And that was only the beginning.
Because worse even than returning to her former home was that she would be doing so with John Breminster.
The past half hour in their tiny drawing room had been difficult enough. And it was palatial in comparison to a carriage, even if it did belong to a duke. She was pretty sure that, in such close quarters, they ran the risk of homicide.
She and the duke could barely have a conversation without it becoming an argument. Catherine was still boiling with indignation at his rude remark about her conduct in the Tremberley gardens. The idea that they would be togetherfor dayswas insupportable.
“My dear girl. Surely, he has proposed marriage, enabling you to leave this hole and shine in society, as you ought.” Lady Wethersby’s words ran clean through her train of thought, commanding her fractured attention. “I would want nothing less for you, Catherine dearest.”
“Are you going to be a fine lady, Catherine?” Ariel’s eyes sparkled with glee. Catherine watched as this question birthed an anxious addendum: “But then you would have to leave us.”
Marry?Lady Wethersby was truly cracked.
“He does not want to marry me. And I certainly donotwant to marry him.”
“Not marriage?” Lady Wethersby pulled up short. “Then what on earth was he doing here? My dear, he may call again. There is only one reason a handsome duke calls on a beautiful young woman.”
Catherine found herself struggling for words—for what felt like the hundredth time that day—in the face of this absurd suggestion.
“How can you suppose such a thing?!” she said, casting her eyes at Ariel and indicating to Lady Wethersby that she did not want to say more for his sake.
“Of course, my dear, I receive your allusion,” Lady Wethersby said, her air decidedly philosophical, “all of that, your shared past. It is how you came to us, is it not? But you never know with such things—they can just as easily bind two people together as tear them asunder.”
Ariel stamped his foot. “Whatare you talking about?Whowas torn asunder?”
“No one, my love,” Lady Wethersby said briskly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Whenever you say that,” Ariel said, looking stricken, “itissomething for me to worry about.”
He turned to Catherine. “Are you leaving us?”
Catherine noted the tentative fear in his voice and thought of herself at his age. Ariel was almost as old as she had been when her aunt had disappeared without a trace. She would never do that to Ariel.
“I am not marryinganyone.”
“Then why did that man come to speak with you?” Ariel’s narrowed eyes flicked back and forth between Catherine and his mother.
Catherine had to think, quickly, of what to tell the two of them. It couldn’t be the truth.
“He came on business.” She looked down, inventing as her eyes traced the faded pattern of their carpet. “He heard that I write about ruins. He has asked me to work with him on compiling a history of the area around Edington Hall.”
She raised her eyes and saw Lady Wethersby poised between suspicion and belief.
“I would not have been his first choice. But he read one of my histories in the paper, the one about Corfe Castle, and he asked my editor if he could have the address of the writer. When he realized it was me, he almost resolved against calling but he wants the history to be the best and Dorset is my specialty. He wants it done before his wedding. As a present for his bride. He anticipates his engagement imminently.” She saw Lady Wethersby open her mouth. “And no, I don’t know the name of the lady. But it’s for her.”
“A strange gift for a bride. But perhaps she is of an academic disposition.”
“I assume he wants his new duchess to feel a connection to the landscape. It is his ancestral home, after all. Regardless, he has agreed to pay me a great sum. Upfront.”
“How much?” Lady Wethersby asked, breathless once more.
“One thousand pounds.”
Lady Wethersby fell to the divan, her hand over her heart.
“It is not enough to take back Wethersby Park. But it will be enough to pay our current debts,” Catherine supplied. “And it will improve our style of living. That is not all. If the finished project suits his tastes, there could be more.”
She did not want to say the full amount given how unlikely it seemed that they would actually find Mary Forster. Additionally, that would be a truly ludicrous sum for anyone—even a duke—to pay for a history. It would stretch her tale past credulity. If she did earn the money, if they did find her aunt, she could invent some reason for the astronomical sum. Maybe, by then, she could even tell Elena the truth.
