She eyed the closed door beside the fireplace. It led into a passageway around the house to the servants' hall, a possible means of escape if the need arose.
"Psst.
Miss Grant."
Smythe, standing motionless at the sideboard, suddenly came to life. Oh, no, she thought. She recognized that eager look in his eye. It boded ill.
He scooted around the table on the pretense of refilling her cup. She knew exactly what he was about to ask of her. She didn't need mystical help to predict this unfortunate part of human nature. How could she have forgotten? In the excitement of the previous evening, she had managed to ignore what invariably followed in the aftermath of one of her visions, the human curiosity, the desire to use Catriona's foresight to satisfy personal needs.
Glancing out into the hall, Smythe said quietly, "Miss Grant, I know it is an imposition, but as you have shown yourself to be the heart of kindness, I was wondering if you could use your powers—"
She covered her face with her hands, peeping at him through her fingers as he continued.
"—to help me make a decision. I've taken all my savings to place a bet on the races, and I was wondering if you might advise me on which horse is liable to win."
By mid-afternoon her reputation as a soothsayer had spread to the outer fringes of West Briarcombe. The village chandler sent her a box of beeswax candles with a written plea for a personal interview on the matter of his only son, missing at sea. Lord Beckwith wanted to know if he should invest in tea caddies. Another letter arrived from a "Sir Somebody" asking that Catriona put her powers to work to determine if the child his young wife carried was the product of an adulterous affair.
If the child was his, Catriona was instructed to wave a white sheet from her window at nine o'clock the next morning. In the unhappy event that "Sir S" had not sired the thing, any red article of clothing could be used to convey the bad news.
Catriona did not want to disappoint anyone, but she could not make predictions on command. She never knew herself when a vision would come. The horrible things affected her so profoundly, she wished they would just go away.
By four o'clock, she had also received two more marriage proposals, which left Olivia agonizing over what must be done. It was clear to her that Cat needed to be married without delay, not only to defuse this infatuation between her and Knight but also to restore peace to the estate. Despite the fact that Knight and Catriona seemed hell-bent on marriage, Olivia was not yet ready to accept defeat.
"Perhaps Sir Alistair is too old for her," she confided in Marigold over tea. "And he never leaves his house."
"Except to visit the whores," Wendell said without thinking.
Olivia's and Marigold's heads lifted in unison like a hydra's. "What did you say?" Olivia asked in a choked voice.
"Whores," Marigold said, frowning at her. "My goodness, Olivia, a man does have certain physical needs, or have you forgotten? At least we know he is capable of fulfilling his marital obligations. Catriona will desire children."
Olivia put her pen to her lips. "Wendell, you referred to these 'relationships' in the plural. How many of these women does he keep?"
"Two, I think." He scratched his knee with his riding quirt. "Perhaps more. I don't know as he actually keeps them. I was under the impression that he paid them random visits when growing roses did not provide enough stimulation."
Two of these women, perhaps more? Surely not at the same time. Olivia was appalled at the thought. One mistress for a lonely man was conceivable, but not a bacchanalian orgy. She could not possibly entrust Catriona to such a man.
"Oh," she said, frowning at Wendell. "I do not believe you. How would you know whether Sir Alistair visits these women?"
He tossed the quirt into the air and caught it. "I have said enough."
Marigold looked at Olivia. "Oftentimes the quiet ones are the worst. And there is something a little off about a man who spends his spare hours growing flowers."
Olivia lowered her pen and surreptitiously drew a line through Sir Alistair's name. Two women, indeed. At the same time. Unwholesome man. "I thought he was such a perfect match."
Wendell smiled at her. "We never know what secrets a man harbors in his heart, do we?"
She sighed. "I suppose not." And she completely missed the message in his eyes, the devotion there that he could no longer hide. Wendell had always been part of their lives. She assumed it was his friendship to Lionel and Knight that kept him there, practically a member of the family, when he had such vast resources at his disposal.
In fact, until recently, she'd never asked herself why he was not off in London with a mistress of his own. Heaven knew there was hardly a more eligible, attractive man in England, and if she weren't a widow, she might have yearned for him herself. But only in secret, of course.
