A Gentleman Says "I Do" (21 page)

“But it is the truth,” she said, sliding her arms under his coat again and stroking the width of his powerful shoulders, down his strong spine to his slim waist, over the firm swell of his buttocks and back up again. He moaned again.

“Your touch is more than I can bear, Catalina,” he said on a shaky breath. “I want to, but I can’t do this to you. I want you, but you are not mine for the taking.”

He pushed away from her quickly, stood, and rapped three times on the roof with his fist.

The carriage jerked, and Briggs started slowing the horses.

Catalina was shocked beyond belief. She rose in the seat, pushing her gown down over her legs as she sat up. “Iverson, what did I do?”

“Nothing.” He fell to his knees in front of her, helping her straighten the bodice of her gown. With caring eyes, he touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers, letting them drift across her lips. “That’s just it, Catalina. You haven’t done anything to me, and I can’t take your virtue away from you.”

“But it’s mine to give,” she argued.

“Yes, but this is not the time or the place. And though I have been a rake many times in the past, I don’t intend to be one tonight.”

The carriage stopped, and Iverson rose.

“I’ll follow you in my carriage and make sure you get safely home.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, knowing she would feel better with him near. “You’d best take your cloak,” she said, handing it to him. “I have a blanket to keep me warm.”

He took his cloak and opened the door, but before he could jump down, Catalina said, “Iverson?”

He turned back to her. “Yes?”

She hesitated but knew she had to ask. “Was my father in that house?”

“No. He had been there but was gone. I’m still looking for him.”

Iverson jumped down and quietly shut the door.

Catalina shivered and wrapped the blanket tightly around her, wishing she could feel the warmth of Iverson’s arms once more. For all his rough talk and his reputation as the Rake of Baltimore, he had proven tonight he was a gentleman. The carriage started rolling again. She remembered the first day she had met Iverson. On first appearance, he seemed so tough, so rigid, so aggressive, but somehow she’d known he had a softer, gentler side, too. Tonight she had seen both sides: the strong protector, and the gentle and passionate lover.

Pulling the blanket up under her chin, Catalina knew she was in love with Iverson—deeply, longingly, and irrevocably in love with him. She didn’t know when or how it had happened. He certainly hadn’t encouraged her.

And because of her love for him, she wouldn’t wait any longer for her father to come home and work a miracle. Tomorrow morning she would go to Iverson’s home and tell him there were two more parts of
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
to be published.

He deserved to know.

And if he decided never to speak to her again because of it, she would have to find a way to live with his decision.

Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.

—Walter Scott

He felt damned good.

Iverson was up and dressed earlier than usual and down in his book room. He had done a lot of thinking after he left Catalina last night. One conclusion was clear: he intended to court Catalina.

The thought made him chuckle silently. Everyone in Society thought he was courting her, anyway. Why not make it official? He certainly had Mrs. Gottfried’s blessing.

There was no use in trying to fool himself. He wanted much more than just to court Catalina and had for a long time. He wanted her beneath him, to make love to her all night long. And he almost had last night. She was so damn willing it had been sheer hell pushing away from her.

But he was not such a coldhearted rake as to take her in a carriage as if she were a common trollop, and certainly not half an hour after that whoremaster had accosted her in the brothel. She was a lady and deserving of being treated like one.

But there was no doubt he’d wanted her.

Fiercely.

And he was no longer willing to wait until he’d settled everything with her father. There was no telling when the man might actually come back home.

Iverson took a sheet of vellum out of his desk drawer and opened the ink jar. He dipped the quill into the ink and started writing.

My dear Miss Crisp,

I would like the pleasure of your company in Hyde Park this afternoon. I will pick you up at half past three.

Iverson stopped and looked at what he had written. He laughed at how stiff that sounded. He crumpled the vellum and took out another sheet.

Catalina,

I will pick you up at half past three today for a ride in the park.

Iverson

Much better, he thought, and blew on the paper to dry the ink.

At the sound of a knock, Iverson looked up and saw Wallace standing in the doorway.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.”

“Not a problem, Wallace. What is it?”

“Your brother is here. He wanted to know if you were feeling well enough to see him.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m fine now.”

“Yes, sir. I showed him into the dining room and offered him a cup of coffee while he waits for you. Should I tell him you will be there directly?”

“No need,” Iverson said, folding his note. “I’m almost finished. And Wallace, have my curricle brought around front. I want to buy some flowers.”

“Would you like for me to take care of the flowers for you, sir?”

No. He wanted to pick out the flowers for Catalina. Mrs. Gottfried had told him her husband had brought her flowers every week. He needed to give Catalina flowers.

“I’ll handle it. Just get the curricle.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Wait.”

