His Lordship's Chaperone (14 page)

The cold water did nothing to deter him. He had to
speak to Catherine. With the sweep of his hand, he pushed his dripping hair out
of his eyes and wiped the water off his face before moving onward.

He took three more steps before he heard a second
window open followed by giggling. The snap of a carpet, followed by a second,
then a third being aired, sent dust and grit downward, clinging to his wet
body. Haverton sputtered and coughed at the dust and dirt cascading around him.
He couldn’t address Catherine in this soiled state. She’d run the minute she
laid eyes on him. He’d best wait for another time. After he had bathed and
changed.

He backtracked to the east side of the house and
lifted his foot to step over the low hedge.

“Robert!” his mother called from a ground floor
window. “What do you think you are doing out there?”

He faced her, holding his drenched arms out to the
side. “I … I’ve come to see … you, Mother.”

“Well, stop lurking about and come in.” She
disappeared back into the house and shut the window.

The Duchess of Waverly watched Crawford hold the
front door open. Robert carefully entered the house.

“What’s happened to you?” The Duchess looked him
over. Drenched but not to the point of soaking wet, Robert acted as if nothing
had happened to him.

“I was just … I was admiring the ivy growing
against the side of the house and the maids poured water out of the window. I
suppose a few drops splattered onto me.”

Splattered? The maids had splendid aim. They had
hit their target completely. The dust and grit had added a special texture to
his condition, just as if he had rolled about in the dirt like a pig.

“What is it you wish to see me about, dear?” The
Duchess knew he wanted no such thing. He had come to see Catherine. She was too
upset by half and prolonging Robert’s agony would only do him good.

“I don’t think I should sit on the furniture. As a
matter of fact, I believe it best if I return home.”

“I may be old but I’m not some half-witted female
you can easily deceive. I know the reason why you’re here. It’s not me but
Catherine you came to see. Why else would you be sneaking
around.
”
She had guessed correctly, Robert’s dark expression confirmed that much. “I
didn’t think I raised a dolt for a son. You have done a grievous wrong. I am
very disappointed in you.”

“She’s told you? I can’t believe it.”

“She didn’t have to tell me—I saw it right away.
You two have shared intimacies. Going back to you would be her decision, not
mine. But I would not advise her to do so.”

He pleaded with a damp, outstretched hand. “But
Mother, I—”

“You cannot possibly be in love with her,” the
Duchess shouted, outraged at the very idea. “A simple country girl? A girl with
no title, no position, no money? Doesn’t that go against everything you believe
in?”

Robert hung his head and exhaled.

“I thought not.” The Duchess waved her son away.
“Go back to flirting with your society ladies. Miss Hayward is not someone you
can dally with. I can guarantee you, there will be consequences to pay if you
come sniffing around her again.”

Haverton’s days were certainly dull without her. He
tried going about his ordinary duties, pursuing his usual interests. But
without her here … Catherine … there wasn’t much joy in facing the day.

He never realized how one person could long for
another’s voice, laughter, and mere presence as much as he missed hers. The day
could not begin without Catherine’s warm smile in the morning. He sorely felt
her absence across the breakfast table and having her ask in a whisper how his
current painting was coming along. Not only had he not been able to concentrate
on his art, it appeared he had misplaced his paint box. It normally rested on
the table near his desk but after a thorough search it was not to be found.

“Are you looking for something, my lord?” Mrs.
Goddard stepped into his study. She seemed to pop up at the most unexpected
times.

“Well, I had thought there was a paint box here,
some place.”

“Oh, that. Left behind by your old chaperone, no
doubt. I disposed of it.”

He straightened, shocked by her reply. “You did
what?”

“I didn’t see the need to keep it around. I do not
paint and you certainly have no use for it.”

Haverton held back what would have been a very loud
and harsh outburst. It wouldn’t do to let out his secret, especially to this
unfeeling dragon of a chaperone.

Catherine would have known and she would have never
taken it upon herself to decide what to keep and what to discard.

“Just trying to be of service, your lordship.”

