Twice the Temptation (4 page)

For a moment, Lord Landry stood stock-still as did they all, including Miss North. His jaw might well have dropped to the ground had his hand not flown to cradle his injured cheek. “Miss North, I—”

“You, my lord,” she spat the address as if assailed by something foul, “are the worst sort of man, and I see you would have made a deplorable husband.” A swipe of her hand across cheeks awash with tears did nothing to dam their flow. Despite her obvious distress, she stood tall—all five feet two inches of her—her brown eyes lit with a glacier fury and unbearable hurt. “Your talents lie at pretense. But I will be gullible for not one second longer. Tomorrow you will seek out my father and ensure he withdraws his approval of the marriage.
You
will bear the brunt of it. Although neither is palatable, I would rather endure Society’s pity than their scorn and be ignored.”

Lord Landry moved his mouth as if to speak but the ire lighting Miss North’s eyes commanded he not utter another word.

She turned to Catherine, her expression anguished. “Miss Rutherford, m-my apologies. You have al-always been kind to me and you did not deserve to be pr-propositioned in this manner.” The girl’s chin began a violent trembling.

A wave of despair locked up Catherine’s throat that nearly brought
her
to tears. “Miss North, you owe me nothing. It aggrieves me greatly that you had to witness this.” If there had been another way, a kinder way to expose the true character of the viscount, Catherine would have gladly employed it one hundred times over. But her experience with Miss Claremont and others had shown
this
to be the most expeditious and effective method.

“I beg you, Miss North. It is not what you think.” Apparently willing to risk further repudiation, the viscount extended his hand toward her in another attempt to be heard.

Far from being swayed by the beseeching gesture, it appeared to harden Miss North’s resolve, for her spine snapped straight and her pointed chin angled up. Without turning her red-rimmed eyes toward him, she brushed aside wisps of light brown hair that stuck wetly to her cheek. “You are a
pitiable
excuse of a man and I
pity
the woman who has the misfortune to land you.”

With that, she made her way back to the ballroom, the lace bordering the hem of her satin gown dragging along the cold flagstone. Olivia, who had stood mute throughout, gave Catherine a barely perceptible nod. She maintained her silence and followed Miss North back inside to begin the real work—trying to placate her.

With their departure, a silence as thick and noxious as the fear that undoubtedly had Lord Landry by the throat descended. Catherine wanted the full import of what he’d done and what he’d just lost to penetrate and marinate. Indeed, let him stew.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and her tone calm. She looked him directly in the eye but maintained a good distance. “You thought me the kind of woman who would trifle with another woman’s betrothed? You thought me the kind of woman who would be content to be some man’s mistress?”

The viscount flushed a dull red and averted his gaze.

She had trained her voice not to convey any residual hurt or resentment that had plagued her the past six years she’d mingled with the upper ten thousand. She utilized this skill with cutting precision now. “While my blood may not be as blue as yours and my illegitimacy broadly scorned, make no mistake, my lord, I am more a lady than you are a gentleman. Not only does Miss North deserve better than the likes of you, so do I, and every woman of my acquaintance.”

His regard snapped back to her, his blue eyes narrowed and his lips parted, appearing poised to respond to her condemnation of his character. Then as if he thought better of it, he snapped his mouth closed.

Unable and unwilling to suffer his presence a moment longer, Catherine followed the path of the last two women to take their leave of him. She was nearly at the terrace doors when a softly spoken expletive ended the viscount’s silence. Her stride didn’t falter nor did her conviction waver. Whether he cursed her or himself, she didn’t much care.

T
hree days later, the three friends had returned to the country. That Wednesday they met at Winsgate, the Duke of Wiltshire’s estate in Berkshire. Olivia, the duke’s daughter, played hostess.

Catherine had not been seated a full five minutes before agitation brought her abruptly to her feet. “At this rate, no young lady will likely marry. Including Miss North, we have a total of four broken betrothals in the span of six months.” Her lavender skirts whispered and swirled as she spun on her heels and began pacing the parquet floors of the parlor.

After Miss Claremont had approached her the year past, Catherine had told Olivia and Meghan what she intended to do. They had not simply been supportive of her decision to help
dear Miss Claremont
but had both insisted on helping in any way they could.

Jubilant in her successful outcome, Miss Claremont had then begged them to help a friend of hers. Unable to refuse her tearful entreaty, it had been decided that Meghan—who was more to the gentleman’s preference—would take on that assignment. Soon she and her friends found themselves testing one gentleman a month, sometimes even two.

Meghan stilled in the process of stirring two cubes of sugar into her tea and lifted pale green eyes to follow Catherine’s progress. “That could only happen if
all
the women were aware or cared to utilize our services. There are many who could care one way or the other if their husband remains faithful.” Her shoulders shook as she huffed out a laugh. “There are even some who prefer that he do not. After the children have come, it saves them from duties they would prefer to avoid.”

“I think it would depend on the man,” Olivia said, smiling impishly. “For a man like Lord Westlake, I would demand my conjugal rights if he thought to withhold them. But a man like Lord Crawley would require a contractual agreement that he take two mistresses to save me the exercise.”

Meghan nearly choked on her tea and peals of girlish laughter filled the room. Catherine laughed despite herself.

Lord Westlake was excessively handsome but it was no secret he needed to marry an heiress, which unfortunately placed him in the fortune hunter column. Lord Crawley was simply odious.

It took more than a minute for the women to bring themselves under control. Catherine’s tittering petered off to a sorrowful sigh. The reality of the failures did not amuse her.

Her whole chest heaved with the next sigh. “But for the last four to fail?” She searched her friends’ faces for traces of the same hopeless despair that now consumed her. When she found none, she wondered if it was peevish of her to be a little resentful of the fact.