Iverson finished sealing the envelope with hot wax and gave the note to Wallace. “It’s early still, but in about an hour have this note sent around to Sir Phillip Crisp’s house and delivered to Miss Catalina Crisp.”

Iverson grabbed his black coat off a chair and shoved his arms into the sleeves as he walked toward the dining room. Rounding the doorway, he saw Matson standing in front of the back window. The draperies had been pulled back, and bright sunshine spilled into the room. Iverson could see his brother was deep in thought. An odd feeling prickled Iverson’s skin, and it was more than twin intuition. Something wasn’t right. Matson wasn’t a daydreamer, but then, Iverson wasn’t one to borrow trouble, either.

He walked into the sunlit room, saying, “Good to see you, Brother.”

Matson turned and faced him. “You, too. You’re feeling better?”

“Yes, I’m good as new.”

“Really? Then you must not have read Lord Truefitt’s column.”

“No, did I make the man’s gossip page again today?”

“Hmm. Apparently you were at the Great Hall last night, but I never saw you.”

Iverson walked over to the buffet and picked up the silver pot and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I went early and left early.”

“Unusual for you. Obviously you can take crowds better than you used to.”

“I’m learning.” Iverson cleared his throat. “Tell me, what did Lord Truefitt have to say this time?”

“Something along the lines of:

“Roses are red

Violets
are
blue

Is
it
the
poet’s daughter

The
Baltimore
Rake
will
woo?”

“Bloody hell, that sounds awful,” Iverson said, slightly amused by the inference.

“Yes, I suppose he likes to fancy himself being as good at poetry as Miss Crisp’s father.”

Iverson sipped his coffee and watched Matson over the rim of his cup. It was unlike his brother to brood. Something was wrong, and Iverson had the feeling it didn’t have anything to do with Truefitt’s gossip.

“In that case, someone needs to tell the man he’s more in the category with Lord Snellingly,” Iverson said, knowing his brother would eventually get around to telling him what was on his mind.

“Yes, he went on to say both you and Miss Crisp were seen leaving the party early and quite hastily.”

Iverson set down his cup. “Damn that man! He must have eyes in the back of his head and spies everywhere, too. Someone needs to find out who the bugger is and put a stop to his constant prattle about other people’s lives.”

“Is what he indicated true?” Matson asked.

Iverson remained quiet. Iverson was still trying to figure out what was bothering Matson. There had to be something more than this silly gossip vexing him.

“Did you have a rendezvous with Miss Crisp last night?”

“Do I hear a reprimand in your tone?” Iverson asked, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between them.

“You hear only concern.”

“Good. But in any case, I wouldn’t tell you if I did, but I will tell you I didn’t plan a meeting with Miss Crisp last night.”

“Perhaps you didn’t plan an encounter, but you did see her after you both left the party, didn’t you?”

“Is that your brotherly intuition again, or are you fishing and expect me to take the bait?”

“I know you well.”

“Obviously, too well,” Iverson muttered. “So you think I had my way with Miss Crisp last night?”

One corner of Matson’s mouth lifted with a smile. “Well, it had crossed my mind.”

Iverson scoffed. “I’m not always the rake I’m rumored to be.”

“I know.”

“Good. We’ll go no further with this conversation. Tell me, what has you so gloomy?”

“There’s more on our plate than gossip this morning. I have other news.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I received word late last night that our ships have arrived from America.”

“That’s not good news.”

“No, but what are we to do? For now, the only space available to us is what we’ve been leasing from Sir Randolph all these months.”

Iverson picked up his cup again and took a sip of the hot, dark brew. He thought about their options for a moment. “I’m sure we can leave the ships docked at the harbor for a short time. We’ll pay whatever fees are necessary to make that happen.”

“There shouldn’t be a problem with that. We’re bound to hear from the duke soon.”

“I’m sure,” Iverson said. “Our courier has had time to arrive at the duke’s estate and return.”

“I should think we will hear from him within a day or two at the latest, and hopefully with a letter from the duke, giving us permission to lease space from him.”

“There’s no reason not to, now that everything is settled between the duke and Brent.”

“Agreed. Brent said the duke seemed quite happy with his marrying Lady Gabrielle. So I’m thinking all will be settled within a week. That way, we won’t have to move our equipment into Sir Randolph’s buildings and then move it again later.”

“So no need to worry. All is going well.” Iverson picked up a buffet plate and extended it toward Matson.

“I’m not staying this morning.”

Matson’s mouth was narrow, and the corners of his eyes tightened again. Iverson knew that look. There was still something bothering his brother other than Iverson’s relationship with Catalina and the obvious problem with their ships. A shiver of uneasiness shot up his back. He put the plate back on the buffet.

