“Please God,” he said, following where she’d trod. “Give me a chance.” Preoccupied with what lay ahead, he barely noticed the cold. Apprehension knotted his stomach as he approached the door, and his stride slowed as doubt weighed on him. Was it wise to resurrect the past after so long? Perhaps this was a bad idea after all. Perhaps he should simply let things lie. He halted.
Said she wants nothing to do with you.
Why has she never married?
Do I really need to explain why?
Was it wrong to assume it was because she still loved him? He didn’t need to askhimselfif love could endure over the years. The answer to that lay in his own heart, untouched and unchanged by time. But what of Catherine? What might he hear in her voice, or see in her eyes?
The imminent reality of facing her left him breathless. He had dreamed of this day. Longed for it yet feared it at the same time. Still, it had to be done. “Get on with it, then,” he muttered. Drawing a deep, slow breath, he entered the orangery and closed the door quietly behind him.
For a moment, he stood still in the humid air and squinted into the sunlit, jungle-like depths of the foliage. From somewhere within came the sound of running water. A fountain, undoubtedly. Lysander moved forward, following the direction of the sound, halting when at last he saw Catherine, seated on a bench. She appeared to be deep in thought, head down, hands folded in her lap.
She had not heard his approach, which had likely been masked by the eternal trickle of water. Lysander took a moment to observe her, absorbing all that she was. Eighteen years could not pass without leaving an impression, but they had not been unkind. She was still slender, the alluring silhouette of her body perhaps a little thinner than he remembered. Dappled sunlight played on the gold in her hair, which had been adorned with small, white flowers. As he watched, she parted with a sigh and closed her eyes. Without thinking, he spoke her name.
“Catherine.”
With a gasp, she lifted her head, eyes widening as she recognized him. “But how did you…?” Shock showing plainly on her face, she rose to her feet and glanced about as if seeking an escape. “What are you doing here?”
Lysander held up a hand. “Please, Catherine. I mean no harm. I just desire…” His voice sounded strange to his ears; strained. Desperate, even. “May I approach?”
There followed a few moments of silence, then her shocked expression disappeared, replaced by one that showed disappointment. “Did Henry tell you where I was?”
“Yes, but he meant well. I just…” Lysander took a breath, determined to keep his wits about him. “I just need to speak with you.”
“I doubt we have anything to say to each other,” she said, lifting her chin a notch. “And my brother had no right to interfere.”
Lysander took a tentative step forward. Seeing her, being this close to her, was doing things to his insides that he hadn’t felt in years. “Please, give me a chance. That’s all I ask.”
Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, and then she spoke with icy deference. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Lysander gave a soft, humorless laugh. “That isnotnecessary, Cat.”
She assumed a bewildered expression, quite obviously feigned. “Then how, pray, shall I address you, Your Grace?”
“The way you always used to,” he replied, moving to within an arm’s reach. “By myname.”
Her eyes, with their intriguing golden flecks, were as beautiful as he remembered. They narrowed a little as she regarded him. “That would not be appropriate, Your Grace.”
“But it is what I wish.” He curled his fingers to stop himself from reaching out and touching her. “Lysander. My name is Lysander.”And I still love you, damn it.
She glanced away momentarily, as if pondering. “My condolences on the loss of your wife, Your Grace,” she said, facing him once more.
He bit back a sigh. “Thank you,” he managed, her refusal to speak his name souring his stomach. This was not going well at all. Worse than anticipated, in fact. Then again, he had hardly expected her to fall at his feet.
She gave him a grim smile. “You must miss her.”
The remark took him aback. To affirm it would be false. To deny it sounded heartless. He regretted Helena’s demise, but it had not plunged him into melancholia. “I am coping,” he said. “In the end, death was a blessing. Her Grace had suffered enough.”
An expression he couldn’t quite read flitted across Catherine’s face. “No doubt,” she replied. “So, what is it you wish to say to me?”
“I wish to explain everything.”
“About what, Your Grace?”
“About what happened when I returned to Malvern eighteen years ago.”
Catherine threw him a look that, had it been a punch, would have knocked him on his arse. “Oh, but I alreadyknowwhat happened, Your Grace,” she said, a telltale sheen coming to her eyes. “You seduced Helena and was obliged to pay the honorable price, while Philip and I suffered the ultimate betrayal. I am so thankful he is not here tonight, having to face you, after what you did.”