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Time stopped, and his skin iced over at the answering hiss. His head jerked up to find Catpurrnicus preparing to pounce. With one fluid and terrifying motion, the demon cat launched itself at Timothy. Stupidly, Timothy jerked back in defense, affording the monster more available landing space.
More frightening than when Timothy had stared down the blade of a sword during battle—which might have been an exaggeration, but only barely—the cat perched on Timothy’s thighs.
He held his breath and waited.
Catpurrnicus was anything but predictable. He’d been known to purr and cuddle like any ordinary domesticated house cat one moment, then viciously attack without provocation the next. To Timothy’s knowledge, the only two people consistently graced with Catpurrnicus’s lovable side were Bea and Laurence.
The black tail thumped on Timothy’s knees. What had Bea said that movement meant? Timothy searched his brain and came up with nothing. Fear had a way of evacuating all rational thought from one’s mind.
He did not need to wait long to find out. Claws dug into Timothy’s breeches, most likely drawing blood. Then the cat lifted its lithe body and placed its paws on Timothy’s face.
Dear God, the demon would scar him for life!
He swallowed his panic like a bitter potion, determined not to allow a small beastie to get the best of him. Yellow eyes met his green ones in a stare down while Timothy prayed those razor-sharp claws would remain retracted.
“That’s a good fellow,” he said, not entirely sure his voice conveyed the conviction he intended. The smile he forced to his face must have appeared as a body in rigor mortis, grim and horrible. Small pricking sensations poked at his right cheek, and without moving his head lest he spur the attack, he glanced down.
It appeared breaking eye contact proved to be the solution, as Catpurrnicus lowered his body and leapt down, landing soundlessly on the floor. As he strolled nonchalantly toward the door, most likely knowing full well he had been the victor in their battle of wills, he turned once, sending a message of warning Timothy fully comprehended.
Odd that a cat would make him reconsider his behavior to the one woman who stirred his blood. And yet that was precisely how Timothy interpreted the strange encounter with the black menace.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at his wounded face. Six tiny spots of red stained the cloth. At least his breeches were black and would conceal the claw marks on his thighs. But perhaps evidence of his encounter with Catpurrnicus would elicit some sympathy from Priscilla and make her more amenable to his apology.
Although he had yet to decide what exactly he would apologize for. He’d wounded her, no doubt. Her tears were testament to that as surely as the claw marks on his face. And although the evidence of her pain would not be visible to others, it ran much deeper than a few pricks from an unpredictable cat.
He’d spoken the truth. He wouldn’t apologize for that. Honesty was of utmost importance. He didn’t even anticipate speaking words of love to his future wife. But he would apologize for his insensitivity to her pain and for having wounded her thusly.
Once he’d straightened his hair and cravat, which had somehow become askew, he made his way out to the terrace with the direct intention of finding Priscilla, determined to take charge of the situation and have the last word.
They say men are fools.
CHAPTER 21—UNEXPECTED WORDS OF WISDOM
Priscilla stopped at a small mirror in the hallway to gauge her appearance. Red discolored the whites surrounding the blue of her eyes, and droplets of remaining tears still glistened on her lashes. With a hasty swipe, she brushed them away, wishing she’d thought to pack a handkerchief in her reticule.
Ninnyhammer!
What had she expected?
For Timothy to fall upon his knees and confess his undying love?
To proclaim he only courted Honoria to make Priscilla jealous?
To beg her to marry him?
Fury at her own foolish dreams only brought forth a swell of new tears. Oh, how she hated that she cried when angry.
No!
She would not succumb to such weakness, if for no other reason than to not afford the self-righteoustonmore fodder for their wagging tongues. Her one hope to remain unnoticed hinged on what had, up to that moment, caused her such discomfort—the overall snub she’d received from many of the attendees, many of whom were a hair’s breadth from giving her the cut direct. Of course, that didn’t ensure they weren’t paying attention, simply that they chose not to interact with her.
When she stepped out onto the terrace, a few heads turned, but just as quickly looked away. Invisibility had its advantages at times. However, she refused to be cast out from the party and instead sought out someone who might provide a bit of companionship and comfort. Her father appeared deep in conversation with Lord and Lady Easton. She had no desire to have him witness another snub if she joined them.
Her eyes latched onto Lord Nash, leaning casually against the terrace railing. Alone. Like her.
With her reputation already shredded and apparently beyond repair, she wove her way through the crowd. Knots of people parted accommodatingly as sure as if she had been Moses extending his staff across the Red Sea.
Wouldn’t Mr. Netherborne be proud of her for such a biblical reference?