“No breakfast,” Iverson said calmly. “You have other plans?”

Matson turned his attention out the window again, and Iverson’s unease turned into apprehension. “What’s wrong? Did all the ships come in? I mean, we didn’t lose any men at sea, did we?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Matson said quickly and faced him. “I didn’t mean to make you think that. All three ships are in, and from all accounts, everyone is safe.”

Iverson’s muscles stiffened. “Then what’s wrong? It’s not like you to be melancholy.”

“Damnation, I hope not,” Matson said with a half laugh.

“Then out with what’s bothering you.”

Matson let out a heavy breath as he pulled several sheets of folded newsprint from his coat pocket and extended them toward Iverson. “You are not going to like this, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but here it is.”

“I can believe that,” he said cautiously. Iverson tensed but took the pages. He didn’t bother to look at them. His fear was that someone had seen Catalina at Madame Shipwith’s brothel, and her name would be slandered all over the pages. “I seldom like anything I read in newsprint. If it’s more gossip or scandalous intrigue about Catalina, I don’t care to read the rubbish.”

“It’s not the scandal sheets, and it’s not about Miss Crisp, but in a way, it concerns her. Open it and look at the title. That will tell you more than you want to know.”

Iverson opened the pages, and his gaze immediately fell on the words
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
Part
II
.

Disbelief clouded Iverson’s vision and cloaked his heart protectively. It simply couldn’t be. His mouth went dry with shock, but he managed to look up at Matson and whisper gravely, “
Part
II
?”

Matson laughed ruefully. “Oh, yes, Brother. There is more to Sir Phillip’s outrageous story, telling about how the twins go about their merry way living their lives in London. All the while, Polite Society is whispering behind their backs and they are oblivious to the fact they are the spitting image of a man who is not their father. At the end of this, White’s has decided to have a drawing to see who gets to enlighten the Villory twins about their resemblance to their real father, Sir Mortimer.”

“I don’t believe it,” Iverson murmured, his mind running wild with thoughts of Catalina.

Did
she
know
about
this? Did she know there was more?

“Believe it, Brother. It’s all there in black and white. And there’s more. At the end of the piece it says to watch for
Part
III
coming in tomorrow’s edition.”

“
Part
III?
How many damned parts are there?”

“That’s all, according to the article. There is no telling what the man came up with to end the story, but you can be sure we won’t like it.”

The sound of pounding drums roared through Iverson’s ears, blazed through his chest, and curled and knotted in his stomach. He looked up at Matson and said, “She knew this was coming out, didn’t she?”

“I assume you’re talking about Miss Crisp.”

“You know I am,” Iverson muttered from between clenched teeth. “She had to have known there was more, and yet she never told me.”

“Of course she knew,” Matson said, anger lacing his voice. “But you really expected her to tell you there were two more parts?”

“Yes,” Iverson whispered earnestly, the feeling of betrayal sinking deep into his bones.

“That’s only because you are enchanted by her. Her father wrote it, and you told her you would do him harm if he wrote more. Did you really think she would confide in you after that? Can you imagine the amount of money the man must be making off this rubbish?”

Money?

If the man was making a lot of money, he wasn’t giving it to Catalina for new clothing or for their day-to-day living expenses.

Iverson’s breaths were deep, ragged. Somehow he held onto his temper, because he knew Matson was right. Catalina had no obligation to tell him anything, but it was almost incomprehensible to him that she hadn’t. She knew how angry he had been over her father’s writings about his family. There were times he’d felt she was hiding something from him, and now he knew what it was. Two more parts to her father’s vile parody had already been written.

But how could she have been so sweet, so eager, and so willing in his arms last night, knowing she kept such a damning secret from him?

He shook his head and chuckled bitterly at how she had fooled him with her sweetness, but it felt more like betrayal. He winced inside when he remembered her innocent kisses and how right it felt being with her.

Matson let out a deep sigh. “Iverson, perhaps just as I needed to accept the fact we are Sir Randolph’s sons, it’s time for you to accept this parody was written and published, and nothing can be done about it. Let the rest of the story come out tomorrow so everyone can have their amusement. In time it will be forgotten, and then we can finally be done with it. It’s time for you to let this go.”

“Why? So the blackguard can write more parodies about us anytime he wants to? Or what if some other poet decides to pick up where Sir Phillip left off? Is that what you want? Do you want the question of our parentage constantly on the minds of Londoners?”

“You know I don’t. I want everyone to let us forget we look like Sir Randolph and let us build our lives right here in London as we planned.” Matson stepped closer to Iverson. “But I wasn’t thinking about Sir Phillip just now or any other poet. I was thinking about his daughter.”

“Catalina?”

“So you are familiar enough now to call her Catalina?”