Page 13

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

I t was no surprise to Lady Catherine that her errant nephew Darcy and his all too lively young wife arrived late to Himdale House.

Again. What was surprising was that her brother, who was keen to level criticism and judgment on Parliament, his neighbours, the newspapers, his sons, and, far too often, on her , indulged the behaviour of the ridiculous mooncalf.

He had even praised the minx for her wit and her patience, whilst looking at her—Lady Catherine, the cleverest of all the Fitzwilliams, as her father had said often!

The earl had never expressed similar warmth for his daughter-in-law, nor should he.

Abington’s simpering wife was far too fond of horses and her family’s estate in Surrey—of all places!

Thank goodness those two had hied off there with their noisy nursery.

She shifted in her seat, irritated by the abundance of stripes on her chair, and listened disinterestedly to the inane banter amongst her relations.

I have exhausted my efforts for the ungrateful couple.

Darcy disappoints me, and his wife is incapable of heeding advice and taking guidance.

She may have quickness of tongue but has no quickness of mind.

With a household of stupid daughters, it is little wonder her father did not waste his pathetically small income to employ a governess or masters.

She looked over at Anne, sitting half slumped in a lavishly pillowed chair, her eyes keen on whatever it was Fitzwilliam was saying to make his cousins laugh aloud.

The mirth she saw in her daughter’s expression brought out a liveliness, a prettiness Anne often hid—or was hidden for her by poor health.

Certainly Darcy had never brought it forth during his visits to Rosings, and he had been afforded many opportunities.

He may have spurned her, but there were certainly men of equal standing who succumbed to lustful impulses when choosing a bride.

That Darcy was amongst them was pitiable.

It is time to think of Anne’s prospects and to urge my brother’s wife to redo the family wing with grander furnishings.

Determined she would do little to acknowledge any of the Darcys, Lady Catherine began to think on her acquaintances in town who had sons of suitable rank and fortune for Anne.

Struggling to recall even one, she was startled to realise the earl was watching her, with an amused expression that recalled her to their youth.

“You shall not frighten me with your stares,” she avowed.

“I have never managed to do so, Sister, but I have, on occasion, surprised you.”

And then he winked at her, teasing her as if she were a young girl! This would not do, not in the company of impertinent upstarts and her own daughter.

Lady Catherine’s thoughts faded as the sound of voices carried up to the drawing room from the ground floor. “Who could that be?” she demanded. “Are we not a small family party this evening? Why did no one inform me, that I might have worn my company jewels and tallest wig?”

The earl smiled at her indulgently, as though he had a secret. “Did I not mention it before, Sister? Our old friend Lord Cadbury will be joining us this evening.” He winked at his wife.

Lady Catherine temporarily discovered herself at a loss for words.

Finally, she found her tongue just as the others had given up waiting for her to respond and moved on to another subject, something about the weather, or perhaps it was the Prince Regent’s stockings.

She was hot and tingling; clearly her brother’s servants had stoked the fires too high.

Cursing Dawson for neglecting to equip her with a fan, she waved her hand and broke in, “You have invited Cad? But I… Does he know I am in town? Oh, I have not seen him since…why, I cannot remember the last time I saw him.”

In fact, however, she remembered it perfectly well, and she nearly swooned at the memory.

She was eighteen, and more than halfway through her second Season.

No offers had come her way, and few gentlemen called on her, let alone asked for more than one set.

She, the youngest of Lord and Lady Matlock’s children, appeared as much an afterthought in society as she was within her family, for none was there to support her in her ordeal.

Anne, whom Catherine would have supported in her Seasons had she been old enough to attend balls, was now married—although not to a peer or a member of the nobility.

In Catherine’s opinion, which she had voiced more than once, her elder sister had lowered herself for a handsome young man of wealth and charm.

Her brother and his wife had already welcomed an heir, and her parents’ delight in their grandson was far more apparent than any interest in her company.

Catherine despised the noise and chatter of children.

Tonight she was at the Season’s most anticipated ball, and had not yet been asked for the supper set.

She leant against a column in Ardvale House’s grand ballroom, far away from the vile, simpering girls in their daring gowns, and watched the most dashing man of her acquaintance twirl yet another of the ton ’s favourites round the floor.

Viscount Cadwallander’s handsome face creased in a wry smile, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

His elegant jabot was as pristine as his silk-clad calves, and the buckles on his dance slippers gleamed in the candlelight.

