A Gentleman Says "I Do" (26 page)

Catalina stood in the chill of the room with tears flowing from her eyes, seeping down her cheeks, spilling over her jaw, and dropping onto her nightgown. What could she do? She’d lost Iverson forever, and she could no longer save her father from his wrath. If he wanted to tell the world she helped her father, he would. Catalina wanted to throw herself onto the bed and bury herself under the covers.

Then she heard her father stomping down the corridor. She slowly walked over to the window, closed it, and settled the draperies.

“Here you are, my darling. Wipe your tears away, and come see what I have for you.” He opened a black velvet box and, on a bed of beige sarcenet rested a single string of exquisite pearls.

She looked up at him in astonishment and said, “Papa, we can’t afford these.”

“Nonsense. With the success of
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
, I could buy you a dozen strings of pearls.”

“No, you’ve already been paid, and the money has been spent.”

“Well, I’m sure more money will be coming in.”

Catalina was not up to her father’s carefree, happy, and everything-will-be-all-right disposition.

She turned away and said, “I don’t want them, Papa. I will never wear them. You take them back.”

“You don’t like the pearls I’ve brought you? I will get you something else.”

Catalina’s shoulders drooped. Why couldn’t her father understand? She shored up her courage again, and from somewhere, found the strength to suck in another deep breath and not cry. Her father would never change. He didn’t want to and wouldn’t know how to if he tried. But she had to let him know how she felt.

Denying the ache in her heart, she faced him and said, “Papa, I could never wear those pearls. I could never accept anything you bought with money you made off
A
Tale
of
Three
Gentlemen
.”

Her father looked bewildered. “Why? What does it matter where the money comes from?”

“It matters, Papa. I know you wrote the parody for entertainment, but the Brentwood twins didn’t think it much of a laugh. They were offended by its implication that their mother had been unfaithful to their father.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, looking surprised. He closed the case of pearls and slid the jewelry case into his pocket. “The Brentwood twins, you say. You’ve met them, talked to them?”

“Yes, since you’ve been away.”

For a moment, he seemed to ponder what she said. “And tell me, is there one twin you speak to more often than the other?”

Her throat ached with unshed tears, but feeling no desire to evade his question, she said, “Yes.”

“Ah, now I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” she whispered earnestly.

“Oh, but I do, my dear Catalina,” he said, placing a firm grip on her shoulders. “I have been a lover and writer of love most of my life. I recognize the signs of love in a person’s eyes and face when I see them. Who is this man who has stolen your heart from me?”

She turned her face away from him. “It doesn’t matter.”

He placed his hand under her chin and gently turned her back to him. “Of course it does. This man you love, it must be one of twins?”

“Iverson,” reverently rolled off her tongue.

“I see,” her father said solemnly and then broke out with a big smile and a hearty laugh. He picked her up and hugged her, swinging her around again before setting her down on her feet. “I knew there was something different about you, and it’s that, at long last, you are in love.”

Catalina swallowed another sob. “Oh, Papa, this is not something to be joyous about.”

He kissed her on each cheek. “Why not? I am joyous every time I’m in love.”

“He doesn’t love me.”

“What? How could he not? You are beautiful, intelligent, and a romantic. What man would not love you?”

Catalina shook her head in frustration. “Papa, you don’t understand. You wrote about his family. He has been extremely upset about that.”

“Oh, nonsense,” he said, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. “It was just a parody no one would take seriously. And I wrote it, not you. Besides, is he not going to love you because of me? I don’t see that happening. Don’t worry, Catalina. Now that the entire story has been published, he will forget about it. The Season starts next week. I’ll have all new gowns made for you and see to it you look like a glorious angel. We’ll attend every party every night. Mark my words. That gentleman will soon have eyes for no one but you.”

He kissed her forehead. “Now go back to bed, because that is where I’m heading.”

“Papa?” she called to him as he reached the door.

He turned back to her, smiling. “What, my darling?”

“I will never finish any of your work again.”

“Catalina,” he cooed.

“I’m serious, Papa. I will never do it again.”

