"That, my boys, is how it's done," he said hoarsely, without taking his eyes from her face.
"Take the mistletoe back," Freddy crowed, while Randy made retching noises. The duke looked from one of his friends to the other and joined in the mockery.
"Oh, very well," Chadbourn said. "You may use this option, too." He leaned in and kissed her cheek quickly. Only then, did Catherine realize his arm on her waist steadied her. If he hadn't held her, her knees might have buckled.
He looked at her, as if to confirm she could stand, and turned briskly.
"Let's get these greens to the house," he said, and organized the boys for the trek back to the kitchen. When they got there and unloaded greenery all over Mrs. MacLeish's worktable, Will announced he would pay his respects to Lord Arthur.
Catherine bolted to her room before he could ask her to join him and have a private moment along the way.
Two hours later, she stood in her father's study in shock. Not only had Lord Arthur agreed to the boy's schooling, he had agreed to come to Eversham Hall to discuss arrangements.
"Boy's right. I may as well face it sooner rather than later."
He would face his childhood home. And Catherine? She would face dinner with a hostile duchess, a toplofty marquess, and an earl who made mush of her senses and left her unable to think. Damn it, anyway.
She couldn't wait.
For the most part, it went well, Will thought later. Sylvia, fortified by two weeks of dinners with the marquess, and mindful of Will's orders to be welcoming, had behaved. It didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been watering her 'tonic,' gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined to give the woman a bonus.
The evening began well. Randy and Freddy, scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses. Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.
Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess and the duchess. The dress she wore, a lovely green muslin, flattered her curves and brought out the gold in her auburn hair. She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would see to it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his countess, her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.
Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had stiffened showing him in, but Lord Arthur managed a sardonic twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The prodigal has returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her brother-in-law. That she didn't know Will put down to Emery's pure negligence, if not spite. Sylvia eyed Catherine speculatively, but said nothing. God be praised.
"Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine asked.
"Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few changes, Your Grace." He looked at Sylvia sympathetically. Will suspected the old man must guess what it had been like for her, living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now …" Lord Arthur's voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate entrance hall.
Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish to use, keeping the conversation flowing over dinner. When politics failed, literature worked. When the social season proved no interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and Will told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along with their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the worst of the bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that reassuring. Catherine provided no input at all.
"Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly," Lord Arthur said.
"His father, yes. But the son is nothing like the father," Will told him.
"Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives on half-pay since Waterloo, but he served in the cavalry like Will for seven years, by all accounts, with distinction."
"You were in the army?" Catherine asked, suddenly alert. She searched him, as if assessing damage.
"Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie," Will answered. "I sold out three years ago to take over for my father. He died six months after I came home."
"Did you miss it?"
"The mud and the horror of it? No. But I should have been in Belgium."
"Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew and Jamie were enough of a contribution to the wretched Corsican."
"Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The compassion in her expression warmed Will's heart.
"Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told her. "He has gone home to Cambridge to heal. Jamie came through unscathed."
"In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are visible," Will said sadly. He caught his friend's eye. When he looked away, he found Catherine looking at him speculatively. Could he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women wouldn't want to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear whatever burdens he chose to share.
Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to the weather, always a safe choice. The impact of weather on agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from Catherine. A brief discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks. She understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat cultivation. She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought proudly.
When Sylvia rose, the panic on Catherine's face brought Will to his feet. "We needn't be formal among family, gentlemen. I suggest we join the ladies for after-dinner refreshment." And buffer Catherine from Sylvia's company.
