"Oh, dear. You can say that, but you don’t know how they are, the
ton
. They can snub you dreadfully."
Cat bit back a reply when she saw Marie approaching. The maid spoke softly to Amelia, who dusted off her hands and rose to her feet. "Finish cutting your gladioli, dear. I think they’ll make a lovely arrangement for the foyer," she said. Patting her white hair distractedly, she walked back to the house.
Cat sat back on her heels and looked unseeing at the cloudless sky, her mind returning to Ransom. She had never thought to see him again, and suddenly she had been dancing with the man.
Resolutely, she stifled the tendency of her heart to soar at the memory. She would not see him again. There were few enough balls on the island, so she would avoid them until the
Reckless
left the harbor.
She simply could not risk recognition. The captain had the devil’s own temper when roused, and she could not imagine him being pleased to find she had shared his cabin and confidences under false pretenses. She had fooled him, and that would not sit well with Ransom, not well at all.
But he seemed deep in deception himself, for wasn’t he posing as a duke? Cat shook her head at such arrogance. And he’d treated her as though she were one of his tarts, gazing at her with those dark eyes...
Cat shivered despite the heat. Annoyed at her reaction, she gave an especially vigorous clip to the stem between her fingers.
She might have reacted even more violently had she known the object of her thoughts was but a stone’s throw away, examining a piece of porcelain in Amelia’s foyer. Officially, he had been shown into the morning room, but had wandered out in an effort to escape the stifling warmth there. He returned the vase to the side table and paused to study a portrait.
A middling work, the painting depicted two golden-haired beauties, obviously related, although one appeared dainty and frail, while her taller counterpart held herself with more confidence. Leaning closer, Ransom noted more than a passing resemblance between that lovely and the intriguing Catherine Amberly. He turned from his perusal just as the other subject came to life, as a wispy woman with hair now white as snow.
"Oh, dear. I hope you weren’t expecting the girl in the portrait, your grace," she said, waving a delicate hand at the painting. "Goodness, but that was done a long time ago." She smiled tremulously at the picture and for a moment appeared to be lost in her own thoughts. Then she looked up at him, as if seeing him for the first time, and smiled.
"Good day, Mrs. Molesworth," Random said, bowing his head graciously. "I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time. I met your niece last night at the Grayson ball."
"You have my leave to call whenever you wish, your grace," she answered before eyeing him curiously. "I suppose the morning room was a bit close. Aptly named, but most uncomfortable. We’ll go into the parlor, where it’s a bit cooler."
Ransom’s attention was caught by a movement behind her, and he saw that her niece was approaching. Turning slowly, Ransom felt the air pulse with more than its usual heat as he faced her.
"Ah, here is Catherine. I’ll leave you in her capable hands," Mrs. Molesworth said, her eyes twinkling, "while I see to some lemonade for us." She must have exited, but Ransom only had eyes for the young woman standing stock-still only a few feet away.
The sun lit her golden hair, lending an ethereal cast to her beauty. His gaze took in the charming disarray of her tresses and traveled down the slim column of her throat to where the heat had dampened her bodice, leaving a triangle of material clinging provocatively to her breasts. The puffed sleeves of her white gauze gown revealed slender arms carrying a huge basket of gladioli and greenery. She could have stepped out of a painting except for...
"You’ve neglected to wash your face this time, Miss Amberly," he said, surprising himself by the softness of his voice. He stepped toward her until he was close he could feel her breath, then lifted his hand and lightly wiped a smudge of dirt from her nose with his thumb.
Cat could only stare at him, dumbfounded. The sunlight loved his face, illuminating the familiar brown eyes and the curve of his lips in a way that the candlelight had not, and she realized that he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen.
He was so close she nearly reached up a hand to touch the visage that had so often haunted her dreams, but caught herself. His own light touch so unnerved her that she turned to the side table and, to hide her confusion, plucked a flower from the basket to place in the empty vase.
"Here, let me help you." Ransom’s voice was like silk as he took the basket from her. Her hands now free, Cat began taking the blossoms and greenery and arranging them as best she could. She felt like a drowning man being lulled by the hum of the deep as his charm pulled her under.
