Lady Catherine's Secret: A Secrets and Seduction book (8 page)

He willed it to mesmerize him. For a moment, he almost believed he could read something in the patterns, like reading tea leaves. But then he frowned at the glass. He’d find no blinding flashes of insight here. After all, it was only a glass of whiskey. And staring at it hadn’t managed to banish his edginess, either.

It would do a better job of relieving his tension if he simply drank it. He downed the liquid in one swallow. “My plan isn’t progressing at all,” he said.

“Yes, of course. Your ridiculous plan.”

Daniel shifted under his friend’s amused gaze. “I’m having trouble finding a highly respected woman who is willing to align herself with someone as—as unusual as I am. I believe ‘colorful’ is the most polite word I’ve heard used to describe me. Although I’ve also heard the words ‘bourgeois’ and ‘unbalanced’ bandied about.”

“Stop it.” Wentworth scowled at him. “With your title, you outrank everyone except a duke and the members of the royal family. Nobody would dare snub you.”

“Perhaps not openly, but once they factor in my shipping business, my lack of polish, my mother’s low birth, and the rumors of my father’s madness, I’m beyond redemption in the eyes of most members of London society.” He downed the contents of his glass in a single swallow, savoring the burn that turned into a spreading warmth. “The thing that provides me with the most satisfaction is the very thing these people find the most damning. My shipping business.”

“Why do you care what they think?” Wentworth said as he gestured angrily toward Daniel. “Why place so much emphasis on propriety? After all, your primary goal in this is to find a woman who can provide you with an heir, isn’t it? Why complicate the issue by insisting that she and her family also be paragons of propriety? Don’t you see your own hypocrisy?”

Daniel thumped his glass down on the sideboard and yanked the stopper from the decanter, sloshing another inch of liquid into his tumbler. “I know I’m not a saint, but I refuse to put my children through the same hell I endured.” He turned and glared at his friend. “You, better than anyone, know how much I suffered at Eton. You were there with me. How can you ask me why?”

Daniel clenched the glass as he remembered those first few months at Eton. The loneliness and abuse he’d endured had nearly broken him. He’d begun to believe everyone’s taunts. They were right about him. He was no good. Especially after the horrible things he’d done. They were unforgivable. How could he ever redeem himself?

The dogs of melancholy had nipped at his heels as they tried to chase him to ground. His depression must have been only a faint echo of what his father experienced on a daily basis, and it explained why the man had escaped into a bottle, eventually descending into madness. What if Daniel was destined for the same path? What if his regrets drove him mad as well?

As a path to salvation, he’d decided to lead a good life. A life above moral reproach. Stability and respectability would provide him with the lifelines he needed to stay connected to the world.

Wentworth strode toward him. “Your child will live his own life, and your influence won’t be as great as you believe. Each person’s nature shines through, whether he be a rebel, pirate, or prince. Do you think my parents planned on raising such a hothead?” he asked, taking a step back and gesturing toward himself in a broad sweeping motion. “You never knew my father, but passion was not in his nature. He was measured. Controlled. Even to the very end.” Wentworth paused at this, his gaze turning inward, as Daniel had noted it always did at the mention of his father. There was sorrow in his eyes, yes, but there was something more. Regret? Recrimination? Wentworth frowned and then shook himself, seeming to dispel whatever ghosts haunted him and focusing his gaze back on Daniel. “And you met my mother. She was a saint and had the patience and wisdom to prove it. I’m nothing like either of them. You act as though you believe you can relive your childhood through your son, but you have to face it, your childhood is gone. Even so, your experiences made you the man you are today. Find a woman who cares for the man you
are
, not the man she wants you to become. Have a contented life and a large family. That’s the only way you’ll ever find happiness.”

Daniel stared at his friend for a moment and then crossed to the fireplace where he rested his hand on the marble mantel and peered into the crackling flames. “Each person’s nature shines through, eh? That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” He’d never confided his secret to anyone. Not even Wentworth. His friend had come from a close-knit family, the kind of family Daniel wanted for himself.

To balance his own shortcomings, his wife
must
be above reproach. He needed someone like Lydia’s mother, Lady Larchmont. He wanted to give his children the life he should have had, the life his parents should have given him instead of all but abandoning him. After his mother had died giving birth to him, his father had cocooned himself inside his own misery and self-loathing, never to emerge.

Of course, his mother needed no forgiveness.

And his father
deserved
none.

Daniel could never absolve the man of his neglect and selfish withdrawal from the world. The only acceptance he’d found as a child had been from their servants at home and among the thieves and pickpockets on the streets of Edinburgh.

He sipped the smoky-flavored whiskey. At least Wentworth hadn’t mentioned love. Even
he
realized how little Daniel wanted that emotion to be a part of his life. Even though his father had been a recluse, he hadn’t always been that way. The servants whispered that when the old lord’s wife died, his soul had died too. They explained every strange sound, every unexpected draft in his home, by saying that the ghost of Lady Huntley was wandering throughout the manse, restless and weeping for what had been lost.

Daniel shook his head with a jerk, trying to clear the unpleasant memories from his mind.

“I can’t be content with living on the fringes of society and never fitting in. With having people look down their noses at me because of my past. Are you suggesting that I should accept that sort of life for my heir?” He paused, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’d never put a child of mine through that kind of torture. No,” he said in a tone sharp with conviction. “Whoever I choose as a wife will know the rules of society and raise our children to obey them. I won’t have them ostracized because of their parents.”

Wentworth gave him a hard stare. “You aren’t your father,” he said bluntly. “You aren’t a hermit who spurns society and offends his visitors. I only met the man once, and I found him to be selfish and weak-willed. You have nothing in common with him except your title.” He sighed heavily. “Don’t let the man ruin your life. He’s dead and gone.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to step into your father’s shoes and correct all of his mistakes. You didn’t have to pay his debts or right the wrongs. And you aren’t looked upon with loathing simply because of your name.” Daniel’s father wasn’t dead and gone. His legacy continued, and as Lord Huntley, Daniel had to fight it every day.

