Or, as he insisted, just John.
She lay in her bed and thought again of his handsome face—and the strong, taut lines of his body in his elegant suit of mourning clothes. The set of his mouth, which, at times, she felt only she must be able to read so well. Her stomach did an involuntary flip.
Catherine groaned and pressed her pillow to her face, trying to drive these images from her mind. To him, she reminded herself, she wasn’t an object of desire but a loathsome necessity.
And she shouldn’t forget it.
Chapter Seven
The next morning,the Breminster carriage arrived at Halston Place. As she studied the carriage from the window, Catherine concluded it must be the one undertaken for ducal errands that required discretion, such as ferrying women the duke should be associating with under no circumstances—never mind accompanying on cross-country road trips—to his Mayfair townhome. This carriage had no cornets or seals but rather a regal plainness.
A sleepy Ariel and a teary Lady Wethersby had risen to send her off. Both Wethersbys embraced her in the drawing room as the Breminster footman took her single trunk out to the carriage.
“I will send you a letter once I reach Edington. And please write me as often as possible. Otherwise, I will worry.”
“No need to worry, my darling,” Lady Wethersby replied, looking wistful nonetheless. “You have left us with plenty. We will be living in fine fashion in your absence. Do take care of yourself, Catherine dearest, and hurry back.”
If she stayed any longer in their drawing room, Catherine thought she might cry, so she hugged them both again quickly and hurried out to the carriage.
The vehicle lurched away from Halston Place. A stinging hurt threaded through her as she pulled away from the familiar façade. She hadn’t been separated from Ariel and Lady Wethersby in longer than she could remember. She knew she had to embark on this mission to save their family—and yet leaving them pained her.
As the carriage continued to wend its way through the city streets, Catherine told herself that she would not compromise her principles completely. True, the suggestion that her aunt had been alive for the past seventeen years and hadn’t contacted her hardly caused her to feel loyal to the woman. But she couldn’t forget what the Breminsters had done to Mary or her father—and, most of all, to herself.
She had resolved, late last night, before she fell asleep, to treat John Breminster with the disregard that his title deserved. She wouldn’t be unnecessarily combative or even rude—she, after all, wanted to find Mary and receive her payment—but she refused to show him the respect that his rank demanded. His title might mean one thing to society but it meant another thing entirely to her.
As the carriage entered Mayfair, however, she didn’t feel very dignified or brave. She looked out the window of the carriage and saw the people who used to populate her world before Sir Francis’s death. Neat gentlemen in fine, striped trousers brandished walking sticks and ladies promenaded in silk dresses in every color from dove gray to fuchsia. A gaggle of young women, out for shopping in Bond Street, grabbed each other’s arms and laughed, their heads surely filled with hopes and expectations that Catherine had long been unable to afford.
She reminded herself that everyone had sorrows, even the happy, brilliant people of Mayfair. After all, she had been one of them no more than three years ago and she had had plenty of problems then that would have been invisible to a passing carriage. But, as she neared Grosvenor Square, Catherine couldn’t help but feel that she was the loneliest person between Park Lane and Regent Street.
When the carriage lurched to a stop, Catherine told herself to shake off her gloom. She needed her strength when encountering the duke. She didn’t want him to see anything from her that even resembled weakness.
The footman handed Catherine down and she found herself in the mews beside a very handsome town house, a confection of Portland stone and marble porticos. She had to appreciate the man’s discretion. Catherine appreciated that he had thought to have her enter through the back. She didn’t have much more reputation to lose but, nevertheless, she didn’t need the additional complications of being seen entering Breminster House. Especially if she ever hoped to restore herself and the Wethersbys to their former position. As the footman ushered her towards the door, it opened, revealing a very young-looking butler, who appeared as uncertain and nervous as she felt.
“Good morning, Miss Aster. If you would be so obliging, His Grace has asked you to wait in his study.”
For a second, Catherine was confused. She had no idea who Miss Aster was and she half-wondered if the butler had mistaken her for someone else. Perhaps one of the duke’s mistresses? A blush suffused her cheeks at the thought of being mistaken for such a person. Then it occurred to her that John Breminster would not have told his staff her real name.
She murmured her acquiescence and thanked the butler. He directed her to the study, asking her if she needed anything while she waited. She reassured him that she was very content at present.
In fact, once in the study, Catherine found it hard to focus on anything but the magnificent room in which she found herself. She felt a raw, cutting envy over every aspect of the space.Oh to be a great man, she thought,and to have a study like this one. The books soared overhead, reachable only by movable ladders, and the desk was massive. And this wasn’t even the actual library, she reminded herself. That room would be elsewhere. While Catherine loved books and libraries, a study like this one was what she truly coveted. A room sanctioned for work of the intellectual variety. A room that told others that that work was important.
Catherine walked around the room, thumbing through the different books on the shelves, until she found a patch of history tomes. She scanned the volumes and bent down on her knees to reach a few in the corner that she knew by title but had never had the chance to read. Her heart beat faster as she ran her fingers over the spines.
Catherine heard a noise from the doorway and looked up.
The duke entered the room, looking freshly washed, in a pristine suit of clothes, and appearing somehow even more handsome than he had the day before. She unwound herself from her hunched-over position. She had to fight the urge to curtsey, engrained in her since birth, but she held fast to her resolution not to give him that type of homage.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
He surveyed her and she couldfeelthe wrinkles in her clothes. She hadn’t exactly had a dress on hand worthy of socializing with a duke. This dress was her best, a faded blue muslin, but it hardly deserved the name. Last evening even Lady Wethersby had mourned the state of her wardrobe, lamenting that they didn’t have time to purchase her new clothes before her departure.
“Really, Miss Forster. Already not honoring our agreement? It does not bode well for what lies ahead.”
Her stomach lurched at this accusation.
“I don’t understand you, Your Grace.”
“My condition to our agreement yesterday. You agreed to refrain from calling me Your Grace.”
