Chapter Nineteen

“SO YOU SEE, DOMINIC, with all that’s happened, the only sensible course is to put the wedding off.” Shaken and pale, Catherine faced him in the small vestibule off the main chapel, her wedding gown slightly rumpled, several strands of fiery hair having come loose from its pins.

Working to remain composed, her hands clenched together, she looked forlorn and disheartened—and as beautiful as Dominic had ever seen her.

“What does your uncle have to say?” After relaying the story of Edmund’s failed attempt on Catherine’s life, the duke had been taken to another small room where the surgeon could attend him. Wentworth’s condition appeared favorable, thank God.

“My … uncle,” Catherine hedged, “has been injured. He really isn’t thinking too clearly right now.” She fidgeted under his close regard, then glanced away, her pale cheeks coloring faintly.

“Which means,” Dominic said flatly, “he damned well intends for you to go through with it.”

“But I can’t possibly! Don’t you understand, my cousin is dead!”

Dominic saw the way her lips trembled, how huge and green and desolate her eyes looked. She needed to put this whole sordid business behind her, needed to set the gossip to rest before it started all over again. No doubt the duke had seen that as clearly as he did.

“I believe, my love, the vicar awaits us. If your uncle is up to it, I shall see that he’s in attendance. If not, he may pay his well-wishes later.”

“Dominic, you can’t mean to do this. What about Amelia? She and Edmund were coming here straight from London. God only knows where she is right now, or what story Edmund concocted before he left her. When she finds out what’s happened, she’ll be devastated. She’ll need me and I’ll have to—”

“We’ll see to Amelia as soon as the deed is done.” He started toward her, determined to finish what her uncle had started.

“What about you?” Catherine countered, backing away from him. “This is the chance you’ve been wanting. If we postpone the wedding, maybe you won’t have to marry me at all.”

Dominic shook his head. “Your uncle was right. You were my responsibility from the moment I took you to my bed. I should have seen to matters long ago. I intend to see to them now.”

“Damn you! You’re bound and determined to ruin my life!”

Dominic paused, but only for a moment. “I’m afraid, Catrina, the die has been cast. My mother taught me years ago, it is best to play out the cards fate has dealt.” He offered his arm. “Shall we go?”

Though Catherine’s mouth thinned in resentment, she stiffly placed her hand on his coat sleeve. Dominic straightened a rose that threatened to tumble from her slightly mussed hair, then led her toward the door.

Just outside, seated on a carved walnut pew in the small high-ceilinged chapel, Rayne Garrick came to his feet as they entered. A moment later, the duke stepped out of a small room down the hall.

“I see we’re all here,” Gil said, his face a bit pale but his smile well in place. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” His wound had been bandaged, his arm placed in a sling, and his dark blue tailcoat draped over his injured shoulder.

“You’re certain you’re all right?” Catherine asked as if her last hope for reprieve had just blown away.

“I’ll be a good deal better once I’ve seen my duty done.” He pinned a hard look on Dominic, who didn’t even flinch.

“Your niece and I are more than ready.” Dominic flashed a false smile few could miss. “Aren’t we, my sweet?”

When she opened her mouth to protest, Dominic’s grip grew hard on her arm. “Yes, Uncle.”

“You have the papers we agreed on?” the duke asked.

Dominic reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed the documents which gave Catherine control of her lands. He handed them to the duke, who gave them only a cursory glance. “Shall we get on with it then?”

As Wentworth followed Dominic and Catherine up the aisle and took a seat in the front pew, Rayne moved to Dominic’s side and turned to face the vicar, who stood across from them holding an open Bible.

“Without Amelia, I’ve no one to stand up with me,” Catherine said in a very small voice.

“Have no fear, milady.” The vicar’s plump matronly wife came forward with a smile. “I would be honored to stand at your side.”

Catherine swallowed hard and stared straight ahead. “Thank you.”

In minutes it was over. Dominic could hardly focus on the vicar’s words until Rayne nudged him gently and handed him the beautiful emerald ring he had bought for Catherine. He slid it onto her shaking finger, his eyes touching hers for an instant before she glanced away.

“You may kiss your bride,” the vicar said.

Catherine tilted her face up but didn’t close her eyes. Dominic gripped her chin and barely brushed his mouth across her lips. They felt as cold as marble and he fought the urge to warm them, make them melt against his own as he knew he could. His loins tightened at the thought, and he stepped away, an unspoken oath on his tongue.

“Congratulations.” Rayne shook Dominic’s hand, then swept Catherine into his arms for a kiss that was far less brotherly than his own. Dominic’s stomach clenched, but he forced himself to smile.

“Sweet as nectar,” his friend said, breaking away. “You’re a very lucky man.”

At the taunting grin on Rayne’s handsome face, Dominic wanted to hit him.

The duke hugged Catherine, whispered what appeared to be words of encouragement, and the vicar and his wife wished them well.

“What of Amelia?” Catherine asked.

Dominic turned to face her. “As soon as Malcom arrives, I’ll set him the task of finding her.”

“Once we know where she is,” the duke said, “I’ll go to her, explain what has happened.”