With an effort, she struggled to the surface and toward reason, which told her he had caught her unawares and woefully unprepared. Amelia had somehow disappeared, drat her hide, leaving Cat alone with her former captain. When she found her voice, Cat asked, "What are you doing here?"
"I’m sorry to disappoint you," he said. "Were you expecting Mr. Waistcoat?" He leaned too close to her ear.
"Certainly not! And his name was Pettifer," Cat answered, without looking at him.
"So not Mr. Pitiful," he said lightly, causing Cat to smile unwillingly. "Then perhaps you were expecting another suitor?"
Another suitor? What was he getting at?
"I have no suitors," Cat said with a trace of scorn. When he made no comment, she turned to find his eyebrow cocked in disbelief. He was certainly acting strangely, she thought, putting the finishing touches to the flowers and stepping back to appraise her efforts.
"Very lovely," he said. "But then, so is the artist. So much so that I find it difficult to believe she is lacking in admirers."
Cat caught a curious undertone in his voice, as though he were accusing her of something. She looked at him sharply, but his face revealed nothing of his thoughts.
"Believe what you will. I’ve been meaning to find a husband, but the task seems so tedious." She shot him a withering glance. "Men being a lot of boring rogues."
Ransom’s brow shot upward. "I see. Well, if Pettifer is any indication of the company you’ve been keeping, your opinion is understandable."
What conceit for the man to place himself above any other, Cat thought, forgetting that she had often subscribed to that belief herself.
"Perhaps I can endeavor to redeem the reputation of my gender," he said, oozing the kind of faux friendliness that had little to do with the captain she had known.
"I doubt that,
your grace
," Cat said, "as I see no difference between you and any other fellow. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to freshen up, as you pointed out so indelicately. Please don’t feel you must stay on my account." With that parting shot, she climbed the stairs without a glance in his direction.
Ransom was left standing in the foyer, holding an empty basket and the reins of his temper. For one reckless moment, he felt like storming up the steps after her, but maybe that was what he was supposed to feel. His anger dissolved as he wondered just how much of her performance was staged by Devlin.
"Have you been abandoned, your grace?" Ransom heard the older woman’s voice behind him and turned to face her. "Come join me in some lemonade," she said, gesturing toward an open doorway, where the manservant stood holding a tray. "Or perhaps something a little stronger for yourself?"
Finding himself in the unusual position of being at a loss, Ransom assented and was soon seated on a small divan in the cozy parlor, shaded by the Royal Poinciana tree outside.
"I’m so glad to meet you," Mrs. Molesworth said, with a smile. While Ransom inclined his head in acknowledgement, she continued smiling and studying him in a odd manner. "Oh, you’ll do. You’ll do," she said, appearing quite pleased.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, it’s nothing, just an old lady’s rambling," she said. "I am so pleased that you are calling on Catherine. May I speak frankly?"
At Ransom’s nod, she continued. "I must admit that I have not provided all that I should in the way of social opportunities, and Catherine needs a husband."
Even Ransom was shocked by this blunt declaration, though he said nothing.
"You see, Catherine is not what she appears," Mrs. Molesworth said.
I can believe that
, thought Ransom.
"She simply must marry before he discovers she is here," Amelia said, in all earnestness, though Ransom was baffled. Who? Devlin? Was the little old lady in his employ, too?
"Oh, yes," she said. "I probably shouldn’t be telling even you, your grace, but I trust you will not reveal her whereabouts." Mrs. Molesworth sat back in her chair and sighed, as though a great weight had been lifted from her.
"And not just any husband will do," the woman continued. "She needs someone who has no fear of reprisals from the baron of Wellshire, someone brave and bold, such as yourself, if I may say so." She smiled sweetly at Ransom, then blithely sipped her lemonade as though she had said nothing out of the ordinary.
"Now, let me assure you that the child has good blood. Her father - her real father, mind you - was one of the Hampshire Amberlys, part of the old earl’s brood. And, of course, my father - her grandfather - was a baronet, although I suppose that means little to you." She paused, frowning, as if struck by a sudden misgiving. "I imagine that Catherine would prove to be a handful, though. She is a headstrong girl."