“You’ve done quite enough already,” he replied
noncommittally. With that, she bowed and left.

Mrs. Gargoyle had thrown out his paints. Haverton
sunk into his chair, opened his sketchbook, and flipped through the pages. He
stopped when he came upon the sketch of Catherine he had done the night they
played chess and had their first kiss. It made him smile.

It seemed so long ago. Ages, in fact.

The memory of her sharp, playful cry when the
thorns on the rosebush snagged at her dress came back to him vividly. It was a
delightful sound. He missed the lilt of her laughter which filled the evenings.

Catherine … Haverton couldn’t stop thinking about
her. Everything he did reminded him of her.

He remembered how she loved the piano and how she
drove him half mad when she practiced Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” He
chuckled.

How Haverton had cursed Simon for giving her that
piece. How many times had he grimaced at those beginning notes? How he had
wished she would stop her practicing. How he had wished never to hear that
melody again. Now he’d give anything to hear those torturous notes.

He closed his eyes and focused. If he concentrated
hard enough, he could almost hear her playing. There was a certain way the
three rotating alto notes undulated as they floated down the hallway to his
study. Then the lonely sounding soprano melody, chiming its way to—

Wait a minute, that wasn’t his imagination. It was
music—real music.

Catherine—she had come back!

The Marquess pushed away from his desk and ran down
the long hall toward the drawing room. A million things rushed through his
mind. What he would say, how he would apologize, how he’d beg her to stay.
Whatever it took to keep her—

Haverton grasped the door frame of the large parlor
and slid to a stop. Breathing hard, he stared at the musician sitting at the
pianoforte.

Simon.

Simon lifted his fingers from the keyboard and
glanced at his brother. “I never realized it before, Robert, but it’s such a
sad piece.”

One chaperone was as good as another. That’s what
the Marquess kept telling himself as he readied for the Duke of Grafton’s
party. However, sitting across from Mrs. Goddard in the carriage wasn’t half as
pleasurable as sitting across from Catherine. He missed the stolen glances, the
shy smiles that passed between them in the dimness of the transport.

Simon was right, he had to go on with his life the
best he could. Haverton imagined that Catherine was doing the same, probably
very merrily, without him. He hadn’t planned on going out tonight. Earlier this
evening he couldn’t bear the thought of conversing with people or tolerating a
party. The next moment, he couldn’t face another evening at home alone, without
her. He dressed and a scant half hour later Haverton was on his way to Grafton
House.

Once inside he found his brother. “Is that your new
chaperone? The same one?” Simon peered over and around the guests to catch a
glimpse of her. “Heavens,” he cried.

“Yes, that’s Mrs. Goddard, Simon.” Haverton glanced
toward his new chaperone who seemed to fit in perfectly with the other
chaperones and dowagers in their corner. The women dressed in modest gowns of
subdued colors and wore lace caps. Catherine never could look a
dowd
, even in a drab-colored dress and severe bun.

“She’s an evil-looking creature isn’t she,” Simon
replied, not able to pull his gaze from the Medusa.

“Mother doesn’t think I’ll notice the difference.”

“How could you not notice? You may be slightly
oblivious, but you
ain’t
blind, Robert.”

“I am not oblivious. Mrs. Goddard—Mrs. Gargoyle
suits her better.”

Not only had she thrown away his paint box that
afternoon, both Maybury and Mrs.
Greenleigh
complained about his chaperone ordering the staff about as if she was the
mistress of the manor. That told him he wasn’t the only person who might call
her Mrs. Gargoyle behind her back. “One look at her and I’m put off my
breakfast.”

“She’s hardly a gargoyle.” Simon tilted his head
for a different perspective. “Although one might call her a bit Friday-faced,” Simon
turned back toward Haverton, “I am amazed you should notice though.”

“Her looks have nothing to do with it—it’s her
manner.” The truth of it was, she was not Catherine.

With this realization, Haverton began to doubt
whether he would ever see Catherine again. His mother would see to that. What
did he think he was doing here? Fleeing from his empty house wasn’t the answer.

