Her heart thrummed against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Most people treat caged birds very well. They are kept to show off their plumage or their song. Not treated as worse than a servant.
Ahead was the Spencer club, its facade grand in the classical style. An ornate entrance was framed by broad bay windows. It was a stark contrast to the grimness of the life she was seeking to escape. These places were not for ladies, particularly those whodid not have a male escort. But the alternative turned her blood to ice.
An arranged marriage to a cruel man who will view me as his property. A man who does not love or care for me but simply desires my dowry. And my body.
This last sent a shudder of horror through her. She would much rather enter a convent and never know the touch of a man than submit to such a scoundrel as the Earl of Stafford.
She adjusted the simple bonnet she wore. Her long, silky brown hair was ordinarily a source of comfort to her, but presently it felt like a shroud. Hazel eyes, flecked with lighter accents that shimmered like gold in the lamplight, took in the building as she drew nearer. The homey-orange light that spilled from its many windows mocked her with its warmth, offering a comfort that she did not believe she would find within.
For a long time, she hovered near the entrance, smoothing her skirts, adjusting her bonnet, then adjusting it back. A gentleman emerged and she nearly darted forward—but lost her nerve. Then another. Her feet seemed rooted to the cobblestones.
Stop being such a coward, Kate! He's Aaron. He used to let you beat him at chess just to see you smile. He is my only hope. He would not turn me away, I know it.
At last, she walked up to the doors and pushed them open. Inside, what had been a murmur from outside became a muted roar. Men laughed and spoke loudly. Glasses clinked. The airwas thick with the smell of cigar smoke and brandy. She stood in a hallway facing an imposing staircase. Open doors to either side gave a view of rooms filled with furniture of leather and ancient wood, bookcases and tables on which games of cards were being played.
A liveried man stepped forward.
“Madam, while ladies are not forbidden from Spencer’s, they are discouraged unless with an escort. Are you here to see one of our members?”
“Yes, the Duke of Winchester,” Catherine said, putting as much assurance as she could into her voice.
The serving man looked her up and down, hands clasped behind his back and lips pursed.
“Hmmm, the Duke of Winchester indeed.”
“Is he here?”
“I will check.”
“Yes, he is, Devinson, old boy. I spotted him a short while ago,” boomed another man, emerging from one of the side rooms. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and donned the uniform of an army officer. “Follow me, I will take you to him, Miss…?”
“Ainsley. I am Catherine Ainsley. Hedoesknow me,” Catherine emphasized.
“Of course he does. Lucky fellow,” the man murmured, “I am Jeremy Bexley, by the by, Viscount Everdon and a Captain of the Royal Wessex Rifles for my sins. Come along.”
He must help me. He must help me.
It had become a mantra for Catherine ever since she had thought of recruiting his help. It was a lifeline that she had put all of her hopes in. What would happen if he rejected her—if he refused—she did not want to contemplate.
He must remember the girl who used to chase butterflies with him in summer fields. In happier times.
Lord Everdon offered his arm courteously, and Catherine took it. He led her through the club, a veritable maze of rooms. Finally, they came to a dimly lit room in which men talked quietly or simply read and smoked. A fire roared in a stone fireplace at one end of the room. There was a large armchair in front of it, and in it a man lounged. The brightness of the fire rendered him a silhouette, obscuring his features.
As they approached, Catherine made out the gleam of bright eyes, the line of a noble nose and chin.
“Winchester, I have found a lost little bird that claims to know you,” Everdon bellowed.
The viscount stepped aside neatly, and Catherine was left alone in front of the man in the chair. She felt naked before him. He had been reading, but now set the book aside.
In a deep, rich voice, he stated, “Madame, you have the advantage over me.”
“Aaron?—I mean, Your Grace. It is I, Catherine… Catherine Ainsley,” she forced a small, tentative smile to her lips, feeling sick to her stomach at the indifference.
“Catherine Ainsley…?” he repeated slowly. “Forgive my brutishness, dear, but I do not believe we have ever met.”
He picked up his book again, attention shifting back to its pages.
