Anne Barbour (25 page)

He bent a tender glance on her. She was whispering instructions to a dark-haired moppet, and she turned her head to laugh into his eyes. She caught her breath at his expression and for an endless moment, they simply gazed at each other.

Her hair, burnished in the light of the candles that had been lit against the dismal morning, had escaped from the confines of her coiffure. Oblivious to the chatter about them, he moved to her and reached to brush a stray tendril that curled along her cheek, and his fingers stayed to play with the curl, following the curve of her jaw and brushing her lips. She gasped a little, but did not pull away. Her eyes grew large and luminous until it was as though the candlelight had pooled in them, turning them to molten silver.

“Are we going to play?” piped up an exasperated little voice as a small boy tugged at Catherine’s sleeve, “Or are you and Drew going to stand there looking silly at each other?”

Hastily, Drew withdrew his hand and the game continued without further incident until the gong summoned them to luncheon.

The meal was a convivial affair, family and guests behaving rather like survivors of a great storm as they regaled the company with tales of how they had passed the chill morning indoors.

Catherine admitted to herself that she could have been served boiled shoelaces by the staff and she would not have noticed as she consumed her meal in a blur of dazed happiness.

* * * *

The glow in Drew’s eyes this morning had been unmistakable. She had set him free of his vow, but the realization fairly sang in her blood that it would take only a word from her to reinstate the betrothal.

After luncheon, Drew approached her and, grasping her hand, began to steer her purposefully from the room, only to be waylaid by Squire Melford and his lady who claimed them for a game of whist. While he hesitated, Catherine accepted with good grace, knowing that to refuse would be an act of rudeness on their part. Shooting her an exasperated glance, Drew bowed with good grace, and followed her and the Melfords into the green salon, where tables, cards, and counters had been set up for the guests’ pleasure.

An hour or so later, as their pile of counters grew steadily, he turned to compliment his partner.

“You have brought me luck, my dear.” He caressed Catherine with his gaze, “I am usually a disaster at the gaming tables.”

Blushing like a schoolgirl, Catherine giggled. “But do you not remember?” she queried, almost giddily. “You told me of winning almost a hundred pounds in that little village—I forget the name—from—who was it—a Captain Butler, I believe. Why. I—” She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared, frozen, at Drew. He returned her gaze with one of blank puzzlement.

Oh, God—oh, God, what had she done? She felt sick, suddenly, and as she watched a dawning comprehension fill Drew’s eyes, she leaped to her feet.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Melford. “What is it, Miss Edgebrooke? You’re white as a sheet. Are you— She moved as though to come to Catherine’s assistance.

“No!” Catherine choked. “Please—I’m sorry—I—” She whirled then, and fled from the chamber. Behind her. she could hear Drew’s footfalls in pursuit.

He caught up with her in the crimson salon, the first room she came to in her flight. She sank into a chair and flung her hands up before her in a protective gesture. “Please—” she said again, but Drew grasped her wrist and pulled her to her feet.

“Perhaps you would care to explain.” His eyes were flint striking on granite.

“Ex—explain?” She was shaking so badly she could hardly form the word.

“Yes, how you happened to be aware of my good fortune with the pasteboards. I certainly do not remember telling you of the incident.”

“No,” Catherine replied numbly. She felt as though time had slowed to a crawl and that she stood on a precipice, beginning an interminable plunge into a black abyss.

“On the other hand, I do recall regaling Helen with the tale in one of my letters to her. Tell me, Catherine,” he continued conversationally, “was Helen in the habit of sharing our correspondence? Or perhaps you read my letters to her without her knowledge.”

“No,” Catherine said again through dry lips.

“You surprise me, my dear.” Drew still spoke in that chill, almost abstracted tone, yet Catherine could almost feel the tension that stretched between them. “You never used to number lying among your character flaws.”

Catherine opened her mouth, but she could not utter a sound. How incredibly stupid she had been—and wicked as well—to embark on her charade with no thought of the moment of reckoning that would come. Now, that moment was here, bringing the end of all her foolish hopes. She drew a deep breath, schooling herself to face the inevitable.

