Anne Barbour (23 page)

Unable to say more because of the tears that gathered in her throat to choke her, she whirled and ran, fleeing the furious, stricken expression in Drew’s eyes. She halted when she came to the meadow’s edge, then moved ahead more slowly. By the time she rejoined the picnickers, she had regained a modicum of composure, and seated herself in a spot somewhat removed from the main group. Distractedly, she watched a desultory game of ball taking place some distance away.

“Are you all right, Catherine?”

She started, to observe Miranda approaching the table. Good Lord, her demeanor must indeed be lugubrious to cause everyone such concern this afternoon.

“Yes,” she replied shortly. “Behold me unbetrothed, Miranda.” At the countess’s expression of dismay, tears rose once again, and her smile was brittle as she described the scene that had just transpired.

“Oh, my,” was Miranda’s only response.

“Indeed,” said Catherine. “I do not know how soon you will wish to make a formal announcement, but surely everyone will have to be told that the wedding they have come to celebrate is no longer on the schedule.” She rose. “If you will excuse me, Miranda, I think my supply of social chatter has dwindled to nonexistence.”

She turned away, but was stayed by Miranda’s hand on her arm.

“Do not give up, Catherine. I believe Drew’s feelings for you are stronger than you realize.”

Catherine laughed shortly. “Oh, no, I am well aware of precisely how strong his feelings are, for he has told me repeatedly since his return.”

With a dispirited wave of her hand, she set off for the house.

Some distance away, Drew emerged from the forest, feeling rather like a hibernating bear just emerging from its den. For Catherine’s monologue had had a profound effect on him. His first reaction had been one of white-hot anger.

How dare this pampered daughter of privilege lecture him on a subject on which she had not the smallest understanding? But he had listened, paralyzed by the sting of her words—and a vague familiarity in them. When she concluded her monologue by breaking off their betrothal, he felt no sense of victory or relief, merely an overwhelming sadness over a relationship that had gone terribly wrong.

She was talking with Miranda. He made a move to go to her, but something stayed him. His pride, perhaps. He had just made one apology to her for his behavior; he was damned if he’d make another in the space of half an hour. She had told him that her temper tantrums were a thing of the past. He laughed shortly. She had flared up at him like an incendiary rocket, all because he had told her a few home truths. Seeing Catherine walk away from Miranda toward the house, he moved slowly forward only to be brought up short as an idea struck him.

She had been angry, yes, but she had not really lost her temper, had she? She’d been giving him a few home truths of her own, if he were to be completely honest with himself. It was not, after all, as though he had not heard those sentiments before. He continued walking. It was Helen, he realized suddenly, who had also told him he was in danger of falling into a morass of self-pity. Lord, was he so transparent that any perceptive woman could read him like a novel?

How could Catherine have fathomed his trouble so deeply, when heretofore it was only Helen who had understood his agonies of soul? She had understood and cautioned him not to let his tragedy overwhelm him.

That is precisely what he had done, and Catherine recognized his latter ravings for what they were—the imprecations of a hurt child.

He should be pleased, he supposed. He had accomplished his purpose. He was free of his betrothal to Catherine Edgebrooke, a consummation he had devoutly wished for three years. Yet now that his purpose was accomplished, he felt nothing beyond a forlorn emptiness.

He cast his thoughts to Helen, and found, to his surprise, that he had difficulty in recalling her face. This was not surprising, he supposed, for he had been only slightly acquainted with her before their correspondence. Now, when he tried to bring up her image, Catherine’s face was superimposed.

Catherine.

She truly did seem to have changed, he admitted grudgingly. He thought of her laughing gaiety with the children the day before. She had been tactful at dinner, managing not to say all the wrong things as he ate. She was courteous and heedful of the wishes of the other guests, even going out of her way, he remembered with a smile, to play whist with old Lady Bensham, a tartar of the first rank.

Had she changed, he wondered, or was this her true character, with the chaff of her spoiled youth winnowed away?

He shook himself angrily. Why did he continue to dwell on Catherine and her attributes when he should be thinking of Helen? She was no longer available, but surely he should be pining for her—should he not? Still, there was no denying he had come to enjoy Catherine’s company, and there could be no harm in being friends with her—could there?