He had no intention of pasting on a smile and
feigning politeness. He did not wish to put up with London society—kiss ladies’
hands and dance the night away. He wanted to go home.

Escaping the ballroom in search of a footman to
call for his carriage, Haverton heard his mother’s voice from the front door,
and then a softer voice. He was certain that it belonged to Catherine … or was
it merely wishful thinking on his part?

The Marquess backed to a wall and peered into the
foyer. His pulse raced. He hardly knew what to do. This was his chance, but how
was he to see her alone? How would he—then out stepped his mother.

“I’ll meet you in the ballroom, my dear. I’m just
going to have a word with our hostess.”

Haverton stepped behind a marble column and moved,
keeping his mother on the opposite side, keeping him from her line of sight.
Which left him alone with Catherine, if only for a moment. A moment would be
all he needed.

He waited for her to step into the hallway, where
they would be away from the blue and gold liveried footmen attending the door.

Haverton waited. His heart pounded so hard he
thought it would leap out of his chest. Feeling the dampness of his palms
despite his gloves, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

A minute more. A few more seconds.

Catherine stepped into the hallway, and he took an
unsteady step toward her.

“Catherine?”

Lady Darlington hid behind a pillar, suspecting
something
havey-cavey
going on when she spied Lord
Haverton doing the same.

The woman he called Catherine gasped and clutched
her throat, surprised by the Marquess’ summons. “What do you want?”

“I only want a moment—a chance to speak to you.” He
reached out for her with a slow and deliberate movement and took her by the
hand. She pulled back, clearly wanting no part of him. Yet she said nothing
more. He held her hand firm but not in a threatening manner.

Lady Darlington looked from Haverton to Catherine.
There was definitely something peculiar about the way he stared at her and the
way she returned his gaze. Something in their manner implied forbidden love.
But the Marquess? How could that be?

“Please, just a few minutes,” he pleaded. Never had
Lady Darlington heard such a tone from the Marquess of Haverton. He had always
been authoritative and commanding in every situation. She could never imagine
him begging any woman.

“No, I can’t … I shouldn’t,” Catherine glanced
toward the ballroom, “Her Grace is waiting for me.”

“She won’t mind a brief delay. I must speak to you.”

“No. There is nothing more to say and … please … I
must leave.” Again she attempted to pull free.

“As you wish.” He released her hand and she left
without a look back. Taking a long drawn breath, he slumped back against a
column and remained there for a few minutes before returning to the ballroom.

What had happened? Lady Darlington wondered who
was this Catherine to refuse Lord Haverton
. Then an idea
came to her.

Pulling Honoria from the ballroom as tactfully as
possible, Lady Darlington rushed her daughter into a small room and began
plucking the bows from the shoulders of her new gown.

“My dress! My dress!” Honoria cried but did not
stop her mother.

“Your gown is white but I don’t think it will
matter,” Lady Darlington decided, remembering Catherine’s as light peach.
Lifting the hem, she tore off the silk ribbons, simplifying the silhouette so
that she should appear more like Catherine.

Haverton would not come to Honoria but he would
come to Catherine. Surely Catherine could be played by her own daughter.
Therefore Honoria would be transformed into Catherine.

“Mama, what are you doing?” Honoria stood
motionless.

Lady Darlington sat at a desk, quickly penned a
note, and handed it to a footman for delivery.

“Come with me.” Lady Darlington headed toward the
side gardens, pulling her daughter behind her the entire way.

“You won’t ruin our chance with Haverton this time.”

“Lord Haverton, again?” she whined. “But Mama, he
frightens me.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Darlington gave Honoria’s
shoulders a shake, straightening her posture, and hopefully jarring some sense
into her dim-witted daughter. “This time you will remain silent. Not a word. Do
you understand me? Do not say a word, do not do anything.”

Honoria nodded.

“That’s right.” This time her plan would work, Lady
Darlington vowed. She planted Honoria in the perfect spot, where the Marquess
would see her yet not see who she was.

A few last-minute instructions: “Stay out of the
light. Don’t let him see your face. And above all, do not be a simpering miss
but a woman.”