Ransom didn’t know whether the old woman was daft or Devlin was. He set down his glass. "I fear that I must disappoint you, Mrs. Molesworth, but I have no plans to wed," he said. "Ever."
"Oh, dear, I’ve said too much! Oh, do excuse me, your grace," she said, fluttering her hands. "Do forgive a silly old woman’s nonsense and say you will dine with us."
His curiosity piqued by the strange behaviors of both women, Ransom agreed on Wednesday evening for supper to investigate further. Meanwhile... He cleared his throat.
"By the way, I wondered whether I might have a chat with that red-haired coachman of yours," he said, casually, while eyeing his hostess with interest. "He appears to be quite a hand with the horses."
But Mrs. Molesworth only looked puzzled. "But I have no red-haired coachman," she said. "However, you are welcome to speak with Isaac, who oversees our small stable."
She smiled as she stood, and patted Ransom’s familiarly before lowering her voice to a whisper. "As for our earlier conversation, I’m sure I can depend on you to keep it confidential. Catherine would be most distressed if she discovered I was talking out of turn."
Only a lifetime of schooling his features kept Ransom’s reaction from showing on his face, and he left the cottage feeling more than a little confused, a rare occurrence that increased his annoyance. Mrs. Molesworth seemed too giddy to be involved in any scheming, yet there was definitely more to her than met the eye. She was either completely mad or a superb actress... but in what sort of play?
Chapter Seven
Cat was mortified when she learned of the supper invitation. "Do you realize who that was?" She asked, her voice rising in horror.
"Why, yes," Amelia answered mildly. "The duke of Worcester. I remember his family well." She looked past her niece as though fondly recalling some long ago episode.
"That was my captain," Cat practically hissed. "The captain of the ship where I served as cabin boy!"
"Well, my goodness, there’s no need to get so excited," Amelia said. "Since you already know him, we will most certainly have a pleasant evening together."
Cat could only stare aghast at her aunt.
"But my dear, what could be objectionable?" Amelia asked. "He’s not as young as you are, but not exactly in his dotage, and a girl needs and older, experienced man." She was pouring tea, but stopped to tick off on her fingers Ransom’s finer points.
"He’s titled and handsome. He has manners... so very important in a husband. You don’t want him picking his teeth at table as Squire Peterson was wont to do."
"A husband?" Cat’s echoed. "Are you mad? He was my captain! What if he recognizes me?"
"Pooh," Amelia said. "No one could imagine you as a boy, my dear."
"Ransom is no fool. He thinks we’ve met before," Cat argued.
"The man will hardly leap to the conclusion that you were his cabin boy," Amelia said. "I like him. He’s personable, and he comes from good stock. The Dupreys were always head and shoulders above the rest of the Midlands crowd, and the title is quite an old one."
Cat looked up, startled, as Amelia’s words sank in. Ransom was impersonating a
real
duke. Seizing the forgotten teapot, she began to pour, pretending a steadiness that she did not feel. "How do we know he is who he claims to be?" she asked.
"You’re the one who recognized him."
"All I know is that he was the captain of the
Reckless
and has some shipping concerns," Cat said. "I never heard anything of a title until last night."
"What? Do you think he’s not the duke?" Amelia asked, obviously taken aback. "It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been fooled by a masquerader on this island, you know. Living so far form England, it’s difficult to verify these things, but I’ll have Lord Claremont look into it at once."
"No, no," Cat said. She realized that no matter what Ransom was up to, she did not wish him exposed to all and sundry. "I just wondered." She forced a shrug. "Don’t bother Lord Claremont about it." She reached for a biscuit on the tea tray and so missed the satisfied smile that Amelia sent into her teacup.
***
The night of the supper seemed to arrive with untoward speed, and soon Cat was fidgeting in front of the mirror, even though she had dressed carefully in one of her favorite gowns. Made of the palest green lawn, it had deep emerald leaves embroidered about the hem and neckline. She threw a transparent shawl with gold fringe about her shoulders, and although she disdained jewelry, at the last moment she donned the diamond earrings that Amelia thrust upon her.