His thoughts flashed back to last night’s kiss. There had been nothing of friendship in the bruising punishment he had inflicted on her. Yet, the instant his mouth had touched hers, he had been almost overcome by a wave of longing tinged with tenderness. Despite Catherine’s initial resistance to his embrace, there could be no mistaking the response that shuddered through her. Did she truly feel something for him? The thought was, of course, unwelcome, but he felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach at the idea.

He moved forward, at last, crossing the meadow toward the picnickers, only to be intercepted by a militant Miranda.

“How could you?” were her first words to him, uttered in a tone of deep indignation. When he made no response beyond a blank stare, she continued brusquely. “Is it true? Catherine says she has ended your betrothal.”

Drew still said nothing, but nodded briefly. He made as though to push past her, but she restrained him with her hand.

“You must talk to her, Drew. The wedding must go forward. Oh, dear,” she sighed, “Ceddie will be devastated.”

Drew stiffened. “I do, of course, regret discommoding Ceddie, but I trust you will forgive me if I tell you that my brother’s sensibilities are not my primary concern at the moment.”

“Of course not,” replied Miranda quickly. “The ones to whom this marriage are most important are you and Catherine.”

Declining to dispute this ludicrous statement, Drew contented himself with a cold stare.

“If you will excuse me,” he said icily, “I must apprise my brother of Catherine’s decision.”

* * * *

Ceddie reacted to the news as Drew had expected.

“My God.’“ He paled. “I don’t believe this. She simply set you adrift? I don’t understand.” His pale gaze shot toward Drew. “This is absolutely unacceptable, you know. You and Catherine must marry. It was the dearest wish—”

“Yes, I know,” snapped Drew impatiently. He grasped his brother’s arm and led him to the closest chair. “You just do not understand. Catherine doesn’t give a good, healthy damn about the dearest wishes of our parents. She never has, and now I see why. They claimed to have our interests at heart, but it was only theirs that concerned them.”

Ceddie’s spaniel eyes filled with concern.

“You’re wrong. Drew. Father wished for a union of the families, as does Sir Martin, but they would never have gone ahead with the betrothal if it were not the best thing for you two, as well. As for Catherine, Lord, she used to worship you.”

He grinned as Drew stared blankly at him. “Don’t you remember? She followed you about like a Tantony pig. The highest delight of her life is when you allowed her to carry your game bag.”

Drew flushed. “Perhaps. But that was a long time ago— when she was a child. Believe me, any worship she might have felt for the friend of her older brother dissipated shortly after she went into long skirts.”

“I’m not so sure. She awaited your return with the greatest anticipation, you know.”

Despite himself. Drew felt a stirring of interest. “Did she?”

“And have you not noticed how she looks at you? No, I suppose not, for her glances are always surreptitious, when she thinks you will not notice. Just as yours are toward her.”

Drew opened his mouth to protest, but closed it immediately with a sheepish grin. He realized, almost with a shiver of discovery, that when he and Catherine were in the same room, he could not keep his gaze from her. Why was that? he wondered in some irritation. He had no real interest in the pestilent female beyond a desire to get her out of his life. Yet, his thoughts, his senses centered on her in a manner he would not have thought possible when he returned home.

It was not merely her beauty that drew him, although her storm-colored eyes and piquant features were enough to rivet the attention of any man. Nor was it her charm of manner, although when she put herself out to be agreeable, she could entice bees from the hive. It was all, as he knew to his cost, false as paste jewelry. She wielded her assets to her own advantage.

Was that it? he wondered, suddenly arrested. Had Catherine possessed an ulterior motive in her desire to marry him? Had she abandoned some cherished plan when she released him? If so, what could it be? She had lost Randolph Sills—or at least, she had realized that the hedgebird was only after her substance, and she was forced to let him go. Was she now desperate for a replacement?

Surely not. She had the pick of every eligible male in the neighborhood. Look at Theo Venable. He was sniffing after her like a randy weasel. Good God, had she formed a tendre for him? He was only slightly more eligible than Sills, for God’s sake.