Lady Darlington stepped into the shadows out of
sight. She would wait until they were in
each others’
arms and then she would have him.

After ordering his new chaperone to remain in the
ballroom, Haverton stepped into the side garden, the place where Catherine had
agreed to meet him after a change of heart. He promised himself to mind his
manners and keep his hands to himself. He had to convince her to return to
Moreland Manor.

Folding and refolding her note in his hands,
Haverton waited for Catherine’s arrival as patiently as he could manage. This
was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Yet when he thought of what he
should say, words failed him.

I’m sorry. Had I realized—I hadn’t meant to—No …
nothing seemed appropriate.

The sound of soft footsteps distracted him. He
caught the slight movement in the shadows. She was here.

Haverton cleared his throat. His stomach felt most
unwell but he had to continue. “I cannot thank you enough for reconsidering …”
he whispered to her.

She held her arms out wide. An invitation? He ought
not but he couldn’t find the strength to refuse. Stepping closer, he slipped
his arms around her.

At the same moment he drew her near, he knew this
woman was not Catherine. His arms didn’t fit around her the same, the scent of
her hair and skin were different. He made to move back, away from her.

She cried out, “I cannot do this!” tore out of his
arms and ran from the garden.

It had all happened so quickly but clearly he had
been mistaken. He hadn’t time to pose any questions before a second figure
appeared. She had arrived. Catherine. For surely this time it was her. “Is it
really you?”

She nodded.

He may have well been suspicious as the first young
lady went away screeching. Enough to alarm anyone, even the Marquess.

He pointed across the garden. “I’m sorry if you saw
that. I thought she was you.”

The sight of her outstretched arms beckoned him
near. She approached him intent on kissing him. He realized that this woman was
not Catherine either.

Haverton made to move away from her. “No, you’re
not her.”

“No, but I can be anyone you want me to be.”

“Celeste!” Haverton stepped back, breaking contact
at the sound of her voice.

“I’m sorry,
cher
.”
She smiled. “Seeing you out here alone … I simply could not resist.”

Gazing out the window of the ballroom, Catherine
had found him. Them … together … standing in the garden. Lord Haverton and his
acquaintance Mrs. Cummings-Albright. To Catherine she looked much more than
just a casual acquaintance.

He faced Catherine with Mrs. Cummings-Albright
between them. Catherine saw Lord Haverton’s every expression clearly. His
attention was focused on the beautiful woman in his arms. He pulled her into
his arms. The look in his eyes was soft but intense, the same way he had looked
at Catherine before he had kissed her. She couldn’t watch anymore.

Catherine felt tears beginning and turned away.

Haverton had caught Catherine’s reaction the moment
he had taken Celeste into his arms. Catherine’s wounded expression and the pain
in her eyes mirrored his own discomfort when he realized the mistake he had
made—but it was too late. He’d glimpsed her standing at the window and when he
looked back, she had gone.

“No,” he continued, moving away from Celeste. “This
is what neither of us wants.” Last year he courted her and she had wanted to
marry. He hadn’t been interested in taking that step with her.

Celeste smoothed her dress, readying herself to
rejoin the other guests. “I see we may have gotten a little ahead of ourselves.”
She smiled and caressed his cheek. “We are caught up in our old habits.”

“I suppose,” he murmured. The last thing he was
going to do was tell her the truth.

“Now that we’ve had our folly, shall we rejoin the
others?” Celeste left him for the ballroom.

Folly she called it. Who knows what Catherine
thought? Haverton stared back at the window. He would never forget the pain in
her eyes. And he would never forget that he was the one who put it there.

An unfeeling cad, that’s what he was.

Despicable.

Unacceptable.

He wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to him again.
It’s not what he wanted but he would completely understand. By the time he had
returned to the ballroom, Haverton had puzzled out that the note had been a
ruse. He didn’t care about
the who
and why of it right
now. All that mattered was Catherine hadn’t written the note. She had never
been involved.

And with this revelation, he wanted to, more than
ever, see her again. “Where is Mother, Simon?”

“Mother and Miss Hayward have left for the evening.”

