A Perilous Attraction. Patricia Frances Rowell
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theater.
The next morning Catherine, an early riser, surprised his lordship at the breakfast table. He rose and helped her seat herself across the table from his own place, drawing out her chair.
“You are abroad early. It is my experience of ladies that they rarely appear before noon.”
My experience of ladies? What experience? Catherine racked her brain for some gossip that she might have heard concerning Lord Caldbeck’s mistress—or lack thereof. Nothing came to mind. Could it be possible, at his age, that he did not have one? And come to think of it… “Excuse me, my lord. May I know how old you are?”
It could not be said that Caldbeck appeared startled, but he lifted his gaze from his breakfast and looked at her. “I am five-and-thirty. Why do you ask?”
Catherine flushed. “No real reason. I have just been realizing how little I know about you. Your hair…” She stopped, fearing to offend him. He, of course, showed no sign of offense, or of anything else.
“Yes. The men of my family gray very early.” The earl returned his attention to his beef and eggs. Catherine studied her new husband. Five-and-thirty. Yes, in spite of his hair, he did not look old. A few marks of maturity could be seen. Just the slightest receding at the temples, perhaps, revealed by the austere style. How did he keep his hair so smoothly brushed back without the pomade so many men used?
Only a few lines marred his face—a handsome face of angular planes, narrow with a straight nose and a decisive jaw. The firm lips did not frown, but neither did they smile, remaining consistently uncommunicative. But warm. Warm lips. Catherine flushed a bit at the memory.
The object of her scrutiny had a few more bites of his beef, flicked a crumb from his dove gray coat and changed the subject. “I would like for you to be present today for a meeting with my man of business. We must finalize the arrangements for your jointure.”
“My jointure! Good heavens, this is the first I have thought of that. Surely my uncle did not—”
“No. Maury did not think of that, either.”
Did she hear a hint of sarcasm in his voice—of contempt, perhaps? Catherine could not be sure. “Then why…?”
“Because, along with your beautiful person, I have accepted a responsibility. I must see you are provided for in the event of my demise. Would you like to have your uncle’s house as a part of the settlement? We have no way of knowing at this moment who my heir might be in future years. You should have a place of your own.”
His heir! Catherine swallowed her bite of eggs abruptly. Another issue that had not been discussed. She put her fear firmly aside and considered his question for a moment. She had never been happy in that house. “No. I am not fond of the place.” A roguish expression lit her face. “Besides, it has a broken door.”
Her husband looked at her quickly, and one eyebrow twitched. “So it does.”
“However, since you already own it…”
“No. I shall sell it and buy something you prefer. We shall meet with Guildford at two. Until then I have other errands. Meantime, you should be preparing to get an early start in the morning.”
Rising from the table, he started for the door, then turned back. “If you need to do any shopping in London, I have had your allowance deposited to your account. Good day.”
Catherine watched his departing back thoughtfully. Perhaps she had not made such a bad bargain, after all. Her new mate might not be as exciting as she could wish, he might be just a bit intimidating, and he was definitely controlling her, but he also had a number of sterling qualities. At the present they were behaving as strangers—courteous, distant, uninvolved—as if they were both taking care to be on their best behavior. How long would that last? And what would replace it?
She still simmered over his high-handed arrangements to constrain her to accept him. He had not exactly tricked her into marriage, but he had certainly maneuvered her, and she resented it. She knew that in time she would erupt. How would he react? The small spark of fear flared for moment, but considering his restrained manner, Catherine did not believe he would hurt her in anger. Perhaps he would not react at all.
A depressing thought.
At least she would not have to worry about her security.
Stifle her he might, but abandon her he would not.
It was upon him again. The restlessness, the guilt, the disgust. The peaceful Yorkshire Dales held no peace for him, gazing at the soft moon, no solace. He jabbed the horse’s sides impatiently, cursing when the animal reared before pounding down the slope into the valley. It was of no use. He could not outrun the torment. Soon he must act. Soon.
Chapter Three
Catherine’s vivid carriage ensemble splashed emerald against the silver-gray of the traveling coach, contrasting brightly with the few glowing curls revealed by her bonnet. Caldbeck, as usual in immaculate dove-gray, handed her up while she yet called instructions to Sally. Her maid, nodding her understanding, climbed into the coach she would share with his lordship’s valet, Hardraw. Gray-liveried footmen found their places, and the postilions set the powerful team of matched grays in motion.
Catherine, excited to be starting on the longest journey she had ever made, yet felt sad to be leaving London. She had lived in Town all her life, as did all her friends. When might she see Liza again? Yorkshire was much too far away from London for a casual visit. It might be months or even years.
How she would miss her! Liza’s veneer of outward silliness covered a shrewd mind and a kind heart. She had been Catherine’s confidante for all the lonely years since Catherine had lost her parents. And lucky Liza had a husband who adored her!
Catherine, one cheek resting against the window, watched the passing scene as they swept through the busy streets. In spite of herself the warmth of a tear trickled down her face. She surreptitiously blotted it away with her scrap of a lace handkerchief. A second tear followed the first, and soon the handkerchief became a soggy mess. Catherine dropped it into her reticule, sniffing as quietly as she could manage. A flicker of white from the far side of the coach caught her eye. Turning ever so slightly toward it, she discovered a large, white square of linen being offered to her.
Catherine took it, choking out her thanks. As she blew her nose, she felt the warmth of a large hand on her knee. Caldbeck said nothing, but did not move his hand until they had left London behind. At last her sobs grew silent, her eyes were again dry and her nose ceased running. He then began to point out items of interest along the road, calling her attention to the rich colors of fall and the beauty of the countryside.
“And the roads, so far, are better than I had hoped. I’m afraid that the farther north we get, the worse they will become. We’ve had a very wet summer followed by a dry autumn. The ruts will be hardened into stone.”
“How long do you expect us to be on the road?”
Caldbeck shifted to lean comfortably against the velvet upholstery in his corner, facing her. Catherine followed his example in her own corner.
“Ordinarily four days. If we encounter very bad roads, it will take another day, and if you like, we might take a day of rest near the Peak District. It is quite a pleasing sight at this time of year.”
A pleasing sight. Catherine smiled to herself. His lordship was hardly given to hyperbole. Thinking back, she remembered that the strongest word she had ever heard him use was “beautiful.” At the time she had thought it only a gentlemanly compliment, but she begin to hear a different significance.
“You seem to have a great appreciation of beautiful sights.”
Caldbeck considered a moment. “Yes. I have.”
Silence fell. So much for that conversational gambit. Catherine tried again. “Is Wulfdale very lovely?”
“I consider it so.”