“We’ll talk more on this later. I am weary, and so are you. Go back to sleep. Everything will be rosy.”

Catalina was thankful when she heard her bedroom door shut. She was finally alone. Now she could collapse.

She crawled onto the bed where she had lain with Iverson only minutes ago. She pulled the pillow into her arms, and from the corner of her eye she caught sight of a piece of black cord. She pulled it from beneath the sheet. It was the twine from her reticule. She then recalled that Iverson’s hair was down when he’d jumped from the bed.

She’d wanted to say more to him, to somehow make it right between them again. She’d wanted him to know she was as wounded by her actions as he was. But there was no placating him and no comforting her.

Some things simply could not be undone.

She gathered the string in her hand and pressed it against her heart.

There is only one way to happiness and that is to cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will.

—Epictetus

He needed to do some thinking.

And Iverson needed to be alone to do it. Home was the best place for that. After he shaved and dressed, he told Wallace he didn’t want to be disturbed. He went into his book room to ponder all that had happened. After pouring himself a glass of port, he eased into his chair and propped his booted feet on his desk.

He smiled ruefully. How long had it been since he’d had to leave a lady’s room by the window? Not since he was in his early twenties, when he’d made one hasty departure too many and managed to land wrong and twist his ankle. He couldn’t walk for a week. That taught him it was best to stay away from a lady if he had to slip out of her house at daybreak. And until today, he had.

For a moment or two this morning, he’d considered staying in Catalina’s bedroom and facing her father, but that thought seemed far from satisfying. He quickly realized it didn’t matter that Catalina had withheld information from him again. He didn’t want her father or anyone else to know they had been together last night. And the reason for that startled him. It wasn’t because he was afraid of being caught in a parson’s mousetrap. It was because his time with her had been too special. His time in her arms, in her bed, meant too much to him to share it with anyone.

Even now, knowing she helped her father finish that blasted story, he was still yearning to see her again. He was still thinking about her.

Now that he’d had time to think about it, he wasn’t surprised she had to do her father’s work for him. She’d told him once that she got up early to write, but it had never dawned on him she was helping her father. Catalina took care of everything else for the man: his house, his staff, his sister, his accounting. Why not his poetry and prose, too?

What bothered Iverson most of all was her saying she didn’t trust him.

She
didn’t trust him not to tell others her secret.

That had been like a dagger thrown right into his heart. What kind of man did she think he was?

The
kind
of
man
who
told
her
he
would
break
her
father’s fingers if he wrote about Iverson’s family again.

Iverson growled at himself, remembering the first day he went to Catalina’s house. She should have thrown him out on his ear for that, even though, with her engaging, capable way, she had goaded him into saying it.

He had been a bit too forceful.

Maybe
more
than
a
bit.

And later, she’d seen him go after the Corinthian who couldn’t handle his horse, and drag him off his curricle. She then witnessed him hitting the scoundrel at Madame Shipwith’s when he made his ribald remark about Catalina.

No
wonder
she
didn’t trust him.

And he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t given her much reason to.

Iverson brought his feet down from the desk with a stomp. He rose from his chair, and taking his port with him, walked over to the window that overlooked his small garden. The gardener was busy at work, digging in the soil. He watched the man for a time and continued to think about Catalina.

He’d seen her outraged, concerned, confused, and even devastated when he’d brought Mrs. Gottfried home drowning in her cups, but he’d never seen Catalina cower. Not even when the oaf at Madame Shipwith’s had her in his clutches. She’d given him one mighty slap. And that had impressed Iverson.

From the beginning, he’d known she was a fierce protector of those she held dear. She had never deceived him about that. He just never knew why, and now he did. She was protecting their livelihood because her father wouldn’t. And rather than that bothering Iverson, it made him love her all the more.

Love
her?

“Did I just think that?” he whispered to himself.

Iverson remembered looking at every inch of her beautiful, naked body in the soft yellow glow of candlelight. He remembered the taste of her breasts and the feel of her smooth, taut skin beneath his hands. He remembered succulent kisses, sighs of wonderment, gasps of pleasure, and blissful contentment as he had settled upon her and joined his body to hers. He remembered sinking deeply, so deeply into her he never wanted to move. From the moment he’d met her, he’d known she was instinctively passionate and sensual, and she had not disappointed him.