“You’re not up to it, Uncle. I must go to her myself. She’s going to need a friend very badly.”

“Has it occurred to you, love,” Dominic said gently, “you may be the last person the lady will wish to see?”

“You must go home with your husband, my dear,” Gil told her. “In a few days’ time, if Gravenwold sees fit and Amelia wishes your presence, you may return to care for her.”

“Your uncle is right, Catrina. Give Lady Northridge some time.”

“But the burial—it wouldn’t be right not to be there.”

The duke grumbled something unpleasant. “Considering the circumstances, I had thought to have a small private service on the morrow. No one need know you did not attend.”

“I would know.”

The duke turned to Dominic. “I would prefer she return with you to Gravenwold, but I cannot find it in my heart to force her. I shall leave the decision to you.”

Dominic looked hard at Catherine. “You’ve given Edmund enough. We’ll take our leave.”

Catherine caught his arm, her hand looking small and pale against the black of his superfine coat. “Please, Dominic. He meant a great deal to me once.”

Damn, but he wanted her out of there. Even with the resentment he felt, he wanted her safe and secure and away from all this sadness. Still, these people were her family. He knew how important that could be.

He glanced at her again and caught the subtle lifting of her chin, the squaring of her shoulders. If he tried to stop her, he would probably have to tie her up to do it. Another time, he might have smiled.

Instead he swung his attention to Wentworth. “No one need know the truth of the baron’s death. A simple fall from his horse could have killed him. If we all stand together, that explanation should suffice.”

The duke nodded.

“Catherine and I will leave on the morrow, just as soon as the burial is over.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said.

Her eyes found his and the gratitude in them sent something warm through his veins. It was the last thing he wanted. “My carriage awaits,” he said, his tone growing cold. “Let us go.”

Dominic settled an arm around Catherine’s shoulder and guided her toward the entrance. Before they could reach it, the heavy plank door swung wide, lighting the foyer with a ray of sunlight that glistened on the top of Amelia’s blond head. Little Eddie stood at his mother’s side, clutching her hand, his blue eyes huge, his cheeks streaked with tears.

“Is it true?” Amelia asked, her voice high-pitched and nearly hysterical. “Is my Edmund really dead?”

“Why don’t you sit down, my dear?” the duke said. He glanced at Eddie. “Maybe the boy should wait outside.”

“He knows already.” Amelia came forward, the delicate crystal beads on her elegant blue gown shimmering like the tears that welled in her eyes. “Your man Malcom stopped our carriage a ways up the road. He wanted us to go back to the inn, but I refused. I made him tell me what happened.” She pressed a white lace handkerchief against a fresh fall of tears.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the duke said.

“We arrived a little bit earlier than we had planned so we stopped for a bite at the inn. Edmund said he had some errands to run … that he would be back in plenty of time for the wedding. We waited and waited.… When he didn’t return, we set out on our own. We thought he must have been delayed … we thought … dear Lord, he can’t be dead.” Amelia swayed unsteadily, and Rayne stepped in to catch her against his thick chest.

He led her over to one of the empty pews then turned to Eddie, lifting him up beside his mother, who hugged the boy to her breast.

Catherine crossed the room and knelt beside her. “Amelia, I’m so sorry … so very, very sorry.”

The women embraced, and Catherine hugged Eddie.

“He did it for us, you know,” Amelia said tearfully. “He was worried about our future … little Eddie’s future. I still can’t believe he really meant you harm.”

Catherine said nothing to that. “He could have come to me, surely he knew that.”

Amelia twisted her white lace hanky. “He should have. You’ve always been kind to us … I just don’t understand.…”

“Neither do I. But I want you to know you have nothing to worry about. You never did.”

Tears streaking her lovely pale cheeks, Amelia stared at the emerald ring on Catherine’s hand. “It would seem that is now up to your husband—though I assure you we are not destitute, as Edmund seemed to think.”

“My husband has left me in control of my wealth and the Arondale title. You and Eddie are family—I love you both very much.”

Amelia’s eyes lowered to the hands she clasped in her lap. “Most people would have spurned us for what my husband did. You are a very dear friend.”

Her own cheeks damp, Catherine embraced her, then Dominic’s hand touched her arm.

“I think it would be best for everyone if we were away.”

He was right. Though the church was empty, the vicar and his wife stood nearby and there were servants moving about. All of them had ears, and the fewer people who knew the truth of what had happened the better off they would be.

“You and Eddie will come to Lavenham,” Gil said to Amelia. “The fresh country air will help you forget all this sadness.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” For the first time, Amelia noticed his wounded shoulder. “Dear Lord, you’re injured. Did … did my Edmund do that?”

“One of the highwaymen,” Gil said. “I’m going to be fine in no time.”

“I’ll look after you, Your Grace. I’ll see to your recovery myself.”

Gil smiled faintly.

“Ready, love?” Dominic asked. He wished there was something he could do to ease Catherine’s grief, but there was nothing. Only time could make her forget and once again be happy.

He frowned. The life she faced with him would hardly make her happy. A husband in name only. A barren, childless existence that would stretch on through the years. Still, she would be safe and well cared-for, a woman of wealth and power envied by most of the ton.

