Lord Romney's Exquisite Widow (8 page)

Her gaze snapped to his on the word "loved," and he hastened to explain. "I meant you, of course. You loved."

Suddenly, she broke free of his gaze and began to talk to the kitten. "You are a bundle of fuzzlelumps, are you not?" She nuzzled her nose into his fur and then sighed. "I cannot accept such a gift as this. Though I have loved precious felines, it would not be correct if I took this one from you."

In that moment, it felt as though the floor were slipping out from beneath him. "Miss Poleton, please, I beg of you."

She wrapped the kitten in her arms and looked down at it. "I am no longer that girl, George. I am soiled and unwanted now. It is time we both moved past such nonsense and accepted the truth. Your only real joy will be with Miss Hemming, or any other young miss who catches your fancy."

He did not know what to do with such a statement. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he said gently, "Nay, Catherine. Please do not think such things of yourself. I know it is my fault you believe this, and I cannot think of how best to repair the damage I have caused."

She gave a short laugh and then turned around and walked to the little sofa closest. "You are welcome to have a seat, Lord Hamson, if you would like."

He followed her example and sat upon a matching sofa across the way. "So I am back to Lord Hamson now, am I?"

Her eyes were full of pain as they connected with his. "Forgive me, but I feel it is best."

"I ask that you accept the kitten nonetheless. He will be of no use to me, and I hope he will alleviate some of the pain I have initiated in you. We were friends at one time. If I had one hope, it would be that we could grow into easy friends again. However, as you say, we have both altered—I have not altered for the better, though I have hope to. I cannot allow my selfishness to dictate over the souls of those I care for. Had you been turned out on the streets, I would be a fool to think less of you. My own arrogance is more at fault than anything you could do wrong. That sweet soul is what I connected with four years ago—not your actions or life, but you, my dear."

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "You do not understand the half of it, George."

He did not point out the use of his Christian name again lest she be reminded of her belief against using it. "Then please help me understand. Are you implying that others have been discourteous to you as well?"

"No, not as directly as you have."

He winced.

"Yet, mayhap I ought to be indebted to know what it is others are thinking behind their masked smiles."

"No, you are mistaken. Not everyone is as cruel as society would have you believe. Many people are quite content to get to know a person despite the blathering, and interact solely on what has been presented to them at the moment."

"Are you speaking of your friend Lord Atten?" She raised her head to look at him.

"Yes, precisely." He cleared his throat. "And how was your drive together?"

"Which one?" she asked with a smug little smile. "I have been driving with him twice to date, and tomorrow, we shall go out again."

"Tomorrow? For a third time?" His collar suddenly felt constraining. "How pleasant for you. I have known him for years. He is a capital fellow."

"Yes, he is very gentlemanly. He succeeds in talking enough to keep me occupied as well."

Did he note a trace of disdain? "A little too talkative, perhaps?"

She grinned and then chuckled. "Lord Atten is nice, though I often wonder if he is endeavoring to woo me, or merely using the justification to call upon me as a way to break up the monotony of the day."

"And who would not aspire to devote their day to you? I am certain he must feel something more than tedium, or he would not invest so much time."

"Do you?"

"Yes, though it pains me to acknowledge such things."

"I see no reason why, for the most of his conversations dwell wholly about you. In fact, we rarely speak of anything else. It has made me more curious to see how much you are promising him to act in your favor."

In sudden shock, he asked, "My favor? Me? Are you certain Lord Atten has been speaking of me this whole time? Whyever would he do such a thing? And no, I do not have some horrid blackmail to hang over his head. I had no notion he would take a pretty girl for a drive and then prattle on about a friend instead of himself."

She lifted one shoulder and cooed to the kitten for a bit. "Mayhap it is like I said—he is bored, and using me as an escape."

Several things did not sit well with this conversation, but mostly, it was an undeniable impression of sadness that seemed to overwhelm the tone of their meeting. And it was not only his sadness, but clearly Lady Romney's as well. He could not help but ask, "What are you are not speaking of? Why are you hinting at melancholy? Are you well?"

She petted the kitten for some time before answering, "No. I am afraid I am not well."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

Every fiber of George's being shouted at him to tread cautiously. In his experience, ladies rarely admitted to being unwell, and naturally would only tell a true friend what was ailing them. "Would you like to speak of it?" he asked softly.

"No." She sighed. "Perhaps. But not comfortably, not really at all. I wish to curl away in the library and read a book and forget all about everything around me."

He knew exactly how she felt. Some days were meant to be spent curled up away from the world. Then you had less of an opportunity to damage those you loved. "Do you feel this way often? Is it grief?"

"Yes, ironically, though not the grief you suppose it to be."

"What do you mean?" George held his breath. Here it was—the precipice of decision placed before them. Would she open up and share her fears, or laugh them off and change the conversation to safer subjects?

She settled the kitten into her lap and allowed one finger to trace gently from its ear, down its back, and up to its ear again. The mesmerizing motion captured them both until she finally broke the silence. "I learned a lot whilst I was married."

"Did you?" he pried when it seemed she would not continue.

"Yes." He could not see her face as much as he would like—her focus was still upon the cat—but he wondered if he saw the slight beginnings of a frown on her lips. "I learned mostly that it was a very good thing that I married an older gentleman."

"And why is that?"

"Because I was not fit for anything else."

He waited a little longer before breaking the silence. "Catherine?" Whatever could she mean?

Her mouth was most definitely turned down as she continued to talk, this time looking away from the kitten and focusing on an object to the left. Her sweet profile in brave agony pained him greatly. He could see that each word she spoke tore at her like a savage beast. "I was not as accomplished as I thought I was, and marriage was quick to remind me of that. I have many faults, many inconsistencies—indeed, I was not worthy of keeping a house or planning a party. My stitches were extremely sloppy in my sewing, my voice not as pleasing as one could hope, and my stature was too small, too slight. My brain was too dull for proper conversation, and my features were my only redeeming quality.”

