He regretted his words immediately.
Catherine stared at him for a long moment. Gideon felt guilt consume him but hardened his resolve. He was trying to push her off the trail of her childhood memories with Aaron, and in doing so, had inadvertently called into question the validity of her mind. That, he sensed, could undermine one’s sense of reality. Dangerously so. She didn’t deserve that.
“I am sorry...” he began, putting the letters down.
“No. I am sorry to have troubled you with talk of things you would clearly prefer to forget,” Catherine interjected in a voice that was fighting a tremble.
“I didn’t mean to—”
Catherine stood. “I will retire for the rest of the morning. I am sorry for imposing on your time. I won’t be troubling you again.”
Gideon stood as Catherine hurried away. He took a step towards her, wanting to go after her. To explain. To earn back that coysmile with which she had asked him to help her learn croquet. To see her blush and feel the heat of her body against his.
But Aaron’s voice whispered in his ear, cold and cruel.
“Well done, brother. You are secure behind your walls. A point to you. She will not trouble you again with her dratted memories of me that you will never replicate.”
Gideon turned away from Catherine, sitting down and picking up his letters once again. He stared at them for a long time, not seeing the words or hearing his brother’s jeering voice.
CHAPTER 13
Catherine collapsed onto her bed, curling into a ball and clutching at her stomach. Cramps pulled her muscles taut. She had been fighting the feeling of illness all morning, wanting to appear as normal as she could for Aaron, to entice him into spending time with her. The glass of warmed milk that Mr. McKay had brought to her had been disposed of out of the window when he left the room.
I will not drink anything intended for myself alone. Not in this house. Not when it has been given to me by a stranger!
She did not know if she was thinking of Aaron or his staff. All were equally as unknown to her, though she had been trying to forget the former for the sake of her own sanity.
Now, it was all too much.
The pangs of illness eased in her stomach, but a dull ache had settled into her skull and her limbs. She felt a sheen onher forehead, but her hands and feet felt as though they were encased in blocks of ice.
Is this how mother and father felt? Is this the illness that claimed them? Or is that a fiction devised to control me by my Aunt and Uncle? And now by the man I thought was Aaron…
Wet tears dampened her pillow, and she angrily scrubbed at her face. If this trulywasthe fateful illness, she would not face it cowering in tears.
She forced herself to sit up and saw the basin of wash water on her nightstand. Plunging her face into its depths, she basked briefly in the glorious relief of cool water against her hot face.
When she closed her eyes again, she saw Aaron’s face, where he always was, just on the periphery of every thought. Austere as an ancient Greek statue. Hard as the face of a pagan warrior intent on pillage and destruction. That sent a thrill through her, remembering the strength of his hands as he had guided her in the art of croquet. The feel of his muscular body against hers.
She opened her eyes and pulled her head from the water, gasping and tossing her wet hair back from her face.
It had helped somewhat, making her feel cooler and slightly less feverish. Standing, she went to her linen cupboard and took out a handcloth with which to dry herself. Then she sat at her bureau, took out paper, pen, and ink pot.
Who am I to write to? My Aunt and Uncle?
She laughed at the absurdity of the thought. Then she wrote the first line.
My dear, Isabella. Sorry, Bella,
I find myself in need of a friend. Of someone I can trust. And you are the only person I know whom I hope fits that description. How to begin? I shall simply begin with my suspicions, with my darkest thoughts, and I hope, I pray that you will be able to simply dismiss my fears, turn the cold light of logic upon them, and help me see them as ridiculous notions. I pray that this is what happens.
What were her fears?
She hesitated, pen hovering above the page. Did she dare to externalize her fears? Did she dare to write it?
I fear that my husband is not the man I thought he was. I fear that Aaron Tarnley, Duke of Winchester, is... not. What I mean is that he is not Aaron Tarnley, he is an impostor...
There came a knock at the door, and she hurriedly put the page back into the bureau and closed it. There was no key visible with which to lock it. The knock came again. Catherine stood, her back to the bureau, and spoke.