“Drew.” She spoke in an incomprehensible croak, and tried again. “Drew, you never received any letters from Helen.” She lifted a hand to still the astonished protest in his eyes. “They were all from me.”

She bowed her head, and listened to Drew’s quick, startled breath.

“But, that’s impossible!” The words seemed to explode from within him.

“It’s true,” replied Catherine, lifting her eyes to the storm that rose in his. “Oh, Drew—I never meant to deceive you—that is, well, of course, I did, but I meant no harm.”

She cursed the inanity of what she had said, but plowed ahead determinedly.

“I was so desperately sorry for the awful things I said to you just before you left—but you would not read my letters—so I thought—that is—

“Are you telling me you wished to salve your conscience?” asked Drew, his tone hard and distant.

“Well, yes,” admitted Catherine. “And—and I did not wish to lose you as—as a friend. You must know how I have always felt about you!”

Drew snorted. “From all accounts you looked on me as some sort of hero—a notion which you outgrew long ago, as you made very plain. By God, Catherine, I cannot believe you would serve me such a trick.”

He stepped away from her, his gaze hot and anguished. In the next instant, however, the cold, bitter smile that she had hoped never to see again, curved his lips.

“But, I should not be surprised, should I, pet? For after all, you did vow revenge. You had already driven me away with your vicious tongue, so the only avenue of retaliation was to try to make me form a relationship with another woman—a relationship that you could destroy at a time of your choosing. How very clever of you.”

“No!” cried Catherine. “No, it was not like that at all. Yes, I may have begun the correspondence to make amends, but your letters grew to mean a great deal to me. No, more than that. Drew, I came to lo—

“For God’s sake!” His eyes blazed once more, and Catherine fell back before a rage that she thought might consume her. “If you dare to say the word ‘love,’ I think I may vomit, for on your lips it is an obscenity. You do not have the slightest inkling of the concept.”

“No,” she said pleadingly. “I tell you it was not like that.”

“Catherine”—he continued as though she had not spoken—-”do you have any idea what you have done? Or do you merely amuse yourself by creating havoc in the lives of others? Those letters—those letters were my lifeline. I believed, Catherine. I believed in the goodness and the warmth and wit I perceived there. Good God, I actually— He stopped abruptly and drew a long breath. “Were you ever going to tell me, if you had not tripped yourself up? But, of course you were, or what would be the point? Timing, as you are so acutely aware, is everything, so you were no doubt going to wait until the night before we were to be married to spring the fruit of your jest on me.”

“Oh, dear Lord, Drew. Is there not anything I can say to convince you that I was not playing some ghastly joke? Do you really think me capable of such monstrous behavior?”

“But you see, my dear, I do not know you at all. Every time I think I have come to understand you, you reveal yet another surprising facet of your character. Although”—he grimaced and continued in a harsh growl—”I should have known. These past few days have been—extraordinary, and I had come to believe, despite that nagging inner voice that warned me of what you are, that you were actually—that you could—oh, God!” he snarled. “Despite the premature revelation of your little prank, you may consider it a complete success. Catherine. Congratulate yourself on my complete humiliation.”

He turned on his heel and the next moment, he was gone, leaving Catherine to gaze after him in consternation.

Dear God, it was worse even than she had thought it would be. She would never make him understand. He would never believe her. She had lost him.

She sank into a nearby chair. How could what had seemed like such a good idea have gone so wrong? And how was she to get through the rest of her life? A life that now stretched ahead of her, empty and gray. At long last, she rose slowly and made her way to her bedchamber.

Here, she sat before an unlit hearth as the hours passed with no lightening of her thoughts or her heart.

In his own chambers, Drew stood before a window, staring out into the rain that beat steadily against trees and parkland. He searched within himself for the fury that should be rising in him like a tide, but his whole being seemed filled with a chill despair, leaving no room for anger. He should be filled with a desire to punish Catherine, but he felt only a desolate sadness that she was gone from his life—permanently this time. He just wished that he didn’t want so badly to believe her.

