To Love A Lord of London (Wardington Park; Raptures of Royalty) (12 page)

She spun back around, finding him even closer to her. The scent invaded her. She placed a hand on his chest to keep the distance and immediately wished she hadn’t. His chest, so solid and warm—she could feel how well built he was through the fabric of his shirt. “Drew...”

He pressed closer. He was so much stronger than her. So much taller. More powerful. She loved it. She loved him. He bent his head and took her mouth with his own, forcing her back against the door, taking her lips possessively. He owned her, and he knew it. When he pulled back, he was breathing hard and asked, “Why?” He pleaded. His eyes still closed.

C
atherine felt
tears come to her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, even as her arms went around his neck. She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. They’d had this conversation before. “It didn’t matter, Drew. It was only a kiss.”

He opened his eyes, his green eyes darker than ever. “It was more than a kiss. Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

His fist connected with the door over her head, his anger coming quickly. “Why’d you kiss him, Catherine?”

She tightened her arms around him, as if she could hold him to her. “I was upset. It was foolish. It was a long time ago, Andrew. Please, let it go.” Then she threw herself at him, holding him near, running her hands through his hair, inhaling his essence, trying as she might to fold him into herself.

“
C
at
.” Andrew broke her hold, her tears on his cheek. He frowned, “I can’t.”

She shook her head and slid away from him, maneuvering around him to get further into the room. “Why did you kiss me?” She didn’t look at him.

He was so quiet that Catherine almost turned around to see if he was still there.

Then he spoke, “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t want to hear he was sorry. “So, you’re not going to marry me.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Her hand found the edge of a table, and she used it to stay upright. Still, she swayed, and when she heard him coming near, she lifted her hand to make him stop. “We can’t keep doing this.” The words hurt her to say. They weren’t the words she’d wanted to speak, yet she knew that Andrew would never say the words she needed to hear. I love you. I need you. I can’t live without you.

A
ndrew spoke
, “It won’t happen again.”

Catherine closed her eyes and tried to breathe, sure she was ready to pass out. Andrew. Her first and only love. For years, she’d lived by his promise—that he would marry her if no other man did so by the age of twenty-five, but that was not to be. Her eyes went to her hands, following the veins that ran through them. She was getting older. She couldn’t wait for him any longer. She spun and asked the question she’d asked him years ago, “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

Andrew’s dark green eyes held her gaze for a long moment. “No.”

And like that, Catherine felt a combination of peace and pain. It was final. A more bitter ending had never come, but at least it was done.

She straightened. “Goodbye, Andrew,” she whispered and headed from the room.

C
atherine’s head
popped up when she heard the screech on the other side of her room. It was Jane’s voice. There was joy in it, and as the noise drew closer, she hoped that it would fade away as Jane moved past her door and toward her own.

A
fter the events
of the previous night, more than ever, Catherine simply wished to be alone and try to figure out who she was now. Who would she become? For years, she’d assumed it would be Marchioness of Clariant. She’d dreamt of nothing but being Andrew’s wife, especially during the years that they’d been together, unofficially courting while he’d been away at Oxford. They’d written letters to one another while spending every moment together whenever he returned home.

H
olding
her place in her book with her finger, Catherine waited as the noise drew closer and closer, and then stopped. Her door burst open, and Jane stood there, grinning like a child, holding a small piece of paper in her hand. And then she screeched again.

Catherine set her open book on the settee in her room and covered her ears.

J
ane ran toward her
, crossing the pale pink room in lightning speed. She pushed Catherine’s book onto the floor before taking the seat next to her sister. Catherine geared herself up to protest the action when Jane spoke, “Lady Cartridge writes to you.”

Catherine opened her mouth, “What?”

Jane was grinning so widely that her light brown eyes were hard to see. “You’ve a letter from the Cartridge house.” She held up the letter.

Catherine glanced at the note and felt her heartbeat take off at a new speed. She took the letter from Jane’s hand and read the note. The rough paper caused her fingers to tremble. Why would a letter from the Cartridge house cause such anxiety? “Is it the invite to the party?”

Jane shook her head. Not even dressed for the day, her long rich brown hair fell in waves around her small frame. “The invite came weeks ago. This is something else.”

Catherine wished to wait no more and opened it. She read the contents and scrambled from the seat when she was done. She covered her mouth, not believing what it said.

J
ane picked
it up from the ground, read it, and screeched again, “I knew it! I knew it!”