“Hell, yes. I love Catalina!” he whispered to his reflection in the windowpane. Though he had never experienced love before, he knew what it was now that it had captured him. And he didn’t mind acknowledging it.

It
was
pure
love
he
felt
for
Catalina
Crisp.

And she loved him. He was sure of it. She would never have asked him to stay last night if she didn’t, but at the time, he’d been too caught up in his desire to make her his to ponder her reasons, or his. The only thing that was important was she wanted him and she surrendered herself to him. She’d shown she loved him in the way she had responded to him with such innocent giving of her body, the way she had looked at him and touched him.

They hadn’t spoken about it, but there was love between them. Soul-deep love.

“I love her,” he whispered again.

Why had it taken him so long to recognize it?

Iverson sucked in a deep breath. But a wife had to trust her husband. Without trust there could be no bond between them.

How could he gain her trust?

Would it be enough if he told her, no,
promised
her he would never tell her father’s secret? Hell, he didn’t want anyone to know she helped her father any more than she did. She would never have any peace if Society knew she could write poetry.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He started not to answer but knew it must be something important for Wallace to disturb him after he’d told him not to.

“Yes, Wallace,” he called.

His servant slowly opened the door. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but your brother said it’s most urgent he speak with you.”

“Of course, Wallace, send—”

Matson strode past Wallace and into Iverson’s office before he had time to finish his sentence. “What’s this, trying to keep your brother out?” Matson said. “Wallace was giving me such a hard time about seeing you, I was beginning to believe you had a woman in here with you.”

Iverson grunted a laugh. “That would definitely be a reason to keep you out.”

“But I see you have something almost as powerful.”

Iverson frowned.

“Wine, when it’s hardly half past nine. No wonder you wanted to keep me out.”

“Oh,” Iverson said and looked at the glass. He wasn’t sure he’d even taken a sip of it. He walked over to his desk and put the glass down.

“What’s the matter? Did you empty your pockets at the card table last night?”

“I came close,” Iverson said, to put any further discussion of last night out of the way. “Now that you are here, make yourself comfortable and tell me what you’ve heard from our courier.”

Matson took one of the upholstered armchairs in front of Iverson’s desk, and Iverson returned to his chair.

“I can make that quick,” he said. “The man couldn’t find the duke. Apparently the duke is not at his estate, nor is he at any estate where the man was told he might be. It was as if the courier had been sent on one fool’s errand after another.”

“That’s not good news, Brother.”

“No, that’s why he came back here for further instructions. He was told the duke would be in London in time for the first party of the Season, which is next week. The docking fees and all other monies are paid on the ships, so we have a little time to wait for him to return to London and hopefully get us out from under Sir Randolph.”

“Then we’re in good shape for now.”

“Yes, on that count, but I have more news I’m guessing you haven’t heard.”

Iverson tensed, remembering the last time Matson told him there was more news and it wasn’t good. “What?”

“Don’t look so cheerless. This might not be bad news.”

“In that case, I’m all ears. What is it?”

“Sir Randolph Gibson has just become a father again.”

“What?” Iverson said for the third time and jumped from his chair, knocking it backward with a loud bang.

Matson rose, too. “Well, not a father in the true sense of the word.”

“Spill it out, Matson. Tell me what you know about this.”

“He arrived at a party last night with Miss Sophia Hart. She is the granddaughter of an old friend of his who died last year. Sir Randolph is now her legal guardian and charged with the task of seeing her properly wed.”

Iverson relaxed a little, the fear that the man had more bastard sons who had come to town abating.

“You saw her?” Iverson asked.

“Yes,” Matson said, averting his gaze from Iverson’s.

“She’s lovely?” Iverson asked.

“Mmm. She’s fair,” Matson answered, again not meeting his brother’s eyes.

Iverson knew his brother’s dismissal of her beauty meant she was far lovelier than he was admitting. “Really? Just fair, you say?” he asked, prompting Matson to say more.

