seen talking to Marc Tyrone for no apparent reason.

For the first time, that consideration seemed to have no power to sway him. He stood squarely before her, tall and powerful, innate danger hidden in the depths of his impersonal gray eyes—except that now they weren’t impersonal. Now they were intent, almost, she thought dimly, disturbed.

“Not here,” she whispered, conscious, as always, of the pulse of awareness he could bring to life with no more than his presence.

He ignored that but kept his voice low. “Catherine, why did you go to see Dr. Scott this morning?”

She felt a jolt, and tried not to let it show. After a moment she said calmly, “Father has a touch of the gout. I wanted to consult with the doctor about the advisibility of his drinking.”

“That was all?”

“Of course.” She gave him a veiled glance. “I didn’t see you.”

“I was just riding by. Exercising one of the horses.” He sounded as though he might be irritated with her. “If it was such an innocent visit, why did you go to see Scott at his house? He’s in his office here in town most days.”

Catherine smoothed the fabric over her fingers, fixing all her attention on the task. Just the sound of his voice . . . She could feel her body react to him, feel her heart pound, her breath quicken. She fought the sensations, knowing it wouldn’t do any any good. “We live next door. It was easier to walk to his house. I must go now.”

“No.” He glanced around them. “No one’s watching.”

“Someone’s always watching.” She made up her mind suddenly, even though she had a feeling her words would prolong this dangerous meeting, even though she didn’t want to say them. “I can’t come today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Why not today?” he asked sharply.

Catherine raised her eyes and let him see anger at being pressed, at being questioned, even though what she felt was desperation. “Not today.”

“Catherine—”

“Excuse me,” she said abruptly, and stepped past him before he could stop her. She felt his gaze on her all the way down the street but didn’t hesitate or stop until she reached her buggy. She climbed in, and, looking neither left nor right, she drove out of town.

She didn’t start to shake until she was unhitching the horse at her father’s stable behind the house. Her fingers became all thumbs, and she leaned her forehead against the patient horse’s neck for a moment. She didn’t cry. She thought that she might have forgotten how. After a moment she finished unhitching and caring for the horse. Then she went to the house.

She got through the remainder of the afternoon almost mechanically. Her father remained in his study until late, reading. When he finally emerged, the look he gave her was questioning.

“I don’t suppose you’ll—”

“I’ll be dressed and ready by the time you are, Father,” she said calmly.

Lucas made a faint grimace but turned and went upstairs, his back stiff. She watched after him for a moment, then sighed and climbed to her own room.

Lettia Symington’s dinner parties were an excuse for guests to wear their best finery, and Catherine kept that in mind as she quickly selected a gown and began getting ready. She usually chose to wear unrevealing garments, and evening social events were a distinct problem for her since ladies' evening gowns were almost always designed to display the charms of shoulders and bosoms. A new seamstress had come recently to Port Elizabeth, so that now there were two dressmakers on the island. Catherine had decided to have the new seamstress make several gowns for her for these occasions. In the meantime, however, she could do only her best.

The gown was one she had not worn since their departure from England. It was pale blue, off the shoulders, and quite revealing. Her bosom was bared almost to the nipples, and the tight bodice and full skirt gave a greater emphasis to her figure than her usual dresses. Catherine looked in the mirror, bit her bottom lip, and got a lace shawl from a drawer. Cast around her shoulders and pinned in place with a cameo brooch, it hid both creamy flesh and the thrust of her breasts.

It would have to do. She checked her hair but didn’t bother to change the braided coronet. She picked up a small evening purse and looped it over her wrist. Then, composing her face into a mask of cool tranquility, she went downstairs to wait while her father hitched up the horse and brought the buggy around.

They didn’t say much on the journey. Lettia’s opulent home was on the northeast portion of the island and just outside town. It was, as usual during Lettia’s parties, ringed with buggies and carriages; there were about a dozen “upper-class” families on the island, and it looked as though all were attending.

Including Captain Tyrone.

Catherine felt her throat close up when she saw the familiar chestnut gelding. Panic stirred within her. Ever since a party some months before, when, by merely looking at her, he had aroused her to a degree that had shocked her, Catherine had been wary of meeting him during social gatherings. Yet she knew there was no avoiding it, that with such a small community social meetings were inevitable.