He thought about the letters she had written to him. He had fallen in love with the writer of those letters—with her warmth, her empathy, her intelligence, and her sense of fun. Could it all have been false? He had been so sure that she had found much to love in him, as well. The idea, however, that beautiful, vibrant Catherine Edgebrooke could actually want to marry him was ludicrous. Good God, he could not even button his own shirt, and he was unable to so much as mill down a man milliner like Theo Venable. In short, despite her salutary little speech on the day of the picnic, he was of no use at all. No, Catherine’s desire for retaliation was the only explanation for her actions that made sense. After all, she had spurned him once before— though, granted, her rejection of him had lacked the subtlety of the method she had chosen to rid herself of him this time. Lord, he wondered dully, what could there have been in his simple acquiescence those three years ago to his family’s wishes that he marry her to spark such a virulent thirst for revenge?

Not that any of it made any difference. She had betrayed him, and the pain of that realization was so great that he knew an urge to cry out his anguish in great, gulping sobs. He stiffened. No, at least he was still man enough to keep his emotions in check.

He stood staring out the window for some time, until the dinner gong sounded faintly through the door to his chambers. He knew he would not be going down to dine with the others, but, he must put an end to this business once and for all. He turned stiffly, as though he had just risen from a long confinement in a sickbed, and rang for his valet.

When the muted tones of the dinner gong reached Catherine in her bedchamber, her first impulse was to simply ignore it. She had never felt less like eating, and she could not possibly face Miranda and Ceddie. let alone the assembled guests. By the time her maid had arrived to dress her, however, it had been borne upon her that she could not hide here forever. She must face Drew again, and, perhaps, she might have the opportunity afterward to plead her case with him again.

It was with a mixture of hope and dread that she awaited his arrival in the blue salon. She waited in vain. Drew did not make an appearance among the company until the meal was over, the covers had been removed, and the ladies were about to rise to depart for the music room.

He entered the chamber slowly, his limp more pronounced than ever.

“Drew!” said Ceddie. “Where have you—

But Drew merely lifted his hand.

“I do apologize for my intrusion, brother, for I realize that I am late beyond pardoning, however, I have an announcement to make.”

He surveyed the guests, his gaze passing over Catherine as though she were not there.

“I feel it is necessary to inform all of you that the betrothal between Miss Edgebrooke and myself has been— withdrawn.” He spoke the words as though he were announcing the cancellation of a race meeting.

“Drew!” gasped Ceddie once again, echoed in anguished accents by his wife. “You can’t mean—Surely this is neither the time nor the—

“I am sorry for any inconvenience”—Drew continued as though he had not spoken—”but I could not let this charade go on any longer.”

He bowed, then, and turned, and left the room.

Catherine, oblivious to the startled murmurings about her, ran after him. She spied him at the end of the corridor, but when she called his name, he neither slowed nor hastened his step. He might not have heard her at all.

Running to catch up, she placed herself in front of him.

“I really have nothing to say to you, Catherine,” he said in a tone of great calm, belied by the desolation in his eyes. “There is no need to demean yourself by chasing after me like—”

“Like a hero-worshipping child? It is hard to break old habits, I fear.” She tried out a smile that went painfully awry. “Drew, let me say this one thing to you, and then I shall trouble you no longer. It is something I have not said—and perhaps should have. I love you. I have loved you, first as a child—even, I think, through my brief lunacy with Randolph Sills. I began writing the letters because it was the only way I knew to reach you. During the course of our correspondence, I began to love you as a woman loves a man. I wanted to tell you what I had done, but I feared your anger—rightly, as it turned out.

“I believe that you came to feel something for me, as well—-or at least for the writer of the letters. Since you have been home, the feeling between us has grown—you cannot deny it. Oh. Drew, please do not turn your back on love! We will both regret it for the rest of our lives if you do.”

She halted, breathless in her intensity, but drew from him no response other than yet another slow, acid smile.

“How very affecting, my dear. I might almost be tempted to believe you had I not chanced to look in the mirror before I came downstairs. I cannot conceive why you are turning yourself inside out to apologize—and to continue your laughable protestations of love. Is it that you wish to gain the sympathy of Miranda and Ceddie and all the others thronged to the old homestead for the festivities’? Am I to be cast as the villain of the piece? Mmm, yes, I suppose that would complete your plans to a nicety, would it not? If that is the case, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I fear I have contributed quite enough to your little plots and schemes. Now. if you will excuse me ...”