“Yes,” Matson confirmed. “And the good news is her arrival now assures we are old gossip. London finally has someone new to talk about. I’m told everyone flocked around her last night as if she were a queen who had invited their full attention.”

“And had she?”

“What?”

“Invited attention?”

“She’s Sir Randolph’s ward. How could she not? No doubt she will be all the rage now, and I for one am happy to turn that unappealing position over to her.”

“So you were introduced to her?” Iverson asked, making himself comfortable in his chair again.

Matson remained standing. “Yes. Actually, I’d met her before, in passing, but didn’t know who she was.”

“Hmm, tell me exactly how one goes about meeting a young lady in passing?”

“It’s a long story.”

Iverson smiled. I’ve got time.”

Matson smiled too. “But I’m not talking.”

That told Iverson more than Matson wanted him to know. “At least tell me what you thought about her.”

“She has red hair.”

That told Iverson even more. Matson had always been attracted to redheads. Iverson nodded and said, “Mmm. Red can be harsh. Tell me, is it golden, brassy, or that rusty shade of red?”

“Golden.”

“And was her skin the color of warm alabaster?”

“Yes.” Matson swore as he picked up a pillow from the chair and threw it at Iverson. “You blasted blackguard. Next time I’ll leave it to you to find out all the latest news on your own.”

Matson walked out the door, and Iverson laughed. And when he realized how good it felt to laugh, he laughed some more. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d teased his brother about a lady, but too long. But perhaps Sir Randolph’s ward shouldn’t have been the lady.

However, Matson’s reticence to talk about her made Iverson a little uneasy, too. Usually if a man didn’t want to talk about a lady, it was because there was interest. And Iverson sure as hell didn’t want Matson interested in anyone connected to Sir Randolph. That would put them back on the gossip wheel faster than anything else. It was best Matson stay as far away from her as possible, so their names would never be linked.

He would find his brother later and talk to him about her in a more serious tone, but right now there was another lady on his mind. He needed to see Catalina. They had much to discuss.

At the sound of a knock on the door frame, he looked up and saw Wallace again.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, sir, but there is a Sir Phillip Crisp here to see you. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed. He said he would wait until you were available to see him, and then he brushed right past me and entered the house without an invitation.”

Sir Phillip was here to see him and using one of Iverson’s tactics to gain entrance past unsuspecting servants? That didn’t bode well.

“He’s waiting in the vestibule. Should I ask him to leave?”

“No. Show him in.”

There was only one reason Sir Phillip would come see Iverson. He must know Iverson had spent the night in his daughter’s bed, and he’d come to force him to wed her. But what Sir Phillip didn’t know was no force would be necessary.

Iverson rose from his chair and waited for Sir Phillip to walk in. The man came striding in with his hand held out as if he expected Iverson to shake it. “Mr. Brentwood,” he said, smiling broadly.

That surprised the hell out of Iverson. It was not the usual way a father would approach the man he suspected of ruining his daughter. Obviously the man was not here because of Catalina.

When Iverson made no move to shake his hand, Sir Phillip lowered it and continued. “I understand you have been looking for me.”

“Extensively.”

“I’ve been here, there, and a little bit of everywhere, but here now. What can I do for you?”

Iverson had waited so long to come face to face with the man, he knew what he must do. He came from around his desk and stopped inches from the tall, slender man and settled a cold stare on the poet’s green eyes. Keeping his voice low and tight, Iverson said, “You wrote about my family in an unflattering light.”

“How could I not? It was such a good story.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“Well, I mean, the best writer in all of England couldn’t dream up a story that good. I kept hearing people talk about you, your brother, and Sir Randolph at parties. They were intrigued and fascinated by you. Society couldn’t get enough of you. Even the common people started talking about you, too. Everyone had you on their guest list. You were all the rage, so I decided I should take advantage of your popularity and your story and write a parody. I assumed if they enjoyed talking about you so much, they would take pleasure in reading a story about the same situation, but with enough changes to make it deliciously interesting.”