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Chapter Ten
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for avillain.
—Shakespeare,Richard III
She somehow managedto speak the simple vows and write the marriage lines in the register without her shaky legs giving way and without looking directly at Nicholas. Afterward, as they all stood awkwardly in the vestry, he invited his guests to Woodfield for a wedding breakfast. She wished he had not. Elizabeth Thornwood seemed pleasant enough, but the woman regarded her with such commiseration that Catherine struggled for composure. She wanted to cling to the offer of feminine fealty; however, she’d made her bed, and she must now, quite literally, lie in it. Would he even want her to?
“If you continue to worry that lip, our guests will think we are anxious for them to leave.” Nicholas’s voice was gruff with anger.
She hadn’t realized she was biting her bottom lip. It was a habit long embedded. She released it as he stared at her mouth. They were alone in the carriage, the Thornwoods riding comfortably in their own. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, tasting blood. She’d bitten down hard.
“For Christ’s sake, Catherine. Have some mercy.”
He turned to the window. What had she done now? He sounded so bitter. Well, he’d forced this, had he not?
“Mercy? As you have shown me?”
The carriage jolted, hitting a rut in the road, and she fell from her seat. He caught her before her knees hit the floor. Gripping her arms tightly, he pulled her close. She inhaled deeply. Nicholas. Clean. Crisp. Delicious Nicholas.
He nuzzled her hair, then froze for a second before depositing her unceremoniously back on her seat. Momentarily baffled by the sudden abandonment, she looked to him. He stared out the window, his mouth tightened in a grim line. No mercy. She could not live like this. What had she done?
*
Catherine climbed thestairs, the weight of the day making each step leaden. Breakfast, which seemed a disaster, had been the brightest spot in the day. Both couples had worked hard to maintain an air of celebration, but it had been labor for all and, in the end, reeked of superficiality. Nicholas had graciously invited the Thornwoods to stay, but they’d claimed a need to get home to their children and had not lingered. She had no doubt they’d just wanted to escape the gloom that had continued to drape heavily despite all efforts to lift it.
She’d been relieved at their departure until she’d turned to Nicholas and found his face expressionless. Before she could gather her wits and try to breach his defenses, he’d excused himself to check on tenants. He had yet to return. She’d dressed for dinner and waited in the drawing room for over an hour with only the ticking of the longcase clock in the front hall to keep her company. If Nicholas’s father was at home, he had not put in an appearance. It was just as well Lord Woodfield had not shown. She was not yet ready to beard that particular lion in his own den.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, she looked down at the grand atrium. Fredericks had finally come to usher her to the dining room. She had been mortified walking across that vast expanse of marble as the beautiful but coffin-like clock had chimed for a third time, trailing the butler like a small child. He had dismissed the footmen and served her himself. Such a considerate man, although his sympathy added to the overwhelming weight of the day. She’d eaten little of the multicourse meal Nan had kindly prepared. Hopefully the servants would enjoy it. Someone might as well have a little pleasure this day.
Running her hand along the rail as she walked to her room, she kept her eyes on the foyer below, refusing to glance at his bedroom door as she passed it. She’d been to her room earlier to change for dinner. Nicholas, efficient as always, had seen her things brought from Stratton Hall. She reached the front of the house and entered her room.
“Ah, Lady Walford!” Sadie, her face beaming, was clearly excited to use the new address. “We need to get you into something special.” The girl had the grace to blush, although her eyes twinkled with enthusiasm.
“Sadie,” Catherine began, then stumbled. She could not bear to share her shame. “That would be lovely.” She hoped her face did not betray the desolation that caged her heart.
Sadie clapped her hands in glee. “I found this tucked in the back of your dressing room.”
She had forgotten it. Sophia had insisted she purchase a beautiful nightgown. Sophia was special. A widow who had taken Catherine under her wing these last few years, she was exotic and sophisticated. Worldly. Everything Catherine was not. Sophia had fallen in love with the notion of a lonely girl waiting for her man to return from war to marry her. They’d had a wonderful time visiting a dressmaker and planning her trousseau.
The white silk was soft, delicate, and sheer. So fragile. She traced the subtle rosebuds embroidered around the neckline. How many times had she held it thus, thinking of Nicholas’s fingers following their path? Tears welled, but she fought them, quickly pivoting and giving her back to Sadie. Sadie dutifully undid the row of buttons and then pulled the dress from Catherine’s shoulders. Catherine removed her undergarments and stockings and took the nightgown from Sadie before slipping it over her head. The gossamer fabric whisked against her skin. She shivered as she sat down in front of the mirror. Sadie reached for the hairbrush, and Catherine grabbed her wrist.
“No,” she snapped.
Sadie’s eyes widened in the mirror, those large blueberries genuinely startled. Catherine inhaled deeply, trying to calm her emotions, and softened her tone. “I wish to be alone. That is all.”
Disappointment washed Sadie’s face, then she blushed again.Good. Let her think it is maidenly shyness that requires the solitude.
“I will await your summons in the morning, Miss Bar…Lady Walford.”
She could not fault the girl’s genuine desire to please.
“Thank you,” she said, sighing in relief as the door clicked behind the young maid. She stared at herself in the mirror while she plucked the pins out of her partially piled hair, then picked up the brush.
“And who are you?” she asked, drawing the brush through her long locks. “A daughter.” She stroked her mane. “A sister.” She swept through once again, combing away thoughts of Laurence. “A lover.” She hesitated. Well, she had been for a moment. One incredible moment in time. “A wife.” She brushed down, hitting a mat. Yanking pulled painfully at her roots. Frustrated, she threw down the brush.
“A wife,” she muttered in disgust, pushing from the dressing table and moving to the door on the north side. A door she had dared not touch earlier. She opened it, fully expecting Nicholas’s private quarters. Instead, she found a lovely sitting room. It mirrored the high-ceilinged library below. Beautiful bow windows with cushioned seating graced the semicircle of glass. Two fireplaces dominated, one against her wall and one against the far wall. The fire on her side was lit, chasing dampness from the room. She was grateful for it, as the temperature had plummeted with the rain and the flimsy gown was certainly not going to keep her warm. She stared at the door to the left of the other fireplace, which must lead to Nicholas’s chamber. Was he in there? She held her breath and listened but heard nothing.
A lovely mahogany bookcase graced each side of the fireplace. She ran her hands along the books and pulled one at random. She did not care what it was, so long as it occupied the hours of waiting. For wait she would. Nicholas must face his own decision. She was not going to let him run away from this commitment. Escape had been offered, but he had chosen to sentence her to marriage. If she was to wear these shackles, then he, too, would feel the cold manacles.
