“Right. Off you go, then, and find some steel to put in your backbone.” Henry pulled a fob-watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Twenty minutes. No longer. I’ll wait here to make sure there are no unwanted interruptions.”
*
Catherine stepped outinto the bright, bitter cold day, and hurried along the snow-covered pathway to the orangery. Though only a short walk, her toes, encased in silk slippers, were already turning numb by the time she reached the door. Shivering, she opened it, and stepped into a delicious atmosphere of warm, humid air. Winter sunlight poured through the walls of glass, which served to trap the sun’s heat even on the coldest days. That, and a couple of stoves built for the purpose, kept the atmosphere comfortably warm. All around, plants and trees of an exotic nature created a lush, green jungle-scape. Catherine paid them little mind, however. Her thoughts were still ruminating over the appearance of Lysander, question after question flitting through her brain.
Why was he there? What would she say, if and when she met him? What might he say to her? Would he even acknowledge her, or would she be a victim of his scorn once more?
Feeling a little less vulnerable, she wandered into the safe depths of the man-made jungle and sat down on a wrought-iron bench. Beside her, seated atop a carved lily-leaf pedestal, a stone frog spouted a jet of crystal water from its mouth, arcing gracefully into a small lily pond nearby. The sight and sound had a mild calming effect, and Catherine settled back, allowing her mind to venture eighteen years into the past. To a few days in the depth of winter. Bitter cold days, much the same as this one. That was when everything changed, and Catherine’s bright and brilliant future slid from her grasp.
Chapter Two
Eighteen years earlier
Myddleton House, Derbyshire
Saturday, December 22nd,
1827
The grand hallclock struck the fifth hour of the afternoon, but on this, the shortest day of the year, darkness had already crept across the land. Catherine slipped into the space behind her curtains and scraped a spyhole in the frost forming on her bedroom window, suppressing a shiver as she peered out. The gardens, a series of indefinable shapes, draped in winter’s frigid cloak, had a ghostly appearance. Beyond them in the distance, the fledgling crescent of the waxing moon hung just above the horizon. Exquisitely brilliant but newly born, it posed no threat to the blackness. If anything, it served only to enhance it.
The sound of voices in the corridor drew Catherine’s attention. Myddleton House was currently packed to the rafters with guests of her parents, the Earl, and Countess of Hutton, all there to celebrate the Christmas season. With the previous night being a late one, Catherine, like most of the guests, had retired for a rejuvenating afternoon nap. Now, given the hour, a tea would have been laid out in the Tapestry Room; a refreshing and light repast to bridge the gap between luncheon and dinner. Catherine turned from the window, wandered over to her mirror, and gave her candlelit reflection one final, critical inspection before heading downstairs.
A soft buzz of conversation drifted out of the Tapestry Room, aptly named for the collection of rare and ancient textiles covering most of the walls. Catherine entered to find several of the guests already present, helping themselves to the variety of edibles that had been laid out on several tables. Greetings were made and exchanged before Catherine cast a swift glance over the room, seeking one face in particular, and not finding it.
Catherine’s eldest brother, Henry, Viscount Fulston, wandered past with his plate. “Don’t fret, Cat,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice at all. “He’ll be down shortly.”
There followed a couple of knowing titters from the guests. Catherine scowled at Henry’s lack of discretion. She was still scowling minutes later as she spooned a dollop of raspberry jam onto her scone.
“Greetings, my lady,” a husky male voice said. “Has that poor scone offended you, somehow?”
Her scowl melted into a smile. “No, my lord,” she replied, gazing up at the face she’d been looking for. “Not at all.”
“Hmm.” Lysander Theodore Barton, Marquess of Hawes, helped himself to one of the scones. “It’s just that you seemed to be regarding it with some vehemence just now.”
She laughed and glanced down at her plate. “Thanks to my brother’s teasing. You know what he’s like. Did you rest well, my lord?”
“Very well, thank you, my lady.” He leaned in as if to tell a secret. “And what of my future wife? Did she rest well this afternoon?”
A sweet little tingle ran across the nape of Catherine’s neck. “She did, Lysander,” she replied, softly.
Not exactly true. Excitement over her recent engagement to the man she loved had kept her awake for a while. In the end, she’d dozed off in his imagined embrace.
“Glad to hear it.” Lysander arched a brow. “Um, have you finished with that dainty little jam spoon, by chance?”
Catherine regarded the utensil in question, still clutched in her hand. “Oh!” Feeling the warmth of a blush, she handed it to him. “Yes, I have.”
“Thank you,” he said, and winked at her. “Save me a seat, my love.”
A short time later, Catherine found herself installed beside Lysander and Henry on one of the settees. The two men had long been friends, having both attended Harrow together. Lysander had been a frequent guest at Myddleton. Consequently, Catherine had known him most of her life. She’d always liked him, but, during much of her childhood, the ten-year difference in their ages had felt like an unbridgeable gap.
As she approached womanhood, however, the intellectual gap narrowed, bringing her closer to him. Close enough to notice the storm-cloud gray of his eyes, and the way the little lines appeared at the edges whenever he laughed or smiled. Close enough to inhale his scent of sandalwood and citrus, which filled her with a hidden longing to move closer still, to touch him. Of course, she did so only in her imagination.
Whenever he was near, it took an effort to keep her senses about her. Being in his presence was akin to a sort of intoxication, rendering her light-headed, unable to think clearly or articulate properly. At such times, she barely recognized herself, and feared others saw what she tried so desperately to hide; that she’d fallen deeply in love with Lysander. It took command of her heart and occupied her dreams, but it remained unrequited. Or did it? Whenever he visited Myddleton, he always found time to seek her out, and appeared to enjoy her company, but she hardly dared to hope he might feel as she did. For a while, her biggest fear was that he’d marry someone else.
She need not have worried.
Lysander made his feelings known before she’d even had her first season. Then, with her blessing, he’d gone to Catherine’s father and asked for her hand in marriage. The brilliant yellow diamond on her finger now proclaimed her as Lysander’s intended; a dream come true. ‘Happy’ barely described how she felt. It was as if she’d gained a pair of invisible wings.
