His own voice sounded scarcely human, unrecognizable even to himself.
Tremberley cast the lantern down and bent over, trying to catch his breath.
In another scenario, John would have laughed at his friend’s physical distress. But he was too angry now for mirth. He wanted to thrash Tremberley and only the hope that his best friend could soon be dispatched with kept him at bay.
Miss Plinty broke forward and lunged towards her cousin on the stone, grabbing her arm.
“He’s not who he says he is, Catherine,” she said, her voice high with panic. “He’s theDuke of Edington.”
Miss Musgrave looked alarmed. But then she laughed.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Marisa. The Duke of Edington is over forty years of age.”
Very true.But how did she know his father? Was she from Dorset? She had mentioned Corfe Castle, which wasn’t far from Edington Hall, his family’s countryseat, but he had hardly attended to it.
“You misunderstand. He is tobethe Duke of Edington.”
“Properly, he is the Marquess of Forster,” Tremberley snapped.
John snorted. Tremberley never cared for rank until he did.
“This is ridiculous, Trem. What does it matter?”
He turned to his silver-haired beauty and gave a mock bow.
“You’ve caught me, Miss Musgrave. I am John Breminster, Marquess of Forster, at your service.”
His game for the evening—playing at Mr. Overton—hardly seemed consequential anymore. All he cared about now washer. That he be allowed back into her embrace. That they finish what had been interrupted.
When he rose from the bow, he saw that Miss Musgrave’s face had gone ashen.
“You’rethe Marquess of Forster?”
“Yes. And I don’t want to blunt my own significance, but dare I ask, why should it matter to anyone here?”
“Because, mate,” Tremberley replied, “she’sCatherine Forster.”
Now he felt the blood drain fromhisface. He looked atheragain and felt revolted—with himself most of all, for he should have known. With her silvery-blond hair and navy eyes, her smart mouth, her arcane facts, and most of all the power she had over him from first glance, how could she be anyone else? Of course she was a Forster. Not like him, who just carried the title, but a real one. The actual Forsters were a different family altogether, although they too came from Edington, his parish, and had been there almost as long as the Breminsters. TheForstershad been the cause of the scandal that had destroyed his family and tarnished their name almost eleven years ago.
How could he have mistaken her for a common country girl? How could he have been so self-deceived? He could still feel his lust for her and something else, something tender and just beginning to come into being, pulsing below the surface of his humiliation.
“Get them off the grounds, Trem.”
He turned and walked towards the manor. He didn’t spare another look at Catherine Forster.
It nearly killed him to turn his back on her.
But he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself had he done anything else but walk away.
Chapter Two
London, England
July 1815
Seven Years Later
Miss Catherine Forster,eight-and-twenty years of age, faced the men at the door and summoned her most regal bearing. She knew her dress had enjoyed a hard existence since she had first bought it from a Bond Street modiste too many years ago but her accent still suggested her education. Catherine hoped she could pass herself off as someone who had breedingandmoney—or as someone who could, at the very least, scrounge up a few pounds by the end of the week.
