Twice the Temptation (31 page)

“Not a shilling and not a dollar,” Lucas repeated, his tone brooking no argument. 

All the polish and breeding in the world, couldn’t hide his mother’s true nature as naked fury gave her expression an almost feral look. 

“Everything you have is because of me. Had I not married your father, you’d have had nothing to inherit upon his death.” 

“What father left me was a company that for seventeen years was grossly mismanaged and teetering on the brink of bankruptcy when I took over. It was I who saved it.” And since his mother had no concept of how to live within her means, she’d recklessly spent the trickle of revenue that had been coming in. 

Three years after his father’s death, she’d married Mr. Templeton and had Patrick the year after. His stepfather had left the family comfortably off when he died. The money was gone in no time flat. That’s when his mother had married Mr. Fairchild, who’d been the second son of a baron. He’d moved to America at the age of twenty-two to make his fortune. He’d died three years after Lydia was born and over the next decade, his mother had dwindled down that fortune to almost nothing. 

At that time, the financial responsibility of his brother and sisters—and selfish mother—had landed on his shoulders with a resounding thud. 

“So you shall leave me to starve on the streets? For all your parsimonious ways, I never took you to be heartless.” 

Her attempt to undermine him with guilt had long been exhausted. His mother had been more than well cared for. 

“You will always have a roof over your head, food to eat and clothes on your back,” he replied coolly, unwilling to budge from his position even a little. “If you marry this one, make sure he has the means to keep you in the creature comforts to which you are so accustomed.” 

“You may have taken after your father in appearance but I can see you did not when it came to generosity,” she bit out in disgust. 

Ha!
His father had obviously been blind to his mother’s faults—of which she had in abundance. 

“If that is all, mother, I must return to Reading.” 

“You will not dismiss me like some underling, Lucas, I am your
mother
.” 

Would that he could forget. Better yet, would that it wasn’t so. 

She stood and towered above him, hands akimbo. He countered and topped her easily by more than half a foot. He stared down into her spitting eyes and flushed face. 

“Do you believe me to be stupid?” Her voice was a soft hiss, calculating and dangerous. “I know what you were doing, paying those gentlemen not to marry me. Did you not think I would learn? That it wouldn’t slip somehow?” 

Lucas expressed only mild surprise at that. He
had
always wondered, though. But his mother had never said a word to him when the men had quietly disappeared from her life. He’d thought her own shame had kept her silent, that she’d been so wrong about their true feelings for her. 

He didn’t know what was worse, that she’d always known or that she’d always known but hadn’t said a word about it until now. 

“Then you must have known how little regard they had for you,” he stated unapologetically. 

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “I imagine it was just as I had for them that I would permit your machinations time and time again.” 

Lucas gritted his teeth not to issue a rebuttal. His mother was truly a manipulative woman. What had they done, split the proceeds and laughed uproariously while they frittered away every last penny? 

“But I’m a grown woman who’s already loved and lost in my life. I was never looking for love. But your brother was. Do you think he’ll ever forgive you when he discovers
your
deceit? What do you think he’ll say when he learns it was you who drove Miss Glenross away?” she asked softly, smugly, victory glittering in her eyes. 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE
 

L
ucas’s message arrived after Catherine had consumed a breakfast of bacon, poached eggs, and buttered toast. She fairly snatched it from the salver the footman held out to her and quickly repaired to the morning room to read it in private.

Dearest Catherine,
Nothing would have pleased me more than to have awakened in your bed this morning. Short of that, I intended to call on you this afternoon. Unfortunately, family matters have called me back to London. I expect to return by Friday, in time for the duke’s house party. Until then, I hope you will dream of me as you are never far from my thoughts.
Your humble servant,
Lucas

Catherine dearly hoped nothing had happened to his sisters. But certainly if it had had something to do with their health or welfare, he would have said so in the letter. Of course he would, she thought with a reassuring nod to herself. 

She read the message again in a ridiculous hope that somehow it would say something different than it had the first time. But it did not. Lucas would not be calling on her today and the next time she would see him was at the house party. 

The house party.
 

The thought of what was to come, how she would attempt to deceive and then seduce him pricked like a hummingbird’s beak at her conscience. The battle waging inside her mind escalated the closer it drew to the event. 

But she was doing this for them, for their future happiness. Shoving her gloomier thoughts aside, she lowered the letter to her lap and ran her fingertip under the first sentence. 

Nothing would have pleased me more than to have awakened in your bed this morning.
 

She smiled, feeling positively giddy thinking about the prior night. Making love with Lucas had been so much more than she’d ever expected. The pleasure to be had at his hands was staggering. And the things he could do with his mouth and his hands—and dear Lord, his tongue—was positively sinful. 