“What’s all this noise about?” Lucy Croftman walked into the room, her face stern. “Have I not taught you two anything? A lady is to be seen and not heard.” So fixated on getting her daughters married, Lucy was a nightmare of a mother at times. Since the day the girls had gotten their first invite to society three years ago, Lucy had been thrilled at the opportunity to marry her daughters off to men with titles. Their family was simply land gentry, but since the war, the Croftman money had made them prime candidates for marriage to the upper crest of London.

Jane turned to Lucy, “Catherine’s been invited to the Ladies’ Lounge.”

Lucy looked stunned and turned to Catherine, her hand over her chest. “My goodness.” She was at their side at once, reading the letter for herself. “I thought you had to be married to a peer to get one of those.”

Catherine did as well. The Ladies’ Lounge was a special group of countesses, duchesses, marquesses, and ladies—all married to the most powerful men in Europe. To get in was an honor.

L
ucy touched her hair
. “It’s tonight. We’ll have to get ready quickly. I—”

Jane cut in, “We’re not invited. Only Cat.”

Their mother frowned, “What?” She read the paper again, flipping it this way and that. “Well, of course we are. The dowager simply forgot to writer our names. She couldn’t expect for me to send my daughter without a proper chaperone.”

“She does.” It was the first time Catherine had spoken since her mother’s arrival. She took the letter then, giving her mother a hard look. “I will go alone.” She would not let her mother ruin this experience for her. So often, women were excluded from doing most activities for fear that they’d be shunned by society, but no one defied Lady Cartridge. Not only that, Catherine aspired to be her. Beautiful. Captivating. Powerful. “I’ll go alone.”

S
he tried
to make sure her feet made little noise as she walked across the carpeted hall. She could hear the laughter coming from deep inside the maroon room. Everything was a deep red and Catherine couldn’t remember ever seeing this room in the Cartridge townhouse before. Usually, Lady Cartridge left her home open and gave her guests free rein of the rooms, excluding the private bedchambers, but here sat a dark and lovely room that Catherine had not seen. She turned a corner, and her lips parted in surprise.

I
t was a game room
.

The women stood around, holding their cues, or taking shots by billiard tables. A few sat around tables, cards in their hands, discreet determination on their faces. Still, some just stood around in groups, talking politics. They were playing a man’s game, and there was no man around to stop them. This was heaven.

The dowager came up to Catherine, “Welcome to the Ladies’ Lounge.”

Catherine tried not to stare at the fifty or so women present, but if someone had asked her to guess who was on the invite list, most of the women here would not be on it.

There was Lady Garretts, a woman known for her silence in all things. Married to the Earl of Hatcher, she’d shunned Catherine’s behavior on more than one occasion.

Cartridge took Catherine’s elbow and began to escort her around the room, introducing her to women, some of them she already knew.

A stern-faced Lady Hensman sat at one of the tables and asked Cartridge, “Abigail, what’s she doing here?”

The rest of the table looked up at Catherine, seeming to want an answer to the same question.

C
artridge replied
, “Oh, Sally, I simply couldn’t wait any longer to have such a beautiful mind grace this room.”

Catherine blushed.

The duchess grunted, “Well, from what I heard at the party last night, little miss Catherine isn’t going to marry the Marquess of Clariant, are you?”

No one seemed surprised that the duchess would ask such a question. After all, everyone knew that Sally only curbed her tongue when her husband was present.

Catherine spoke honestly, though it felt like a part of her soul had been yanked from her chest along with the confession. “No, I’m not.” It was the first time she’d spoken the words aloud. And though she’d accepted it the previous night, it still hurt to admit it in public. While she and Andrew had never courted publicly, according to society, they’d been engaged, and the untitled party was always to blame for the end of an engagement. After all, Andrew was a Marquess and in line for dukedom. Catherine, though wealthy, was simply a land gentry’s daughter.

W
hen she glanced
around the women who surrounded her, she saw pity in a few eyes, though most of the women looked partly pleased with the news—especially if they had an unmarried daughter. With Catherine out of the way, it made their chances all the better.

Lady Hatchet, a mother of two unmarried, yet still very young daughters, spoke gently, “You loved him, did you not?” Her pale eyes held no emotion.

Catherine looked around at the women before her, seeing some interest, but she didn’t feel as though she owed these women her secrets. She didn’t feel as though she owed anyone an explanation.

Then Sally spoke again, “Well, maybe you lucked out, dear girl. Lord knows I wait anxiously to bury my own duke.”

C
atherine gasped
while the women around her laughed. That the Duchess of Hensman had spoken so frankly about her husband—let alone addressing him by his first name in public—had been so unexpected. Yet, it seemed as though the other women had heard similar comments before.

