Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (18 page)

Deverill looked extremely annoyed with her, and Catherine shuddered as she wondered what he might do. It was all very well and good to assure Freddy that she would be safe alone with him, but with that expression on his face, she wasn’t sure of anything. “Considering my involvement, it does concern me and we will sit here until you realize that.”

Catherine stared at him in amazement. “I cannot believe, my lord, that you don’t have more pressing business somewhere else.”

“Other business, certainly. More pressing?” He shook his head dismissively. “I assure you, Catherine, that there is nothing more important than this conversation.”

Her hackles up, Catherine folded her arms in front of her and stubbornly refused to confide. Several minutes into the standoff, she realized he would be true to his word and barked, “Fine. It is nothing significant, I assure you. Merely a trifle. I am dressed like this in the company of my brother because I wanted to learn how to play faro. There,” she said like a petulant child, “may I go now?”

“Not yet. I figured that much out for myself. Before you leave, you must first explain
why
you wanted to learn faro.” He leaned back against the cushion, seemingly content to wait as long as necessary.

Catherine considered the obstinate set of his chin and wondered how she could have ever thought him attractive. He was too stubborn to be handsome. “It seemed to me that if my future is tied up in faro the only sensible thing I could do—and I have behaved sensibly this evening, despite what you think—was become acquainted with the game.”

“Your father?” he asked gently.

She wasn’t surprised that he knew—amongst the
ton,
her father’s gaming debts were common knowledge—but she was still unwilling to discuss the matter with him. “Please do not concern yourself with it, Deverill. It is a trifle, I assure you.” She reached for the door, deciding it was time she left. The quarters in the carriage were a little too close for her peace of mind. She needed to get away from Deverill. “Now, if that is all, I shall be going.”

She went to open the latch, but Deverill forestalled her. With one hand he reached over and gently pulled her away from the door; with the other, he raised her chin until her eyes met his. In a husky voice she had never heard before, he whispered. “There’s one more thing.” Then he slowly lowered his lips to hers and kissed her gently.

Catherine, who saw him draw closer, couldn’t figure out what was happening until his lips made contact with hers. Then she got it. Then she quite understood. The kiss was gentle and sweet and everything that Catherine, having never kissed a man before, thought a kiss should be. She closed her eyes and leaned into Deverill, who wrapped his arms around her.

How long the kiss lasted, Catherine didn’t know. Time seemed to stop for a while, which she didn’t mind at all. It was only when Deverill growled softly and increased the pressure on her lips that she became aware of the impropriety of the situation and her own indifference to it. She pulled away immediately, horrified by her passionate response. She had in a matter of moments been quite thoroughly and entirely swept away by a tide of feeling.

“My lord Deverill,” she gasped, hoping the shock she felt would also cover her own culpability. “How dare you! And after assuring my brother that you would be the perfect gentleman.”

“I did nothing of the sort. In fact, it was you who assured him.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Let this stand as another example of your rash behavior.”

Catherine moved her mouth several times but nothing came out. She was too amazed by his impertinence. “M-my r-rash behavior,” she finally stammered. “Why, I want to—” She didn’t know what she wanted to do, but she balled up her fists and waved them at him just in case something came to mind. She couldn’t remember ever being this angry before, not even when she found out her mother was selling commissions in the king’s army. Catherine realized she needed to get a grip on herself if she wanted to make a dignified exit, so she closed her eyes and counted to ten slowly. When she opened them again, her heartbeat had slowed somewhat, but Deverill still had that satisfied grin on his face, which overturned all her good work. She got angry again. “Lord Deverill, your behavior has been reprehensible and if I never see you again it would be far, far too soon.” She put her hand on the door and opened it. The cool night air touched her face. “Good night and goodbye.”

He laughed and followed her out. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Catherine groaned and tried to remember that she was a gently bred lady. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

“You’re welcome, of course, but I didn’t mean that,” he said as he walked her to the door. He rapped on it and seconds before Caruthers came to answer he said, “Our waltz at Almack’s tomorrow night. I am greatly looking forward to it.” With that he bowed and left, and she went inside, wondering how she would explain her bizarre outfit to the butler.

