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Chapter Thirteen
So we grow together, like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union inpartition.
—Shakespeare,A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Nicholas resisted thetemptation to enter through the kitchen again. While it seemed he was currently incapable of facing his wife in the drawing room, or from across the dinner table, hewasthe next master of this estate and needed to behave as such. Fredericks greeted him, taking his hat and gloves. No need for a coat today. The weather was quite amenable.
Fredericks brushed at the felt, handing the topper and gloves to a nearby footman before turning back to Nicholas. “My lord—”
“Well, it’s about time you got home! I’ve enjoyed far richer conversation with a scarecrow than I have this evening with my Catherine. Where in blazes were you? I would think a man who pined for my daughter so strongly that he had to marry her posthaste would at least have a care that she is in need of a little company during her dinner.”
Despite the chastisement, Nicholas could not suppress a grin. Baron Stratton was everything Nicholas’s father was not. Tall and lean, he was in fabulously good shape for a man past his prime. His dark-auburn hair had a few streaks of gray that seemed only to lend credence to his ever-present confidence. Jovial as always, he slapped Nicholas on the shoulder.
“While I’d like to take you to task for claiming her so quickly, I, too, was young once”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“and I loved her mother with the same distracted passion you have for my little kitten.” Stratton laughed, throwing his arm around Nicholas’s shoulders, pulling him toward the drawing room. “I found a sad lass when I arrived, although she put on a brave front and did not share a word about her melancholy. I’ve no doubt the return of her groom will be cheering.” Stratton pushed open the door, and his arm still firmly keeping Nicholas alongside, they swept into the room.
Catherine sat by the fire on the settee, opposite his father. Head bent, she continued with her stitching. Was she avoiding him or his sire? No doubt both. Without hesitation, Stratton led him toward the duo.
“I pulled your father from those infernal rooms that he claims are his respite. His escape would be a more appropriate description. Come out and face the world is what I say. The good, the bad, and the abhorrently ugly. We’re all in it together.” He squeezed Nicholas’s shoulder and finally released him, then marched toward Nicholas’s father. After a brief, muffled conversation, his father rose and, without a so much as a glance in his direction, trailed Stratton out the door.
“My lord?” Fredericks’s voice startled the silence. “A small repast and a bracer?” His face remained expressionless as he handed Nicholas a laden plate and a glass, but his eyes twinkled with delight. The man clearly knew what had transpired the eve before. No bowing to nobility here and no offense meant. Fredericks was simply a man pleased for those he cared about. Nicholas wanted to rejoice at the thought of resuming life in such domestic comfort, but as the door clicked behind Fredericks, he became achingly aware that he was alone with Catherine.
He stared at the small meat sandwiches on the plate, grasping the glass of Madeira tightly in his other hand. If Catherine were not sitting so stiffly, he would have believed her to be lost in her needlepoint. He wanted to reach out and massage her shoulders or have her remove the knots from his neck. No Madeira could relax him the way she could. No magic could possess him the way her look could. As if reading his mind, she glanced up at him, a slight flush pinking her cheeks.
She was wary. No doubt about it. But there was also optimism. Her eyes glimmered sage, hinting of anticipation.Damn. He should not have gone to her last night. He’d known it to be folly, but he’d been unable to resist the allure of her sweet body. Now that he’d read Daniel’s words, he knew it for the madness it had been. No good could come of pretending all was as it should be.
He took the chair his father had vacated, laying the food on the side table. His glass caught a reflection of the flame from the table lamp. He swirled the tumbler’s contents until the thick red liquid coated the sides, dulling the glow. Stillness resounded off the walls, yet he could not find words to break it nor the fortitude to look up for that matter. Instead, he concentrated on the wine, lifting it to his nose, but its smoky spice, usually so enticing, soured his stomach.
“Lord Woodfield seems much improved.” She waited for him to comment. Focusing on her hands, which clutched the embroidery frame too tightly, he could feel her growing trepidation. Still, no words came to him. Only silence, piercing and loud. He reached for a sandwich before almost choking on it as he swallowed it whole.
“Catherine,” he started.Catherine, what? You have been my beacon through dismal years, but in truth, you were a pirate’s light leading me to shipwreck? I have longed for you, but you have longed for my brother?He ran his hand through his hair. He wanted her so. Would always want her. But he did not know what to say to bridge the gulf between them, the chasm created by her betrayal.
“Nicholas?”
His stomach clenched at the plea in her voice.Damnation, he could add no more guilt to his heaping plateful. He laid the glass on the side table and stood. “Catherine,” he started again, finally looking at her.
Those white knuckles grasping the frame on her lap were the only visible indication of her stress. She smiled uncertainly, eyebrows lifting, hopeful. It was the Catherine he remembered, the Catherine he’d envisioned on many a long, lonely night. He shook his head. The reality was that it was now the face of the woman his brother had loved. The face of the woman who’d agreed to marry his brother. Anger percolated, dark and bitter.
“Catherine,” he bit out, fighting back the heated words that threatened, “have a good evening.” He strode from the drawing room before civility was lost.
*
She couldn’t move.Couldn’t put down her needlepoint. Couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t follow him out that door and up those stairs. Had last night meant nothing? She’d known he would still hold some anger, but he’d barely hung on to basic courtesy.
“Catherine?”
A flush of heat sealed her mortification. How much had her father overheard? Did he understand the ramifications in the spare words exchanged?
He strode to the sofa and sat beside her. The concern that warmed his eyes to a dark moss undid her; tears pricked, and his face blurred. She wiped angrily at her eyes. She’d made her bed. This was not her father’s doing but her own. She could not run to dear Papa to fix things. She was not a child.
“Papa,” she began, ready to explain it was her fault, that she alone bore the blame of the sad state of her marriage. Instead, tears trickled.
“Ah, kitten.” He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. He smelled of tobacco and wool, of Stratton Hall, of home. She began to quietly weep. He petted her head, whisking kisses across her forehead. The gesture, so familiar from childhood, broke all her restraint, and she assaulted them both with the impact of her unleashed emotions.
She clung to her father, wishing she were an infant once again with a woe easily soothed by his kind words. Though he murmured the same comfort against her temples, she knew he would never again be able to solve her problems. At this moment, she so wanted to be that little girl, but she would never be again. She choked down another sob. She was a woman now. A woman who must face the truths in her life.
She pulled away. He reached into his jacket and took out his handkerchief, dabbing carefully at her eyes. Then he lifted her chin and smiled. She could not help but respond in kind, though it felt fragile and false.
“Oh, kitten,” he said, swiping his thumb along her cheek. “I came expecting the best.” He swept back her sodden, stray locks. “Most fathers would be angry with the expedient nuptials, but I was filled with satisfaction. My little girl has waited for so long.” His forehead furrowed with deepening lines; he awaited the explanation.
