“Mine…” he corrected clumsily, “since boyhood.”
“Yes. Do you truly remember now?”
There was a question in her eyes, and he wondered if he had said anything else to make her suspicious.
“I… do. But my mind is addled due to the accident. I do not wish to be testing it, looking for long-lost memories. Why did you come and find me?”
Suddenly, he remembered the conversation in the club. Remembered her plea. She sought the help of the Duke of Winchester to escape a marriage she did not want. But it would involve him in a state of affairs he did not care to be involved in.
And the Quakers would not like to hear that I had interfered in the arrangement of a marriage. It would stink of sin to those God-botherers, and my investment would disappear. I must be hard as steel.
He tried to sit up, but Catherine was on her feet first, pressing him back to the bed.
“Do not restrain me in my own house, woman!” he snapped immediately.
She froze, leaning over him. In the subdued light of the bedroom, her face was changed from the glowing angelic beauty he once remembered. Shadows made her mysterious, took away her innocence, and added sultriness, though he doubted she intended it. Her hair fell around her face and tickled his. There was a fine, fresh fragrance to it that made him want to hold it to his nose, savor it.
Her features were round and smooth, eyes seemed to glitter gold as she glanced across the room. His eyes fell on her lips. So plump and deliciously feminine, while lacking any of the usual cosmetic additions of oil and color that women of modernity seemed to favor. His breath caught as he studied her, heart giving a leap.
“Your Grace? Should I send for Mr. McKay?” came a deferential male voice from a scarcely lit corner.
That was Gough, one of his manservants and his valet. Harold McKay was the butler at Caerleon Manor.
“No, Gough. But fetch me some wine. My throat is dry.”
Gough rose from his seat in the corner of the room and left, leaving the door ajar. McKay would have apoplexy to hear that the man had left the Duke alone with an unmarried female. It would offend his Calvinist sensibilities.
And inflame his protective instincts. That brute can be worse than my grandmother.
He took Catherine’s hands in both of his and gently removed them from his shoulders. When he did, she seemed to realize she had been leaning over him and holding him onto the bed. She gave a start and shrank back, then winced and put a hand to her stomach.
“You are unwell?” he asked.
“Quite well. Simply… nervous,” she replied.
Gideon slowly sat up, facing her.
“My head aches abominably,” he grumbled.
“That was… my fault. I apologize.”
“Do you indeed? How gracious. I was quite content at Spencer’s. Now my evening is ruined.”
Catherine looked down, her hands in her lap. Suddenly, she clasped them together tightly, fingers interlocked. Gideon spotted the tremor, though. It was hard to be certain, but he thought she looked pale, too. More than the usual delicate femininity. He frowned.
Whoever she is, I do not think she is well at all.
“I think perhaps that you should be in bed yourself. You do not look well,” he mumbled.
She looked up, seeming alarmed, and he raised his hands, palm outward.
“It was not an invitation, I can assure you. In yourownbed, and preferably in your own house.”
“That would be my Aunt and Uncle’s house, and that is not a pleasant place for me.”
“I am sure you exaggerate,” he said dismissively.
“Why would I?” she demanded.