What nonsense was she speaking of?  Sloppy stitches?  Stature? Voice? Who cared about those things? What had this to do with marriage?

“I was not to speak during family dinners, or participate in the menu, as I was not privy to or accustomed to my husband's ways. My piano playing was dismal, and I was told every night to play and then halted during the midst of my song to be berated over the choice of music, the timing, and the missed notes from frazzled, nervous fingers.

"My bearing was not elegant, my speech not so refined, and my person as a whole so fully lacking in any social graces as to be an upset and discredit to my husband."

His hand clenched the side of the sofa, desperate to understand what this beautiful, elegant woman was attempting to tell him.  He was not willing to break the spell now that she was sharing fully.  "How did you hear of such things? Were they from your husband?"

"Oh, yes. In a continual lamenting. I was told in every way, in every deed, how much I lacked from what the late Lady Romney had once been." And then the sharpest of realities came to be as she looked directly at him, one eyebrow rising as if to challenge him. “Ironically, to fully share with you what a horrid wife I made, Lord Hamson, you must understand fully that I was never—uh, how did you graciously put it?—soiled, so to speak."

For a full minute, he could not grasp what she was about. Then, as her stare became more settled, challenging him to understand, realization dawned. Great heavens. The foolish cur never touched her, either! How could that be? Hamson closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the reality of everything she had said settling over him. The poor, poor girl. To take such life and joy and snuff it out—how could the infernal man not see her for who she was, this angel before him?

George removed himself from his seat and knelt down beside the lady, taking her two small hands and placing them into one of his. His gaze caught hers as his free hand came up to brush aside the wayward curls upon her brow. They were face-to-face, merely centimeters apart.

"Whatever are you about, George?" she asked, concern on her features.

"Hush, my dear," he said as he cupped her chin. "I am going to kiss you."

She inhaled sharply and went to move away, but his soft words halted her.

"If I understand correctly, it will be the first real kiss your lips have ever tasted."

"George." It was half plea, half desperation.

"No, my dear. I may have wounded you, but I held your heart the longest, as you have held mine. This is the kiss I should have stolen four years ago, sweetling. Forgive me for being so tardy, but I am here now, and ready to stake my claim."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

Catherine wiggled one hand free and placed it between Lord Hamson's lips and her own. He kissed her palm and then pulled away. His shocked look would have made her chuckle if the whole situation were not so very sad. "Though I thank you for the honor, you do not want to kiss me."

"I am fairly certain I know my own mind, Lady Romney, and I have most definitely wanted to kiss you for these four years at least."

"Certainly not while I was married."

He slowly shook his head. "You
are
an innocent if you believe that. A man's heart does not change simply because the lady he cares for has married another."

This was all nonsense. "You misunderstand my meaning. You truly do not want to kiss me. You would rather kiss the
idea
of me, but not me."

"Are you saying this because you were told how very much you were lacking?"

She stood up, brushed past him, and then walked to the center of the floor and sat down. Her gray skirts billowed around her as she allowed the now-wiggling kitten to escape her clutches and explore the blue carpet beneath them. "Lord Hamson, let us not contend with one another over this. I shall merely say that my feelings are not biased because I was told something, but because I know them to be true." A surprised giggle released as the rambunctious sprite found one of the long silk ribbons upon her dress and began to bat at it. "You do believe you are a mighty hunter, do you not, little one?"

George did not remain in his position longer. Instead, she found his fine Hessian boots fairly close to her before she looked up and noted his grim countenance.

"I cannot be happy with this," he said.

"With what, my lord?" She gave him a coy look. "Are you still upset that I would not let you kiss me?"

He knelt down, and she swallowed her next saucy reply.

"You are not happy because you believe a pile of falsehoods about yourself. I am not happy because I allowed—for a brief moment—my frustrations to add to the great pile of self-doubt you carry. I am a fiend, my lady, and I will prove to you I am the monster, not you."

"You cannot expect a simple pansy to believe she is a rose, sir."

"Nay, I would never dream it, for the pansy is a noble, vibrant flower in her own right. A blossom that blooms at the end of chilly snow and gives hope to all of us that spring is almost here." His gaze tugged at hers, and his dimple played peekaboo with her heart again. "However, sweetling, you are not a pansy, nor are you a simple rose. Nay, my dear, you are the beautiful peony, the queen of all flowers, whose petals are the largest and most enchanting of all."

How could he have known? "I have always loved peonies."

"As have I, and they have often reminded me of you."

She looked down at the kitten and then back up at him. "They are the symbol of luck and good fortune and happy marriages."

"Are they?" He grinned. "That is something I did not know, yet I can see how effortlessly that fits with you."

"What?" She laughed just as the kitten bounded onto her lap and then back off again. "I only expressed to you the meaning so you would apprehend how much they are contrary to me. Goodness!"

He sat down and crossed his legs under him. "No, you shall not sway me. Indeed, I have even more hope for my cause. You most certainly are lucky. Meeting you stopped me before I made a nodcock of myself and wedded a woman I did not love."

Catherine attempted to keep some decorum between them. It would not do to have such a lovesick sop pining for her in the upstairs parlor—though her heart beat wildly once more and belied her words. "Kindly remember that I am not yours, nor am I likely ever to be. You are a fiend to insinuate so."

"A fiend, am I?" He chuckled, that delicious dimple causing all sorts of havoc. "If I am a fiend, what does that make you? A heart-stealing villainess? A cruel temptress?"

She pretended to think about it for a moment. "Perhaps. I am a merry widow, after all. Do you expect me to be anything else?"