Bluestocking Bride (26 page)

"He is my friend," she went on earnestly. "I had nothing to give to save him from ruin but my pearls. I would have told you, but you discovered it before I had the chance." When he made no reply, she added wearily, "I knew you would not believe me."

"And do you believe me, Catherine, when I tell you that Lady Pamela belongs in my past, and that she means nothing to me?"

His outright lie hurt her more than if he had confessed the whole to her, and she wanted only to give him pain. She waited a moment until the lump in her throat had dissolved.

"It is not of the slightest interest to me what Lady Pamela is to you. Please do not feel compelled to set aside your mistress on my account. And now, my
lord, if you have nothing more that you require
from a docile wife, I would sleep."
              

They stood facing each other,
Rutherston
angr
$ and bewildered, Catherine regarding him with calm contempt.

"As you will, ma'am.
It would be
unchivalrous
of me not to accept your generous offer respecting my mistress. You may keep your chaste bed."

Catherine turned away so that he would not see the hot tears on her cheeks, and a moment later she heard the bedroom door slam as he let himself out.

It was a subdued and courteous Lord
Rutherston
who handed his wife into his carriage one wet and dreary August morning as she embarked on a solitary journey that would take her to
Branley
Park and Breckenridge. Her strained, deep-shadowed eyes looked up at him with perfect composure, and
Rutherston
felt his heart constrict. This white-faced stranger was not the Catherine he had brought to London a mere three months before.

"I shall be down in a
se'enight
, more or less, my dear, and after Lucy's wedding we shall remove to
Fotherville
House." He smiled kindly.

She gave him her hand to kiss, but he ignored it and bent his head to brush her cold lips lightly with his own. If only she would come a little way to meet him, he thought in exasperation, the absurd breach between them would soon be healed, but Catherine would not unbend.

As the carriage moved off with its spate of coachmen and outriders whom he had instructed well, he watched with satisfaction. There would be no attempt from any highwayman to interfere with such a well-protected equipage, unless that highwayman happened to be a fool, for all the outriders were armed and knew how to use a pistol.

Rutherston
turned back into the house and made for the breakfast room where a pot of fresh coffee was waiting for him. He ensconced himself in a deep armchair and stretched out his highly polished Hessians to rest comfortably on a low table.

He hoped that he was doing the right thing— giving Catherine this short interlude to be on her own without him. When the letter had arrived
from
Lucy asking them to come down for the wedding, Catherine had become quite animated, and seeing it, he had concurred in her desire to leave for Breckenridge as soon as possible. Only one small matter of discord had ensued. She had wished to put up at
Ardo
House, but he had insisted that she stay at
Branley
Park, her husband's residence until Lucy and Norton were legally married.

He was determined on
a reconciliation
and felt his goal could be sooner achieved if they had some little privacy.
Ardo
House was not the setting for what he had in mind, for he intended to court his Catherine all over again.

Nor was he without hope, he mused as he drank his coffee, for whatever Catherine might say or try to imply, their last lovemaking, although it had had a stormy beginning, had concluded on the deepest tenderness.

He smiled wryly to himself. Catherine had much to learn in the art of pleasuring a husband, and he intended to be her teacher, but in the few short months that they had been married, she had revealed things to him that he had never experienced before. He knew much about the art of sensual pleasure, but it was Catherine who knew about love itself. He knew how to seduce her senses to passion, but it was she who imbued his desire with some quality, some grace, that lifted it high above mere carnal lust.

Her regard for Henderson was something of a puzzle, but he had finally discarded the notion that there was anything serious to be feared in that quarter, on her part at least. She had responded to her husband's lovemaking in a way that convinced him that her heart was entirely his. But something had occurred to mar her happiness and he intended to discover what it was.

One week was all the time he would allow her to pursue her maidenly pleasures and enjoy the company of her family and friends. And then he would join her. But in the meantime, a whole empty week of utter boredom yawned before him; seven days and nights without Catherine, and already he was in a fever of impatience to be quit of London and carry her *off to
Fotherville
House.

Three days after Catherine set off for Breckenridge,
Rutherston
dined with his mother in Green Street. The ladies had but recently returned from a sojourn in Brighton, a resort made fashionable by the prince regent. It was a family gathering, with only four people present,
Beaumain
, who had come up to town to convey his duchess and her mother to his seat in Kent,
Rutherston
himself, and the two ladies.

The arrangement suited
Rutherston
very well, for he had yet to impart to his family the news of Catherine's pregnancy, and he knew better than to allow his mother to come by the information secondhand. He waited till dinner was over and the ladies were about to retire, and since he had no inclination to be thoroughly bored by that clod of a brother-in- law, Duke Henry, he asked if they might dispense with the after-dinner port.

His grace was a stupid man but shrewd, and when they rose to accompany the ladies to the drawing room, he clapped his brother-in-law heartily on the shoulder, and uttered, in what was meant to be a whisper, "So that's the way of it!" And when he saw

Rutherston's
look of pained surprise, he went on persistently, "Stands to reason.
Knew you wouldn't dine with us just for the pleasure of our company!"

The dowager marchioness, seeing that her son was on the point of making a stinging rejoinder, cast him a warning look and asked for his arm, and as he led her dutifully upstairs to her private sitting room, he was conscious of a feeling of déjà vu.