CHAPTER EIGHT

By the time
Betsy came to help her dress for Almack’s the next day, Catherine had already been through a violent range of emotions and was so exhausted that the thought of going to the assembly rooms and seeing the marquess made her want to hide under the bedcovers for the rest of her life.

At first she had been angry. How dare he think he could treat her like that, like an insignificant bit o’ muslin! He was but a confirmed rake, for who else would mistreat her so? Harassing her physically had certainly not been in his original agreement with Lady Courtland. He was to court her and show interest in her, not try to seduce her. It was insupportable that her mother’s friend had made her vulnerable to evil machinations such as these. Despite her advanced age, she was an inexperienced miss and could not begin to fathom the feelings Deverill aroused in her. The kiss had made her angry, yes, but it also made her head light and her heart pound and her blood rush. She had never imagined in all her wildest daydreams that anything, let alone a kiss, could be so powerful. Yet as giddy as it had made her feel, it saddened her as well, for she knew the experience to be a rare, wonderful thing. What if she never felt this way again? What if Deverill was the only man who could make her experience these sensations?

The idea was too terrible to contemplate.

It was a good thing she knew of his compact with Lady Courtland. She could only imagine how deeply embroiled her heart would be now if she were in complete ignorance of his game. As it was, the organ was more than a little bruised.

I must put an end to this, she thought, and the very idea of doing so made her Friday-faced. No matter what careless chatter her mother directed at her during nuncheon, she could not reciprocate. Her manner was so lifeless, she reminded herself of Evelyn, a prospect so troubling she decided to remedy her situation immediately by finding a new beau.

She began by taking out a sheet of paper and listing men she had recently met along with their strong points. The first name she wrote down was Lord Constantine. She recalled talking with him at Lady Georgina’s rout. Since he had made her laugh, she wrote “funny” next to his name. She tried to think of other characteristics about him that she admired but nothing came to mind save his eye-catching pink topcoat. Determined to be positive in her outlook, she added “shopping” next to his name and thought they could purchase pink clothes together, for wasn’t that what a happy marriage was made of: mutual interests?

Next on the list, she put Mr. Robert Radnor, a gentleman she had met while riding in Hyde Park with Pearson. He had even teeth, as she did—there, a point in common!—and freckles along the side of his nose. She tried to recall what they talked about but drew a blank, which was disappointing. Nevertheless, they shared excellent teeth and could no doubt form a strong bond over good dental hygiene.

She went on in this manner for forty-five minutes, and when she was finished, she had a long list of names but few genuine prospects. As nice as the men she had met of late were, few excited her interest or held her attention. In fact, all of them seemed fairly dull and faceless in comparison with Deverill.

But no! She could not compare them with Deverill. To make him the standard against which she measured other men would not be fair to them or to her.

Frustrated, Catherine tore up her list and started writing another one. She was determined this time to be more open-minded and less ridiculous.

And she wouldn’t think of Deverill one single time.

During the carriage ride to Almack’s, Catherine marveled at Evelyn’s high spirits. Her excitement over the prospect of Almack’s overcame her ill will toward her sister. She prattled on, discussing gloves, hats, shoes and ribbons, completely unconcerned by Catherine’s half-hearted replies.

As they pulled onto King Street, Catherine’s stomach did a flip at the thought of seeing Deverill again. He must not know, she thought, how much that kiss disturbed her. He was an accomplished flirt, and she would treat him as such by keeping the conversation light and trivial.

Catherine’s resolve was firm and as she walked into Almack’s there was a pleasant smile plastered on her face. She would have a good time tonight even if it killed her. A swift glance around the room confirmed it: He had not yet arrived. Catherine let out a sigh of relief. Despite her resolve, she was terribly nervous. She tried to still her jittering hands with little success and wondered if she should seek out lemonade as a distraction. From afar, she watched her mother and Evelyn do the pretty with Lady Jersey.