"We shall work on you next," she said offhandedly. "We shall find a wife for Wendell."
"God forbid." He flicked the riding quirt across the sofa. "That will be the day."
To those who darkened his door
in the following week in the hope of asking Catriona Grant what the future held for them, Knight had the same rude reply: "The future holds a viscount with an intolerance for fools and a monumental temper. Go away."
He resented being unable to spend time alone with his fiancée; nobody had thwarted Knight's plans to such a frustrating degree since childhood. Nobody would stop him from having the woman he wanted, that was a fact. In view of Olivia's attitude, however, and Catriona's sudden blaze to fame, he decided that their marriage could not wait. He wanted to take care of her. He wanted to spend time with her on his own terms.
His behavior had become a bit of an embarrassment. It wasn't enough to share hot looks with her across the room. He was consumed with the seduction of his future wife, and all the complications that such a conquest, in one's own house with not only an aging aunt but also a moral-minded sister and housekeeper looking on, entailed. Sneaking about might add a certain spice to his encounters with his betrothed, but he and Catriona had been caught in flagrante delicto by the servants so many times that neither of them could look Mrs. Evans in the eye.
"I don't think she believed you when you told her you had dropped your quizzing glass down my cleavage, Knight."
"Probably not." He grinned. "Especially since I've never been known to use one in my life."
She shook her head. "And I'm not sure, when she found me sitting on your lap in the study, that she was quite convinced we were conjugating French verbs."
"That's a shame." His eyes twinkled with unholy humor. "Because I have quite a few more French lessons planned for you in the near future."
He simply could not keep his hands off her for three minutes straight. He kissed her behind the drawing-room door. He followed her down the stairs and through the garden. He touched her every chance that was afforded him. His gaze followed her, claimed her, and he didn't care who knew it, because it was only a matter of time before she became his wife.
By the end of the week, he had memorized the curves of her body through layers of muslin and lace. He had learned which precise spot to nibble on her shoulder to make her shiver uncontrollably. He had found the tiny mole on her hip, the scar on her left ankle. When he caught her on the way upstairs to change for dinner, he murmured, "Meet me in the summerhouse after everyone else has gone to bed."
"What for?" she whispered, aware that Wendell and Olivia were watching them from below.
He caught her hand. "So I can have you to myself."
"Oh, really, Knight, I—" He rubbed his thumb across the tender flesh of her palm. My goodness, what had she been about to say? She literally trembled in her shoes at the sight of him, aroused to the point of walking into chairs, wrestling at night with the bedsheets, every nerve ending on edge. Oh, the wicked things he did to her with his mouth and hands, the promises he whispered in her ear that set her blood on fire.
He leaned into her, his huge body forcing her against the cast-iron balustrade. She gave a helpless giggle. "Are you quite mad? Wendell and Olivia are
watching
us."
He bent his head and slid his hands around her waist. "Is that a fact? Do you know that your skin is as delicious as Devon cream? No, you are mistaken— Wendell is distracting Olivia to allow me this necessary indulgence. I require touching you as other men need air. Observe him if you don't believe me. He's turned her away from us, and tonight when we are finally alone, he will be distracting her again."
"What?" Shocked and aching with desire at the same time, she peered over his shoulder to discover that Wendell had indeed gently guided Olivia back down the hall. "Oh, how humiliating," she whispered. "Don't tell me he
knows
what you are planning to do."
He raised his head and stared at her, his look unapologetic and amused. "It isn't exactly a secret. I think he feels sorry for me, if you must know."
"Has he done this sort of thing for you before?" she asked in annoyance. "Made himself a distraction, I mean."
"Never to this degree." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "Never when my very heart was at stake."
"Our lives will be at stake if Olivia finds out," she said pragmatically. "How does he plan to distract her?"
"Duke has his charms."
"Yes, I've noticed."
His eyes narrowed. "Is that right?"
"Are you jealous of him, too?" she asked in an incredulous voice.