The only blemish on her introduction to the true pleasures of the flesh had been her outburst. Where that had come from, she still couldn’t fully say. All she knew was that suddenly she looked down at her
dishabille
and had been mortified by her behavior. That she should allow herself to be taken in such a way, so very uncivilized and unrestrained. No regard had been given to her clothing—indeed the seam at the waist of her gown had been torn—and his trousers hadn’t made it past his knees. Only the pertinent parts of their bodies had been bared. Enough to do the deed. 

The doubts had hit her then. Had she been a virgin would he have taken more care with her, not have been so demanding? She imagined he would have stripped her of her gown and undergarments with the utmost care and made sweet but passionate love to her. 

But her own response clearly stated that she hadn’t wanted tender and gentle. She’d wanted him as wild as he’d been, as hard with his thrusts and as ravenous with his kisses. 

Time had permitted them to do it again in all their naked glory. The skin on skin contact had been exhilarating and he’d kissed her senseless and pleasured her to unconsciousness. He’d eventually slipped quietly from the house to meet his driver on the main road a half-mile away. 

She in turn had donned her nightclothes and crawled into her bed. She’d slept like a woman after a thorough ravishing and had awoken deliciously sore. 

Only now she was not to see him until the day after next. But that also meant she wouldn’t have to cry off from supper with Olivia and Meghan, which was what she had intended to do had Lucas remained. 

Catherine whiled the day away, spending part of it penning a letter to Amelia and her friend, Elizabeth Creswell, who was also expecting her third child at the end of the summer. She then took a trip out to the school construction site and was happy to see the windows in and the walls up in both buildings. 

After returning home, she’d bathed and had Esther redress her hair. For her gown, she chose a simple dinner dress of white muslin. Fuller at the shoulders, the sleeves tapered off at the wrist and the full skirt was scalloped at the edge. In her estimation, she looked perfectly presentable. 

W
hen Catherine arrived at Winsgate, she was led to the parlor where she found Meghan waiting for their hostess to join them.

“Ah, you did come. I thought perhaps your American had spirited you away,” Meghan said, giggling. 

“I do wish you would stop referring to him as my American. Luc—Mr. Beaumont does have a name. There is more to a man than his country origins,” she said mildly, pulling off her gloves. 

Meghan rose from her chair and advanced toward her. “Indeed? And just how much more to him is there, pray tell?” she asked, letting out a choked laugh. 

Catherine’s face heated. “You are completely incorrigible,” she scolded. 

“You know you love me just as I am, isn’t that so?” Meghan teased. 

“What is taking Olivia so long?” Catherine had learned from experience that the duke’s chef—no one dared to refer to him as a cook, at least not in his presence—Monsieur Marceau was as strict about the time supper was served, as he was particular about the cut of meat he used to prepare the meal. He ran the kitchen as if the fate of the world depended on how succulent the game served and how empty the plates when they were returned to the kitchen. At present, the dinner bell would chime in five minutes. 

“I absolutely forbid you from changing the subject. You must tell me, when last have you seen your American? What happened when he escorted you home the night of the ball? Did he have his way with you?” she asked, her green eyes dancing. 

Catherine smiled and replied sotto voce, “Three times.” 

Just then, Olivia entered the room. Trailing behind her was her brother. 

Meghan, who’d been about to speak, immediately fell silent. 

“Look who is down from London?” Olivia announced, grinning up at him. 

Lord Granville caught Catherine’s gaze and bestowed on her one of his roguish smiles. His attention then went to Meghan and his smile disappeared just like that. 

“Good evening, ladies,” he said bending at the waist in a bow. 

“Good evening, Lord Granville.” Catherine said, dipping to a shallow curtsey. 

She sensed a moment of panic in Meghan before her mouth curved into a smile. “Lord Granville,” she said sweetly but she didn’t sound like herself at all. 

“I persuaded Rhys to join us for supper as Papa won’t be able to.” 

Lord Granville laughed wryly and shot a glance at his sister. “I don’t remember you needing to do that much convincing at all.” 

“That is right. It’s not every day you have the honor of our company.” 

“Yes, three very charming and beautiful women. I’m the envy of every man alive, I’m sure,” the earl replied, all mock sincerity. 

The dinner bell chimed. 

“Come, let us go. You know how Monsieur Marceau gets if we’re late.” Olivia turned and led the way. 

Rhys stepped back and gestured with his hand for them to precede him. Meghan was unusually silent on the walk to the second dining room. 

Catherine preferred this one to the principal one, which seated fifty people comfortably. The smaller one was no less ornate, the crystal chandelier no less brilliant but the room was a third the size, and the table was made for a party of twelve. And its cozier dimensions meant one didn’t have cause to shout to speak to the person sitting directly across from them. 

They were quickly seated, Rhys at the head, Olivia to his left and Catherine and Meghan on his right. The first course, a hearty vermicelli soup, came at once, the main course not very long after. Apparently they were all ravenous. 

Conversation did not commence in earnest until Olivia turned to her brother and asked, “Is it true, Rhys, that you have finally settled on a bride? Papa hinted that I should prepare myself for a wedding.”