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Chapter Eight
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty asfire.
—Shakespeare,Richard II
Catherine pinched thesingle faded bloom. She had hoped for a profusion when she’d planted the bush, but it seemed to be struggling. The summer had been mild to date, so there was no reason for it to flounder so. She smelled the dying blossom. Ah, how she loved the sweet perfume of roses. They all did. That was why Nicholas had wanted it in abundance at the folly.
She walked around the stone, basking in the late-morning sun. Nicholas. A flush caressed her cheeks with its warmth. She could not comprehend how she’d allowed their rendezvous to go so far, yet she felt no regret. He had claimed her this very morning. He’d forgiven her and made her his own.
She laid down the limp rose on the top of the tomb. “Daniel, I am to be married. I know you are so happy for us.” She fought tears. How she wished she could see Daniel’s face light with that wicked smile, hear him shout in merriment.
“It appears you placed your bet on the wrong horse,” Nicholas said from behind her.
She wiped at her eyes and turned to face him. He was fuming. It must not have gone well with His Lordship. Not that she was surprised. The old man had a dark soul, always seeking companionship for his misery.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, not sure she’d heard him correctly. She brushed her fingers against her skirt, holding on to the soft folds like they’d anchor her against the storm of his black gaze, keep her grounded while he delivered whatever bad news his father had sent.
“It would seem you chose the wrong viscount for the win. Of course, you could not have known at the time that I would become a viscount. Which makes it all the more sullied, doesn’t it?” He stood ramrod straight, another monument in the small enclosure.
Catherine couldn’t process what he was saying. Had his father threatened his title? His inheritance? Denied permission to wed? Did he…did they…need permission at their age? She stepped toward him.
He raised his hand sharply, and she stopped as if struck. He was furious. At her! What had happened?
“Were you or were you not betrothed to Daniel?”
She stared at him. Had he not already forgiven her that sin? “Nicholas, I—”
“Cease,” he barked, cutting her off abruptly. “I do not need to hear it. It is written all over your face.” He ran a hand through his hair.
The anguish darkening his eyes pierced her soul. She moved toward him, but he took a step back.
“Damnation, Catherine. How could you?”
Oh, my dear Lord, how could she have hurt him so? How could he not have known? “But you forgave—”
“I forgave? I forgave! I absolved you of the sins of your murderous brother. I had no idea you played whore for a title!”
Anger rose, fierce and ugly. She stepped closer and slapped him with all the force she could muster. “How dare you!” To call what had transpired between her and Daniel such a thing was utter blasphemy.
He grabbed her hand and held it to the welt that was rapidly rising on his cheek, his glare a full tempest now. “As my betrothed”—his voice dripped with hardened sarcasm on the last word—“I should show you just who has the harder hand in this relationship.”
She yanked her hand free, appalled at what she’d done and sickened by his threat. “You may save the back of your hand for your wife.” She rubbed her sullied palm on her skirt. “I absolve you of all obligation.” She marched past him toward the exit.
“But you are not absolved, Miss Baring.”
She froze at the tone of his voice, the icy chill trickling down her spine.
“You are not pardoned. You are not forgiven. But nor am I lacking in honor, despite the fact that I have recently discovered that the woman I have pined for over the past four years is a harlot. No, I stand by my word, unlike others currently in my presence.”
She spun around, speechless. How could he be so cruel? How could he say such things of her? She could find no answers in his angry stare, so she turned away again.
“We will be wed in the morning. Bring your maid to witness. I will send the carriage at nine,” he said, his voice calm, cold, assured—the voice of a commander who expected to be obeyed.
She did not grace him with a refusal. She could not face him again. Instead, she fled from the burial grounds, more afraid than she’d ever been during those childhood pranks.
*
It seemed ableak start to mornings was to be the norm. Catherine rolled, pulling the coverlet over her head. This was to be the happiest day of her life. She’d planned it over and over for four years. She groaned. How had it come to this…this…agonizing charade?