A marked feeling of distaste swept over him at the idea of Catherine succumbing to Venable’s oily flattery. On the other hand, perhaps she did not see the encroaching mushroom as husband material. Perhaps she envisioned a future with him as her secret lover. He certainly might be available for dalliance were she married to a complaisant husband. And who more complaisant than a man she had married for convenience, only to please her family? A man who openly disliked her?

That scenario certainly made sense, although it did not jibe with what he knew of Catherine’s character. Subterfuge had always been foreign to her nature. It would have been just like her to announce to her supposedly uncaring fiancée her intention to carry on a liaison after her marriage.

He shifted uncomfortably. Somehow, this did not seem like Catherine, either.

He came to with a start, aware that Ceddie was still staring at him in a troubled fashion.

“I see no reason,” said his brother, “to inform the rest of the guests of Catherine’s little, er, flutter of apprehension. She will no doubt have changed her mind again by this afternoon.”

Drew
laughed shortly. “You have an infinite capacity for self-delusion, Ceddie. Now that Catherine has given me my conge, I consider myself a free man and, even in the unlikely event of yet another reversal of feeling on her part. I have no intention of allowing myself to be re-lashed to the altar of familial duly.”

Ceddie’s lips curled faintly. “Methinks you protest too much, brother. Tell me, truly, would marriage to Catherine be such an intolerable fate?”

For a moment, Drew experienced the astonishing sensation that his universe had suddenly skewed sideways. Inexplicably, it was as though he had never considered this concept before in his life. A lifetime with Catherine! His disillusionment with her had been complete, and the resulting emotional vacuum had been filled almost immediately with his growing attachment for the empathetic Helen. Now, Helen was gone, and he was almost appalled to discover that he was no longer devastated at this turn of events. Was he a callow youth, then, fickle in his affections as summer sunshine playing with rain clouds? A lifetime with Catherine. The words hummed through his mind again, with an increasing lilt, and an image rose before his eyes of the laughing girl he had beheld yesterday, playing ball with the children. In the few nonconfrontational conversations he had held with her, he had found himself enjoying her company, despite himself, and somehow it was beginning to seem less and less difficult to picture her at his side in the years to come. She had apparently managed to overcome her revulsion to his appearance. She would have him believe he should consider it a minor inconvenience!

He turned to Ceddie.

“Very well. I shall say nothing to the other guests, and in the meantime, I shall make an effort to reconcile with Catherine—at least to the point where we might be friends.”

Ceddie blew out his cheeks happily.

“Good lad!” he cried. “I must tell Miranda. She will want to discuss this with Catherine. I mean, we do not want your betrothed to be spreading the precipitate news that the engagement is off.”

He laughed heartily and stumped off to where Miranda stood in conversation with several of the guests. Drew watched his departure, a small crease forming between his eyes. Good God, what had he just done? Catherine had just granted him the consummation of his most devout wish. He should be shouting it from the treetops.

He took a deep breath. No, he had promised Ceddie he would try to reestablish a friendship with Catherine—if not a betrothal. He would pursue that goal in good faith. It would not be difficult, after all. He thought of Catherine as he had last seen her in the forest glade. Soft tendrils of hair had escaped their sculpted coils to catch fire in the early afternoon sun and her gray eyes had glittered with unshed tears. Distress had radiated from her with every appearance of sincerity and, despite his own fury, he had known an almost mindless urge to draw her close to him, to press his lips against her fragrant hair, and to brush away those incipient tears with comforting fingers.

Sighing, he limped toward the house in search of his elusive destiny.

* * * *

“But, Miranda, they must be told!” Catherine blurted out the words with ill-concealed exasperation. She sat with the countess in a small salon just off the manor’s long gallery. Dinner would be announced soon, and Catherine had fully expected Miranda to come to her with the news that Ceddie would announce the dissolution of the betrothal at that time. Instead, Miranda had pulled her aside to inform her that Ceddie had, “persuaded dear Drew to withhold any action on your ill-advised offer to release him.”