Page 64 of A Daring Desire

His eyes narrowed. “Are you certain? I won’t have you say something because it’s what I wish to hear. That would annoy me.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” she whispered, spreading her thighs wider as his questing fingers caressed her.

His lips quirked in a perfectly diabolical smile. “Excellent,” he purred wickedly, and Cat shivered with delight.

Chapter 19

My lord,

Imagine my surprise when I was visited this day by an old acquaintance whose brother was at Lady St Clair’s ball. She tells me that her brother came home full of the news of your shocking reappearance in society and was agog with the sight of you in company with your beautiful wife. What a stir you have caused, but then you always did court scandal. I am so glad you have returned at last. I worried for you so when you were away for such a long time.

You might remember that I wrote to you not long before you left, informing you that I had something of yours, but you never did come to get it. I beg that you will do so now, and as soon as you are able. I was dreadfully ill last spring, and it occurred to me what mischief it might cause you should I have died, and it fell into the wrong hands.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Ciarán St Just, The Marquess of Kilbane from Mrs Louisa Clifford.

14th January 1850, Connaught Place, London.

Cat put up her chin and did her best not to blush as she heard the giggles and whispered mutterings from the housemaids as she made her way to the breakfast parlour. She had hardly set foot outside of her bedroom since the night of the ball, and it was hardly a wonder that the scandalised staff, especially the young women among them, could not meet her eye without a blush or a smirk. It was only a lifetime of living under public scrutiny that allowed her to school her features into one of disinterested disdain.

Though their whispers about her wicked husband’s prowess might make her colour rise, the truth was she did not care what they thought. She was living in the most blissful dream where she was the sole recipient of her husband’s undivided attention, and it was wonderful. Cat had known from talking with her Mama and her married friends that the marriage bed, far from being something to fear, was something to anticipate with delight if one married the right man. Well, despite everyone’s fears—even her own doubts during the months that had preceded his return—she had been vindicated, at least in her own mind. She did not doubt that some, her father for example, would take a good deal longer to come around. But that was their concern. She was happy, and she had made him happy too. He’d said so! Despite all their troubles, she trusted him. She suspected he was not quite so sanguine about things and knew that it would take time for him to trust her entirely. It was obvious enough he had never trusted another person in his entire life, and with good reason.

At least now, however, they had time.

Cat sat down at the breakfast table and allowed a footman to serve her a far larger repast than she would normally partake of, having discovered she was ravenous. She made her way through a plate of poached eggs and bacon with gusto, whilst Jefferies came in with the post, leaving the neat little pile at her elbow. Setting down her teacup, Cat sifted through them, and halted when she discovered one addressed to Lord Kilbane in an obviously feminine hand.

When she had first taken up residence at Connaught Place, such letters arrived frequently, usually heavily perfumed. They had gone on the fire. This one, at least, did not reek of ambergris or something equally headache inducing, which was something. She glanced at the address, surprised to see the sender lived close to Holbrook in Sussex. Curious but untroubled, she set it aside and resumed her meal.

A few minutes later, she looked up, smiling as her husband entered the room. Her heart did a happy little skip in her chest as she took in the sight of him with pleasure. He looked marvellously handsome in fitted dove grey trousers and waistcoat, with a black coat.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, unable to keep her heart from her eyes as he looked at her.

“Catherine,” he said, his lips quirking as a devil danced in his eyes, reminding her of what they had been doing shortly before she had forced herself to leave their bed.

It had not been an easy thing to leave that heavenly place, but four days seemed quite scandalous enough, and she did not want the staff to believe her husband had corrupted her, for some such ridiculous tale was bound to circulate if she did not make a show of normal behaviour.

“Do you have plans today?” she asked, applying a liberal coat of butter to a hot crumpet.

“I suppose I ought to catch up with Berrycloth,” he said, though with no apparent enthusiasm. “I am informed Mr Bright is champing at the bit to speak with me.”

“Oh, is he coming? Do give him my regards. Such a darling man.”

Her husband gave her an enigmatic look. “Mr Bright?” he repeated, as if he suspected they were speaking at cross purposes.

“Yes,” Cat said in surprise, cutting the crumpet into four pieces and picking one up. “Your man of business. He’s the dearest creature.”

Kilbane waved away the plate of cooked meats the footman beside him offered and turned to regard her with interest. “Mr Bright, my darling henwit, has the mind of a rapier and has been known to make grown men cry. He even makes me feel like a schoolboy caught with his fingers in his mother’s purse if he believes I’ve made an imprudent investment.”

Cat shrugged. “Well, that’s as may be. I’ve always found him delightful to deal with. He says I’m a very sensible woman,” she added with a smug expression.

Her husband gave her a long, hard look and sighed. “Not content to have my personal secretary in your pocket, now you’ve corrupted Mr Bright. What next? Stay away from Jones, you little witch.”

“Oh, it’s too late. He adores me,” she said serenely.

“I’m doomed,” he grumbled, accepting a cup of coffee from the footman who had reappeared at his elbow.

Cat watched him with pleasure as he sipped his coffee. “I was thinking of going down to Holbrook to visit Alana. Mrs Martin, that is,” she added. “She had her second child a few weeks ago, a boy this time and really, I cannot leave it any longer.”

“Harry Martin’s wife?”