"My dear," he said gravely, "I am jealous of that numbskull Howard when he hands you your gloves. Catriona, please. I cannot bear this. I want to be with you tonight."
Her stomach gave a nervous flutter. "In the summerhouse?"
"We will elope tomorrow night, after Wendell and I finish amending our plans for the clay pits."
"Elope?" Her heart began to pound at the thought. "But why?"
"I want to meet this brother of yours," he said, drawing away at the sound of footsteps in the hall below. "If I am to bail him out of his gambling woes, I suppose I am obliged at least to counsel him on avoiding future trouble. And my parents eloped. They loved each other devotedly until death. We'll get married on the way to Scotland without all the bother and delays of a wedding here."
A warm flush shimmered over her. She could not possibly have heard him correctly, but it would be good to make amends with James before she devoted herself to her happy new life, even though there would be a few embarrassing moments. She was going to have to explain to Knight about the awful fight she'd had with James over her refusal to marry that old man. "My brother is an irresponsible rogue," she said quietly. "You will never see a shilling of your investment even if he manages to save his estates."
"Did I give the impression that I cared a fig about my returns? There is something I want from this transaction that is far more valuable than money."
"And what would that be?" Olivia said, suddenly standing two steps below him, her eyes bright with disapproval.
He glanced past her at Wendell, who shrugged apologetically as if to say he had tried his best to restrain her. "Do
you
want something, Olivia?" Knight asked her coolly.
"Yes, actually, I was hoping to use the stairs. I do believe it's the only way to reach our rooms so that Catriona and I can dress for the evening." She reached around Knight to take Catriona's hand. "The pair of you may carry on this scintillating conversation at dinner."
"This is my house, Olivia," he said. "I reckon I should be able to chat with anyone where and when I choose."
Olivia looked around to make sure that none of the servants was in earshot before she said, "But we all know that you were engaging in so much more than a 'chat,' don't we?"
Catriona lowered her eyes, fighting the impulse to laugh. "I shall see you at dinner, my lord," she murmured, moving past him.
And afterward,
he thought, his gaze glittering with desire as she disappeared from sight.
* * *
At ten o'clock that same evening, after an uneventful dinner, a door creaked open upstairs. Olivia tensed, glancing from the doorway of Knight's study to the grandfather clock in the hall beyond. The creaking from above was only Marigold, taking on her nightly watch of the bedchambers, which meant that Mrs. Evans should be beginning to patrol the garden right about now.
A half-minute later, the shadow of a masculine figure appeared in the lower reaches of the hallway and headed for the study. Olivia bolted from the doorway and made a mad dash for her brother's desk. Ought she to hide and catch the pair of them in the act? Gracious, no. That would be too vulgar by half, but all of a sudden there wasn't much choice. She would have to crouch under the desk and hope to confront Knight before Catriona sneaked downstairs to meet him.
Except that it wasn't Knight who appeared in the doorway.
"Wendell?" she whispered, crawling out from beneath the desk, her voice low with embarrassment.
"Olivia?" he said as she stood to face him in the dying firelight.
She stared into his aristocratic face and felt a small flutter of confusion as he closed the door behind him. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.
"Knight had asked me earlier to review the books for the firm." He leaned one shoulder back against the door. "Why are you here? Under his desk, of all places?"
"I came to look for a book," she said lamely.
She stared at him, completely caught off guard by the sudden flurry of feelings that assailed her. How remarkable that her gangly, boyish neighbor had grown into such a good-looking man. She really did need to find him a respectable wife. Obviously not Catriona, and—oh, no. Did she hear voices outside, or was that the wind in the treetops? She'd noticed another breeze tonight in the garden.
She moved toward the door, unsettled that she had allowed him to distract her.
"Did you find one?" he asked.
"One what?" she said blankly.
He took her hand, pushing away from the door. "I'll help you look, although there isn't a great deal of a titillating nature to choose from. How does
Business Failures in the West Country
sound? A little dull for bedtime literature, if you ask me."
She was startled by the sensual heaviness of his hand on her wrist. What was he doing? Was he trying to disarm her? She glanced around in alarm. "It must be this room," she thought aloud. "Something in the furnishings must put ideas of a romantic nature into a man's mind."