On her own, Catherine surveyed the room, looking for a friendly—or at least familiar—face. Unable to find Gerard Pearson, her gaze settled on Marcus Lindsey, the Earl of Winter, a man she had been introduced to at Lady Georgina’s rout. Despite the fact that he was standing alone and looking dangerously bored with the company, Catherine resolved to flirt with him. But first she had to think of a topic about which they could talk. She tried to recall what they had discussed last time. The theater, wasn’t it?

Taking a deep breath, she threw back her shoulders and approached the gentleman with a nervous smile on her lips. “Lord Winter,” she said, “how lovely to see you again.”

He turned, looked at her quizzically—Catherine tensed for the moment when he disavowed all knowledge of her—and smiled in return. “Good evening, Miss Fellingham.”

The relief she felt at being remembered was almost overwhelming, and she felt her smile widen as the tension left her shoulders. “I was just reading in the dailies a review of
Hamlet
. Have you seen Kean’s performance?”

Lord Winter had not only seen Kean perform but also had so many thoughts on the subject that he rambled on for more than ten minutes. When the band began playing up a minuet a few minutes later, she was genuinely pleased to join him on the dance floor.

Feeling satisfied with herself, Catherine decided her pluck deserved a reward so she went in search of the refreshments table. She found it with little trouble and contemplated the lemonade, which looked weak and warm. As she stared at it for several seconds, her euphoria began to wane and she realized that Deverill would be arriving soon. What should she say to him when he did? How should she act? Should she be abrupt? Stilted? Bored? Polite? Effusive? What would be the best guise to mask her disappointment?

“It’s really not as bad as all that,” said a woman next to her.

Catherine, catapulted out of her introspection by this intrusion, turned white and jumped from the shock. How could this woman know what she was thinking? Was she a friend of Deverill’s or Lady Courtland’s? Had they been talking about her? And, damn it, it
was
as bad as all that.

“I’ve had it before,” the dark-haired woman in a high-waisted blue gown explained. “The bizarre thing is that while you can barely taste the lemons at all, the concoction is oddly thick.” She reached for the ladle and poured some of the drink into a glass to demonstrate. “See how it glops down in that strange way like gelatin?” Shrugging, she handed Catherine the lemonade. “But it has never caused anyone to expire so it really isn’t too horrible.” Thus saying, the woman filled a second glass, took a sip and made a face. “But perhaps I spoke too soon. I am suddenly feeling faint.”

Catherine laughed, determined to put aside her problems for the moment and be social. “Thank you. I see what you mean by oddly thick. Perhaps I shall pass on the so-called refreshments for now.” She placed the glass down on the table.

“Good thinking,” said the other woman, abandoning the lemonade as well. “If you are going to be taking advice from me, perhaps we should be introduced. I’m Clarise Menton.”

“Hello. I’m Catherine Fellingham,” she said, charmed by Miss Menton’s easy manner. “This is my first time here, and I appreciate the advice. Please feel free to share any other tips you have.”

The other woman laughed happily. “Jolly good. I knew when I saw you staring at the lemonade in horrid fright that we would get along, and now I get to advise you in all manner of Almack’s things. I’ve always wanted to be a mentor. Let us find some chairs and have a proper coze. I always trust anyone who distrusts the lemonade,” she said, explaining her system of judgment.

Catherine followed Clarise, and the two of them sat down near the dowagers. She was still anxious about Deverill but was prodigiously pleased to have made a friend. Of course, she didn’t know Miss Menton very well, but there was something about her that she liked instantly. Perhaps it was her ready smile and her easy manner. She had large blue eyes that stood out in startling contrast to her milky white skin and jet-black hair, but she didn’t have any of the intimidating qualities that Catherine had often seen in other beautiful women. For one thing, she seemed completely unaffected by her appearance. For another, she appeared genuinely interested in other people. This surprised Catherine because in her experience, beautiful people were interested in only themselves.