"Well, Richard, dear," the dowager began encouragingly when everyone was comfortably settled, "tell us of Catherine. Has she recovered from her attack of influenza?"

"Well, no Mama," he replied, smiling broadly at his mother, whom he held in the deepest respect, "Dr.
Strang
has advised me that this particular condition will last six months more, until it runs its course."

The dowager regarded her son fondly, the deepest contentment shining from her eyes, and he rose, moving toward her quickly to plant an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

"I am the happiest woman alive," she said tenderly, clutching his sleeve.

"Well, I never heard of influenza lasting six months, '
pon
my honor!" The raucous voice of the duchess made mother and son wince simultaneously.

"My dear Jane, Richard is advising us that Catherine is in a delicate condition. Their child, my grandchild, is expected in . . . February?" She looked for confirmation to
Rutherston
, who nodded his assent.

"Catherine?
In a delicate condition?
Well, the sly puss! Did she know when I asked her? She practically denied it!"

"You asked Catherine if she were pregnant?" asked
Rutherston
, dumbfounded. "And pray, when
did that interview take
place—for Catherine said nothing to me."

"Oh, it was just before the Carlton House soiree. I remember it well. You remember, Mama, I had a bilious attack that evening and you stayed home to nurse me." The duchess was quite unaware of the turmoil she had created in her brother's breast or his bellicose expression, and she turned to her husband fondly.

"Told her how I presented you with our firstborn nine months almost to the day we were wed, my dear."

Rutherston
spoke quietly and calmly, only half conscious of his mother's restraining hand on his sleeve.

"Pray continue, Jane. What else did you say to Catherine?"

"What? Oh, not much. She seemed quite agitated, for some reason or other. She didn't even wait for tea."

"Good God, Jane, tell me what you said to Catherine,"
Rutherston
exploded.

Duke Henry rose and took his stand by his wife's chair. "Look here,
Rutherston
, no need to take on like that. Why shouldn't Jane ask Catherine if she was in a delicate condition? Women are interested in that sort of thing."

The dowager marchioness, aware that her two offspring were about to become embroiled in the kind of quarrel she had so detested as they were growing up, now took firm control.

"Henry, Richard, sit down!
Jane dear, try to remember what you said to Catherine.
Obviously you offended her in some way—without meaning to, of course," she added hastily as she caught
Beaumain's
movement out of the corner of her eye.

Her grace looked properly pensive. "But Mama, I cannot think
what
offended her. I told her how
happy
we all were now that Richard had given up his ramshackle way of life to start his nursery."

Rutherston
groaned,
a phrase of Catherine's coming to mind that he had glossed over at the time. "Not our child, but your heir," was what she had said, and it had held no menace, no warning for him.

"Yes dear, go on," said the dowager encouragingly, who after years of practice knew just how to handle the duchess. "What more did you say?"

"I told her how
relieved
we had all been when Richard gave you his solemn promise that he would marry in his thirtieth year and how we had left him to be as wild as he pleased, since we knew that a
Fotherville
never
reneges on a promise. Perhaps it was unwise of me to have mentioned Lady Harriet, but what harm in that?"

"What harm indeed?" interjected
Rutherston
bit-
ingly
, a comment that was lost on his sister.

"And is that the whole of it?" asked the dowager.

"I did mention that we were surprised at how quickly Richard got himself leg-shackled, for nobody expected him to gratify your wishes so soon, Mama. You know it's true." The duchess now appealed to Duke Henry. "So you can see, I said nothing at all that could give Catherine offense."

"Quite right, my love," said her husband stolidly, glowering at
Rutherston
, who now held his head between both hands.

"Does it matter, Richard?" the dowager asked in concern.

"Yes, Mama, it matters a great deal. But at least I know now what I have to contend with."

"But what did I do?" wailed her grace.

"Nothing," snapped her brother, "but make my life a misery for the last number of weeks." His words startled the company, for it was the first indication that all was not well between the marquis and his lady.

"Mama," he said presently, "will you see me out?" And taking his leave of his crestfallen sister and his belligerent brother-in-law,
Rutherston
conducted the dowager marchioness downstairs.

He took his mother's hand in his. "May Catherine and I expect to see something of you later in the autumn?"

"At
Fotherville
House?"

"Where else would I be?"

"You are so like your father, dear. That house means a great deal to you, does it not? It is a great showpiece. I hope Catherine feels at home in it. I never could."

"But, Mama," he protested, "the house is perfection itself. It cannot be improved upon."

"Yes, dear, that is exactly how your father felt. But that is just what I mean. It is rather . . . impersonal. I never felt like the mistress of
Fotherville
House, merely a guest in it. If I were you . . . well never mind. You're old enough to conduct your own life."

"No, go on, Mama. If you were I . . . ?"

She turned to him impulsively. "Give Catherine a free hand, Richard. If you can bear it, let her change things. And if you can't bear it, then don't make
Fotherville
House your principal residence. You have other estates. Let her have some say in her future home. You'll never regret it if you do, not if her happiness means anything to you."

He looked steadily into his mother's inquiring eyes. "Her happiness means everything to me!"

The dowager marchioness kissed him softly on the cheek. "Then it
is a love match! I hoped it was, but you never confided in me. Do you know, my dear, when I heard how soon after your thirtieth birthday you had chosen a wife, I wondered."