“Left?” Then it was too late. He would have to come
up with another way to see her. Alone.

Draped over the leather winged-backed chairs some
two hours later in the study of Moreland Manor, Haverton and Simon gazed into
the fire.

“If a man were truly in love with a woman, he
should tell her. He shouldn’t keep it locked up inside.” Simon thumped on his
chest with his fist. “What if she never knows?”

How had Simon known exactly what to say? Somehow he
had known precisely what Haverton was feeling. “It’s not that a man shouldn’t
ignore a woman if he finds her agreeable … it’s not right …” Haverton added to
Simon’s discourse. “He might … she might … sometimes they cannot …”

“One can’t alter social conventions.” Simon
shrugged. “It’s just not done … surely anyone can understand that.”

Haverton nodded. “You’re quite right, anyone should
understand that propriety must be maintained.”

“But it doesn’t make the ache any easier to
tolerate.” Simon laid his hand over his heart.

“No, it doesn’t.” Haverton turned his head, looking
away from the fire, and regarded his brother. “What am I to do, then?”

Simon faced the Marquess. “You? What do you mean
you? Who are you talking about?”

“Why, Catherine, of course, who else?”

“Catherine?” Simon narrowed his eyes. “I thought
you were … what I mean to say is … I—” He cleared his throat. “Catherine … Miss
Hayward, I thought you were merely … of course we’re talking about Catherine.
Do you love her, then?”

“Love?” Haverton stared back into the fire. It
didn’t hold the answer. “I hardly think I would go that far.”

“From what I hear you can’t manage another single
day without her.” Simon’s voice sounded calm, reasonable, and sympathetic.

“Did I say that?” Haverton hadn’t remembered
uttering those precise words but that was what he had been thinking.

“That’s what I heard.”

“I don’t believe … well, one ought to think … dash
it, Simon, I do not know.” Haverton rubbed his eyes and aching forehead. He
hadn’t been sleeping well and he hadn’t been able to think clearly or
concentrate.

Someone cleared their throat, politely interrupting
the brothers.

“What is it, Maybury?”

“This has just been delivered, my lord.”

Haverton gestured for his butler to advance.
Maybury stepped forward and bent toward Simon, proffering a missive on a silver
salver.

Simon straightened in shock. “For me?”

“Yes, my lord.” Maybury retreated.

“Who is it from?” Haverton asked.

“Mother.”

“Mother? What a relief.” It seemed this evening was
full of surprises. A summons from his mother would be the topper to one of the
worst days in his life.

“A relief? Do you realize a summons at this time of
night could be disastrous?” Simon worked the parchment open.

“Exactly. The message is addressed to you not me.”
Haverton was very thankful.

“Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in what
she’s up to?” He began to read. “You must know that there’s always something—”
Reaching the end, Simon folded the letter and tapped it in his palm then stood
to leave. “I’d best be off to see her then.”

After Simon left, it occurred to Haverton that if
Simon was busy with their
mother, that
would leave
Catherine alone. He straightened in his chair.

If he were to … no, he couldn’t do that.

Haverton stood. But it would be the only place
where he knew he would see her. She had to sleep sometime, and if he was
waiting in her room, she would have to talk to him.

He strode to his desk. Was he in love with
Catherine? He hadn’t really thought about it before Simon had posed the
question.

All he knew was that he didn’t just want Catherine
back as his chaperone. He wanted her back under his roof, he wanted to hold her
in his arms. He wanted to see her smile, hear her voice, and her laughter. He
admitted to himself during his final deliberation that if the complete truth be
known, he would have to confess that he wanted her with him forever.

Simon had been correct. Haverton did not want to
live another day without Catherine in his life. If it meant marriage, then wed
her he would, despite his mother’s protests. He had no doubt he would need to
go to battle with his mother to marry the woman he loved. This is what he
wanted more than anything, but first he needed to convince Catherine.

The Duchess of Waverly answered the knock at the
front door of Waverly Hall.

“Mother?” Simon stepped inside and closed the door.
“Where’s Crawford?”