Wendell stroked the sensitive underside of her wrist with his thumb. "My dear Olivia, what are you talking about?"
"Are you—" She swallowed, falling silent as he gently turned her toward him. From the dark warren of outbuildings behind the house, a dog barked. "So, that's what this is all about," she said, narrowing her eyes. "You are part of Knight's rotten little plan to distract his sister. I should have known—the pair of you will never change."
"Olivia." His blue eyes were aflame with amusement as he lowered his mouth to hers, silencing her with a kiss. "Knight has absolutely nothing to do with this."
And it was true.
* * *
Knight turned away from the dusty brocade couch the instant he saw Catriona appear in the archway to the summerhouse. He had forgotten the impromptu picnics held there years ago, the evenings spent with brandy and friends in the pleasant shadows of the garden. In fact, the place had not been disturbed in ages—there was a wheelbarrow in the corner heaped with dead bluebells, a shovel against a flowerpot, a bottle of old cognac tucked in the cushions of the couch.
The past came back to him in a poignant rush of images. Olivia had been picking bluebells in the garden the day he'd come home. He remembered her flushed face beneath her bonnet. He'd asked her there to deliver the news about Lionel, which the family had kept secret until Knight's return. None of them had used the summerhouse since, and the ghosts of who they had been might have broken his heart had Catriona Grant not arrived at that moment to heal it.
The bittersweet memories dissolved as he studied her; ivy leaves framed her graceful form, and her hair flowed over her shoulders in wanton disarray. Utterly unaware of the effect she had on him, she frowned and bent to pluck a twig from between her bare toes.
"Shoes, brat?" he said in a mild reproach. Nothing in his voice gave away his irrational fear that she might not show up for their naughty rendezvous. Nothing in his manner revealed how much he hated being away from her. "Civilized people in these parts do wear them, you know."
"Not when they're trying to sneak past Aunt Marigold and Mrs. Evans," she retorted. "Do you know your housekeeper actually has a telescope? I swear, she almost spotted me on the bridge. One would think I had just escaped from the Tower of London."
"Well," he said as he drew her up the stairs and into his arms, "I wouldn't mind keeping you in a tower myself, now that you mention it."
He kissed her then, and he kept kissing her, until her halfhearted protests that this really wasn't right turned into sighs of surrender. He ran his hands down the arch of her back to her bottom, pulling her against the support of his hard thighs.
"Nothing underneath." His breath caressed her cheek. "Very nice."
"I didn't have time," she whispered, her face turning pink. "Not with Olivia popping into my room every five seconds to make certain I hadn't disappeared. I think she was on patrol in your study."
His eyes burned down into hers. "I think I am going to die of wanting you."
She smiled mischievously. "Of course you won't."
"I will. Listen." He took her hand and placed it against his chest. She could feel the wild beating of his heart through his shirt, his muscles contracting at her touch. "Before you distract me further, let me tell you about our elopement," he said, his voice suddenly solemn. "I want you to meet me here tomorrow night at eleven. I'll have a carriage waiting at the edge of the woods. We would have escaped tonight except that Wendell and I still haven't agreed on our plans for Cornwall."
"But shouldn't we tell Olivia?"
He turned her toward the couch. "The purpose of an elopement is to elude one's relatives."
She frowned, sinking down onto the musty cushions. "She has her heart set on a formal wedding."
"And I have my heart set on you." He sat down next to her. "I simply will not tolerate my sister parading suitors in my house for the purpose of stealing the woman I love. What if one of them catches your eye?"
"My guardian would never have it." She gave him a demure smile that turned his blood molten. "He's an absolute beast."
"A beast who absolutely loves you. You really should listen to his advice."
"Well, he's warned me about men like you, too," she whispered. "About rakes who lure young women into summerhouses and the wicked things they do."
He slipped his hand around her back and deftly began to unhook her gown. He tugged the puffed sleeves off her shoulders, exposing her perfectly shaped breasts to his warm regard. "Obviously, you have decided to find out the truth for yourself."