Wentworth tensed. “We all have histories and regrets. And we all have debts that must be paid in some form or another. Never presume your pain is greater than that of someone else.”

Daniel shrugged, hoping the gesture would serve as an apology. Wentworth simply didn’t know all of Daniel’s secrets, and he hoped to God he never would.

8 - What the Wind Blew In

Catherine felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she hurried back to her bedroom after spending a stolen hour running through fencing drills in the Kensington House ballroom. It would have been more fun if she’d had a sparring partner, but even working alone helped improve her skills. Every muscle felt limber and relaxed, but now she needed to prepare for dinner at Lady Wilmot’s.

She chose a low-necked gown of pale rose chiffon, and Simpson helped her into it, taking care not to tear the delicate, gossamer fabric. Simpson fastened the small hooks down the back of the bodice and then worked the clasp on a pink-and-white cameo necklace. She arranged Catherine’s hair so that masses of chestnut waves tumbled down her back and wisps of soft curls framed her face. Simpson tucked an errant lock of hair in place with a hairpin and carefully surveyed her work before nodding her approval to Catherine’s reflection.

Catherine glanced at the mantel clock in her bedroom. “It’s time.” She picked up her reticule and hurried down the stairs to join her mother, slipping her imagined social mask in place.

“Darling, you look absolutely stunning.” Her mother smiled up at her from the bottom of the stairs.

Catherine glided down the staircase to the foyer, taking in her mother’s dark-green dress. “Oh, Mother, you look lovely. Too bad Papa isn’t here to see you. And you’re wearing the emerald necklace and earbobs he gave you.”

“I expect you and I will make quite the sensation when we enter the room.” Mother reached out to brush a small bit of lint from Catherine’s shoulder and then carefully examined her dress for any other stray fibers. “Look at us. Together we look like a rose garden, you in that lovely shade of rose and me enhancing you with my ‘foliage.’”

With a faint smile, Catherine nodded. Tonight, she refused to let Mother’s penchant for both perfection and admiration wear on her. She fastened the clasp of her dark rose mantle, pulled on her gloves, and stepped outside to the waiting carriage.

Despite the gusting wind, the chill didn’t penetrate the carriage on the short trip to Lady Wilmot’s home, and they arrived as another carriage pulled away after delivering its passengers. As they exited the carriage, the brisk wind encouraged her to hurry inside after the other guests. The breeze whipped in through the front door with them, sending the group of people ahead of them scurrying into the drawing room. After they removed their mantles, Lady Kensington surreptitiously tucked a few stray windswept strands of Catherine’s hair back in place.

Mother’s unusual attempt at grooming her struck Catherine as extremely odd. As a rule, she didn’t fuss with Catherine’s hair in public. Mother considered that sort of behavior gauche. Was this simply another indicator of her determination to find her daughter an exemplary husband, or was something else going on?

She followed her mother into the drawing room and glanced around for any clues that might explain her odd behavior, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Another gust of wind heralded the entrance of a new group of guests, so Catherine glanced back to see who had arrived.

There, in the doorway, stood Lord Huntley and Lord Wentworth.

Startled, Catherine’s heart skipped a beat. She spun on her heel, turning her back to the men.

Blast!

She was always careful to avoid anyone she fenced. That’s why she rode such a great distance to attend Bernini’s Academy. Most people preferred to practice someplace close to their homes, and they also tended to socialize with the same set of friends, so it had been easy to keep clear of people from the academy. But if Huntley and Wentworth traveled in the same circles she did, avoiding them would be quite a challenge.

Given her limited options at a dinner party, she’d simply have to try to evade them tonight.

Elizabeth caught her eye and crossed the room to join her. “This evening should be interesting,” she said by way of greeting. “Mother has a new French chef. Although he’s a bit of a tyrant, his food is absolutely divine. Honestly, I have had
dreams
about his chocolate torte.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.

Catherine laughed at her friend’s expression. “How do you manage to keep your figure? I’d be the size of a carriage if I ate as much as you do.”

“You’re one to talk. I’ve seen the amount food you eat. I know ladies are supposed to eat like birds, but I’ve never been able to pass up something delicious unless my corset was tied too tight.”

From across the room, Lady Wilmot motioned for them to join her. Catherine smiled her acknowledgment of the summons and she and Elizabeth linked arms as they wove their way through the guests to join her.

“Look,” Elizabeth murmured, leading the way. “There’s the Frenchman I mentioned. Monsieur LeCompte.”

Catherine followed Elizabeth’s gaze to see an elegant man with his arm draped above the fireplace mantel. His pose showed off his lean frame to its best advantage, but the image seemed contrived. “He’s preening,” she whispered into Elizabeth’s ear.

“He’s good at that. I think the ‘fireplace drape’ is his favorite pose.” They exchanged grins.

As they arrived at Lady Wilmot’s side, the man she was speaking with turned his head just enough for Catherine to recognize his profile. Lord Huntley? How did he get across the room so quickly?

She slowed her step, but Elizabeth pulled her forward, apparently unaware of her hesitation. As Huntley turned to face them, Catherine stumbled slightly.

He cocked an eyebrow.

Blast the man.
Catherine blushed under his critical gaze. Although her stumble was embarrassing, the less he associated her with the athletic Alexander Gray, the better. It might be too late to avoid meeting him, but perhaps facing him was the better alternative. She tried to convince herself that she remained standing before him by choice, and not because she was being held in place by Elizabeth’s gentle grip on her arm.