She accepted her father’s brusque help in getting out of the carriage and walked beside him with outward composure to the house. With the same composure she endured Lettia Symington’s exaggerated surprise at seeing her, endured the simpering smile at her father. She greeted George Symington calmly, and said hello to their nervous, high-strung seventeen- year-old daughter, Lucy, in the same tone.

None of them could ignore her during this type of social gathering, and Catherine wasn’t sure which she preferred: polite scorn or being looked at as though they wished she would become invisible. Neither, really. She never got used to it.

More than a score of people filled the Symingtons’ large drawing room, laughing and talking and drinking. Catherine moved among them, keeping an unobtrusive eye on her father. He was being good, she saw, holding a glass but drinking from it only occa-sionally; he knew she was watching.

Someone else was watching her. She could feel his gaze but refused to look his way. Still, tension grew inside her like a coil tightening.
Don't look at me
, she thought desperately.
Don't let them see what we are! Please don’t let them see....

After an eternity, dinner was announced. In no particular order the guests went into the dining room to sit around its very long and highly polished oak table. Catherine found herself seated with Dr. Scott on her left and Gerald Odell on her right. She recog-nized and accepted the spite of her hostess, knowing she had been deliberately seated between two bachelors who were each old enough to be her grandfather. It wasn't unexpected.

“You’re looking well tonight, Miss Catherine,” Gerald Odell said in a slightly wheezy and avuncular voice. He owned the two dressmakers’ shops in town and valued her patronage; whatever he thought of her personally he kept to himself. A shrewd business-man.

“Thank you, Mr. Odell,” she muttered.

“I’ve a new selection of fabric and French lace,” he said cannily. “Captain Tyrone's ship brought it in. Perhaps you’d care to come and look it over.”

“Yes, of course,” she responded, hardly paying attention. She had just realized that Tyrone, seated across near the head of the table beside Miss Lucy, was directly in her line of sight. Her father was on her side, also near the head of the table. Vaguely, Catherine recognized yet another intended slight; she had been placed between a doctor and a merchant, both, in Lettia’s eyes, at the bottom of the social scale of acceptance. It didn’t disturb her, being also expected.

Tyrone was looking at her. Catherine met his gaze only glancingly, and even then felt her breath catch.
Damn him!
She looked fixedly at her plate, aware of composure scattering like leaves in the wind. She felt her nipples prickle instantly, felt the heavy consciousness of a slow pulse inside her. And it came to her then that this was more than passion, that Tyrone had somehow touched something deeper inside her, something infinite.

It was terrifying.

“Miss Catherine?” It was Dr. Scott’s voice, low and concerned. “You’ve gone pale. Are you all right?”

She looked at him blindly, focused on him with an effort. Sharp eyes behind rimless glasses, kind features. She wondered if he knew what she was afraid of. She had, nearly two years ago, gone to him with certain questions; he had gotten what she required without question or comment, had never once said that an unmarried woman shouldn’t need what she had needed. She would always be grateful to him for that. “I’m fine, Doctor.” Her voice was low, calm.

“Are you sure?”

Catherine wanted to laugh suddenly but not with humor. “I’m quite all right. Thank you.”

He seemed unconvinced but accepted her assurances and returned to the meal. Catherine followed suit. She heard, as if from a great distance, sounds of conversation, heard the high, nervous sound of Lucy’s voice rising above the rest as she flirted coyly with Tyrone.

She wished the evening were over.

But it wasn’t, of course. Lettia wanted her guests to relax after dinner. Drinks were produced again. The French doors opening onto the veranda were flung wide, and an invitation entered from the warm night. Catherine wanted to keep an eye on her father but found she was even more concerned with avoiding Tyrone.

She managed it for more than an hour. She was conscious from time to time of his gaze but refused to meet it. She had taken pains to make certain there was never a chance to speak to him, though she spoke to everyone else at least briefly.

Much later she would realize that she should have spoken to him casually. It might have changed so much if she had.

The laughter grew louder and more easy as drinks were consumed, though Catherine was relieved to see that her father was still being good, still drinking only moderately. She herself drank hardly at all and even, finally, set her almost untouched glass aside on a convenient table. She felt a little dizzy with tension and worry, with the faint throbbing yearning of her body. It was made worse by the noise of the crowd, the almost sickeningly sweet scent of perfume.