“We don't blame you,” the dowager replied. Everyone knew about the duke’s prowls. He was shameful. Worse even. “My late husband wasn’t much better.”

“Truly?” Catherine stunned herself with the question. Never had she heard a bad thing said about the late Duke of Cartridge. Neither had she ever been aware that the dowager had suffered in that way. In her forties, she was stunning. Catherine couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d looked during her first season.

The dowager nodded, a few of the other women nodding as well. It seemed the Ladies’ Lounge was a place that flowed with as many secrets as the secret of itself.

Lady Hatchet spoke again, her pale, pale eyes fixed on hers. “So, was it love?” she asked again.

Catherine looked around the room. Was this her reason for being here? To share feelings? To speak of things she hadn’t even told her own mother? Her sister even? Could she trust these women? Her shoulders drooped. At this point, she was simply tired of keeping it to herself. “It was.”

“But it’s not now?” another asked.

A
chair was brought
to Catherine, and she sunk into it, feeling the weight of her feelings surface. Tears came to her eyes, and she tried to blink them away, but they wouldn’t stop. They fell, and then her voice rose amid a room of women she’d never imagined confiding in, “Apparently not.” And then she really began to cry.

A handkerchief was brought for her to use, and then there were arms around her and soft whispers of encouragement. Some of that warmth came even from the mothers whose daughters would no doubt seek out Andrew for marriage purposes at the next ball.

Catherine cried and wept until she simply couldn’t anymore.

That was when the dowager finally said, “Well, let this be the last we waste our tears on a man who doesn’t appreciate what we have to offer.”

C
atherine turned
to look at her and saw that tears painted her own cheeks, along with a few others. Women. Coming together. Sharing the burdens of love lost. Heartache. There was so much strength in the room that Catherine began to feel it reach herself. She silently nodded her head. Yes, she was ready to move past Andrew. She was ready to get on with her life.

Sally let out a breath. Her dry eyes trained on Catherine. She had never been one for sympathy. “Now that that’s over, let’s talk about the reason you don’t have any other suitors.”

Catherine lifted a brow and felt anger slip into her muscles, taking hold of her tongue, as it so often did. “Who are you to tell me what is wrong with me? Isn’t your daughter on her second season?”

Everyone turned to look at Sally, who already had a finger pointed in Catherine’s direction. “That’s it. Right there.”

“
W
hat
?” Catherine asked.

“Your mouth. It’s dreadful. Shameful, really.” Then she looked away and spoke under her breath, “But, what else would one expect from landed gentry.

Catherine opened her mouth again, really to tear the duchess to spreads, but stopped when a hand came to rest on her shoulder. It was the dowager’s.

“She’s right, dear.”

Catherine looked shocked.

The dowager pressed on, “Not your percentage, but… your timing with words.” She tried a smile, as if it would dampen the blow.

It didn’t. Catherine’s chest felt tight as other heads began to nod. “But, even you debate with the men.”

“I’m a dowager,” Cartridge replied. “I married an earl. I can do as I please now.”

Catherine crossed her arms, “Well, I don’t like the idea of having a man control my every thought.”

“Not your thoughts.” Sally leaned over the table that separated them, “Never your thoughts. Simply how and when you say things.”

Lady Hatchet agreed, “Timing and style is everything.”

C
atherine looked
around at the women who stared at her. And then it dawned on her. “Is this some sort of intercession?” She began to stand. She would not have anyone dictate her life—not even a room of the most powerful women in London. “I don’t need assistance—”

The dowager’s hand, the one that still rested on her shoulder, forced her back down.

Catherine looked up at her and found a set of hard eyes. Authority pulsed through them, and it was obvious that she would not be questioned.

“Imagine the look in Andrew’s eyes when he sees you happy… with someone else?”

C
atherine stared
up into her eyes and tried to imagine what reaction she’d gain from Andrew if such a thing came true. Guilt hit her. Betrayal. Even if he didn’t want her. Somehow, betrayal was what it felt like. “I…” She didn’t know the words.

The dowager sighed, as if she could read her thoughts. “Then, simply imagine what it would feel like to be truly adored by someone.”

Adoration. She remembered what that was like. With Andrew. Her whole existence had been centered on him and his laughs. Smiles. She was ready to stop crying over him, but was she truly ready to move on?

Sally spoke then, “Are you to live for him or can you live for you?”

Hadn’t she just been thinking the same thing that very morning? Who was Catherine Croftman without Andrew’s love? She didn’t know, but she wanted to discover this other person.