Catherine had seen him with her brother, his red hair tousled from riding or fencing, but tonight he sported the wig that she once had dared to place on her own head.

She still could recall its powdery scent.

She knew he had married some undeserving chit.

Wealthy, beautiful, and likely as vacuous as every other eligible lady of his acquaintance , she thought with no small amount of bitterness.

He had never seen her as more than his friend’s young sister, never danced with her outside of Matlock’s nursery or music room, never considered her first in his heart as she did him.

And then, suddenly and shockingly, he was before her, smiling. “Lady Catherine, my dear girl, shall we? ’Tis my last chance to dance with the Season’s loveliest diamond before another man claims her as his heart’s desire.”

Lady Catherine inhaled sharply at the memory of her hands in his, and returned to herself when she noticed the younger members of the family were eyeing her with some curiosity, while her brother and sister were both occupied with making strangled sneezing noises into their handkerchiefs.

Perhaps they had taken some snuff when her head was turned.

The sound of footsteps, followed by a hearty chuckle, was heard just before the doors to the sitting room slowly opened. The blood that had drained from Lady Catherine’s face upon first hearing the news of the unexpected dinner guest quickly rose, and she looked up, her cheeks burning.

It was he. Cad. Still tall, of barrel chest and regal bearing, his hair no longer that bright shock of red but a softer white fringe.

Maybe to the others it might appear that he had grown portly and doughy round the middle, and undoubtedly those were wrinkles about his mouth and aristocratic forehead, lines of good humour and laughter.

But it was his eyes, his fine, fine eyes, that, as ever, captured her attention.

They were still ice-blue, and now they were focused on her. Only her.

She felt a great fluttering in her chest. Was she having an attack of the vapours?

No, her heart was still beating regularly, strongly.

A great chill ran down her spine. Was it the change of life again?

No, no, she was certain that was a thing of the past. What could it be?

She felt suddenly transported to an earlier time in her life back when she had idolised the tall, glowing, sporting friend of her elder brother.

He of the noble mien and dashing figure was far too grown up to notice the skinny, awkward thirteen-year-old lass who had loved horses and followed him about, moonstruck.

Not even her elder sister had known about the cravats she had stolen from his room, nor about the miniature of him that she had sketched out, so very frustrated by her lack of proficiency in the art that she had never again picked up a drawing charcoal.

No one, she was certain, could ever capture the beauty of his eyes.

Her brother made some attempt to introduce Lord Cadbury to the rest of the family, but the gentleman, scarcely acknowledging the others in the room, drew close to her, his gaze holding hers, and boomed, “Lady Catherine! It must be above thirty years since we met last! You have not aged a day—still the most delicate rose, the finest example of English maidenhood…”

Hmm, maybe he had noticed her, after all.

Lady Catherine heard an unfamiliar sound issuing from somewhere near her, and realised, to her horror, that it was emanating from her own mouth: she was giggling like a schoolgirl.

She turned and saw her nephews gaping at them in great shock, whilst the country chit stood, her hand to her mouth, staring cow-eyed, an expression almost exactly like that of Anne.

Lord and Lady Matlock had turned away, apparently to examine something of great interest on the wall by the door.

Or perhaps the countess was feeling ill, since she had burrowed her head into her husband’s shoulder and seemed to be shaking.

Lady Catherine lifted her shoulders, turned back to Cad, and involuntarily fluttered her eyelashes.

“You are too kind. And still as handsome as in my cherished memories.”

Her voice faded, and she extended a thin, bony hand towards him. It trembled briefly before her swain grasped it and pulled her closer. “Do come and sit with me, dear lady. I want to know everything about you,” he thundered, obviously as entranced as she felt.

There was much to take in beyond the hypnotic beauty of Cad’s eyes.

So much about him had changed, it was true, but the things that mattered had not.

He still had that agreeable way of raising one eyebrow and leaning in a bit too close, and he still smelled of tobacco and Pekoe tea.

He spoke rather loudly, Lady Catherine noticed, his beautiful, mellifluous voice shooting sparks through her veins and resonating through the room like a host of angels’ trumpets.

Trumpets, trumpets. Hmm, perhaps he was in need of an ear trumpet.

A lovely, jewelled ear trumpet, such as the one she had seen just a few days ago on Bond Street.

Surely it would be unexceptional if she, a respectable widow, were to give such a gift to an old, dear family friend?