“I’ve given up on ever marrying, but you both shall marry one day. Does it not concern you that, on the most part, men cannot be trusted? This experience has led me to believe a faithful husband is a grand illusion. A dream.”

“But of course you shall marry,” Olivia scoffed.

“Then your sister and sister-in-law are both living a fairy tale. Can you imagine, a husband who is handsome, titled, wealthy,
and
adores you?” Meghan enumerated the attributes on her fingers. “You’re right, my dear. It
is
the stuff of dreams.”

“And you mustn’t forget Lord and Lady Armstrong. I believe she’s expecting again. Catherine isn’t this her third?” Olivia asked.

Catherine nodded mutely. Yes, she was surrounded by happy marriages, doting husbands and loving wives. James and his two friends had married years ago, and all claimed not to have suffered one day of regret. Indeed, Charlotte had married her brother’s friend, Alex Cartwright, the future Duke of Hastings, to tie the whole affair into a lovely bow.

“I’m beginning to despair they are the last of a dying breed.” Logically, Catherine knew there must be men out there like her brother and his friends, to whom fidelity wasn’t merely promises made to be broken. To whom fidelity would not be cast aside at the hint of a well-shaped ankle. Would not be considered expendable at the sight of a pretty face or a flirtatious smile. And would not be rendered useless to a pair of ample breasts.

“You mustn’t worry overmuch with Miss North. Miss Claremont was correct in sending her to us. She has three things in her favor. She is young, pretty, and wealthy. She will recover. Lord Landry is far from the only man in London with a handsome countenance and pleasing manners. The next time she’ll find a man with integrity. A man who won’t succumb to temptations of the flesh.”

Of course, Meghan was correct. However, the image that persisted in her thoughts was the sight of the poor girl curled up on the chaise lounge in the ladies’ dressing room, convulsing with every sob. She and Olivia had tried their best to console her, but no amount of consoling could mend a heart torn asunder by betrayal and grief. Only time and distance had that restorative effect.

Catherine continued to wear the tread on the silk rug in front of the settee and sofa where her friends took their repose. “She is such a sweet girl. Eighteen only last month.”

“Still very young. She has several more seasons to find someone else—though I hardly think it will take that time at all,” Meghan remarked. “By the end of the Season, she’ll forget the dratted man even exists.”

“Truly Catherine dear, must you pace so? You’re giving my neck quite the crimp,” Olivia chided lightly but she appeared more intent on studying the pastries on the serving dish.

Meghan dismissed her friend’s remark with an affectionate flick of her wrist. “Pace all you want Catherine. Perhaps it will put you in a better state of mind when I tell you you’ll be called on again and it will be as soon as tomorrow evening.”

Catherine skittered to a stop in the center of the room, her gaze snapping to Meghan. “Tomorrow evening? Am I not permitted even a fortnight’s reprieve?”

Playing the coquette did not come as easy for her as it did her friends. Like a well run dry, she needed replenishment of courage, hope, and faith. Which took time. She was much better at commiserating with the young women with soothing words and the offer of a shoulder to cry upon.

Meghan’s smile possessed the brightness of the sun at its zenith. She cast her rays on Catherine now. “But my dear, it is springtime,” she said. “Courting and engagements are very much the thing. We will be much in demand now.”

“Catherine, was it truly that much of an ordeal?” Olivia asked, wrenching her attention from the pastries. Then her posture went rigid and her gaze turned probing. “Is there something you didn’t tell me about your encounter with Lord Landry? Did he touch you inappropriately before I came on the scene?”

Just thinking about the incident raised Catherine’s ire another notch. “The man propositioned me like I was a courtesan in search of a new protector. Good gracious, the announcement of his betrothal to Miss North had appeared in the newspapers not even a week past.”

“Indeed?” Olivia appeared to visibly relax, her spine once again curving to mold the cushioned back of the seat. “The cad! He should have waited at least a week and done it properly at one of those positively lascivious house parties that
real
ladies have no knowledge of. Truly, the men in Society suffer from an appalling lack of tact. He best hope your brother never hears of it.” She then picked up a white, linen serviette and spread it neatly across her lap.

Catherine’s mouth edged up in a reluctant smile as she observed the amusement in her friend’s eyes. For the most part, Olivia was not one to fret or fuss, rarely allowing words to offend her. Unwanted physical contact was another matter. No, to Olivia, life was meant to be savored and enjoyed precisely like the French pastry she chose with great care and proceeded to consume in three healthy bites.

Black hair, pale skin and eyes—a color walking a precarious line between violet and blue—Olivia possessed the kind of exotic beauty that turned heads, broke hearts, and inspired dozens of amateur poets to put pen to paper. However, life for the beautiful daughter of the Duke of Wiltshire was quite different from the life of the illegitimate half-sister of an earl.

“Men can be such wretched beasts can they not?” Meghan said lending her own indignation on Catherine’s behalf. “At least he didn’t corner you in one of the dusty rooms at the British Museum.”

Collecting her skirts, Catherine swept around the rosewood table where their cups and saucers rested, to resume her seat beside Meghan on the sofa. “Good Lord, don’t tell me some gentleman was silly enough to attempt such a thing with you? Had he no idea who your father is?” Not only was the Earl of Stanhope rich, powerful, and a political force in the House of Lords, nothing rivaled how fiercely he protected his only daughter.

Meghan turned to Olivia and asked innocently, “Does Lord Granville know who my father is?”

Catherine’s head snapped in Olivia’s direction. “Your brother?” The question emerged unusually high, ending in a squeak.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Olivia snipped. “I have no control over my brother’s actions. Rhys is his own man. He listens to no one, including our father.”