With the Gravenwold household to manage and the Arondale lands she still owned, she would have plenty to occupy her time, and maybe little Janos could take the place of the child he denied her. He refused to imagine her taking a lover, carrying a babe sired by somebody else. By Sara Kali, he wouldn’t allow it! No matter how much she might wish it. The bargain had been struck—she would have to learn to accept it.

He prayed to God that he could.

*   *   *

Catherine could scarcely recall the burial, just a hazy memory of a handful of mourners lining the graveside in the Lavenham family plot. That Edmund, as her father’s brother’s son, should have been buried at Northridge or Arondale crossed her mind, but only briefly. Edmund had brought this end upon himself; it was his wife and child who mattered now—and that meant silencing the truth.

At least she’d had time to spend with Amelia. Over and over, her friend had begged Catherine’s forgiveness for the evil her husband had done, and again and again Catherine had assured her that she was not to blame. In the end, the two women had wept together, the first real tears Catherine had shed since her abduction. It felt good to cleanse herself, but the temptation to cry for her loveless marriage was far too strong. She wouldn’t give in to the urge again.

Though her memory of the burial was hazy, her recall of what should have been her wedding night wasn’t much clearer. Just more hours in the Lavenham bedchamber she had always slept in—her husband wasn’t there. Dominic spent the night in a room down the hall, “in respect for her grief,” he said to the others.

But Catherine knew the truth. That night was only the beginning of a thousand other lonely nights she would spend by herself through the years. She wondered what her uncle had been thinking when he had seen her retire alone. She hadn’t missed the disgruntled twist of his lips when he looked at Dominic or the guilt in his eyes when they settled on her.

She wondered if he regretted his decision, but something in his posture told her he was not yet daunted. She knew he still believed Dominic would eventually put aside his anger at the past, that he would turn to Catherine and become the husband he believed she needed.

Catherine wished with all her heart that she could share her uncle’s conviction. But she knew Dominic far better than he did, knew his bitterness—and his determination.

He would do exactly what he had vowed to do—just as he always did.

As soon as the burial was over, Dominic settled Catherine in his coach and he and his party left Lavenham Hall to begin their travel to Catherine’s new home. It was an unpleasant journey of little conversation and curt replies, the tension between them growing stronger with each passing day. The nights on the road were exactly as she had envisioned. Dominic solicitous of her comfort, then leaving her alone.

There was an air of aloofness between them now that had never existed before. An almost absurd abundance of formality.

“Are you warm enough, madam?” he would ask, or “Are you hungry, milady?” He bowed over her hand, rarely smiled, and his eyes remained vague and distant. His perfect manners and terse conversation made her furious. She wanted to reach out and slap him, to shake him and rail at him and make him see that whatever his feelings for her, they would be thrown together for the rest of their lives—they had to make the best of things.

Instead she said nothing. Just behaved like the lady she was and replied just as formally as he.

The following day they reached Gravenwold, a huge estate in the rolling countryside of Buckinghamshire. Built of great gray stones and standing four stories high, it looked impressive from the outside but inside was cold and musty. What kind of man had lived here? she wondered. Had he been as dark and dreary as the house itself? Would Dominic be that way, too?

The butler took her cloak, and Dominic made introductions to members of his staff, who all seemed surprisingly pleasant.

Then an aging valet approached. “Welcome to your new home, milady.” With his thin, veined skin and brittle, bowed legs, he looked so frail it seemed a miracle that he could stand up.

“This is Percival Nelson,” Dominic said, “my valet and my friend.”

The introduction might have surprised someone else—a marquess claiming the friendship of a servant. Not Catherine. To a Gypsy, no man was beneath him—except maybe a Gadjo aristocrat.

“Call me Percy, milady,” the old man said with a watery smile. “Everyone else does.”

Catherine smiled, too. “It’s a pleasure to meet one of Dominic’s friends.”

Standing a few feet away, the stately butler coughed behind his hand, but Percy fairly beamed.

“Blythebury will introduce you to those of my staff you haven’t met,” Dominic said, referring to the tall, very proper butler she’d been introduced to earlier. “I’m afraid I’ve several pressing matters to attend.”

Catherine forced herself to smile. “Of course.”

“Milady.” Dominic bowed slightly, turned, and walked away.

And so it had gone, all very proper—all very dreadful. Catherine had felt such a yawning despair only once before—the night she had awakened aboard a ship bound for France. The night she’d been sold to the Gypsies. Yet even their harsh treatment had somehow been better than this.

Seeing the bleak and lonely future stretched out before her, Catherine followed the butler up the stairs, her footfalls echoing on the wide stone stairs. Resign yourself, she repeated. Learn to make the best of things. He would never forgive her for their marriage; she had known that from the start.

Again and again, as she had for the past long weeks, she fought to convince herself to accept what she could not change and had almost succeeded when the butler led her past the master’s bedchamber to a chamber down the hall.

“Surely my room adjoins that of my husband,” Catherine said without thinking.

Blythebury’s face turned red. “His Lordship thought you would be more comfortable in here—just while you’re in mourning, of course.”

“Well, His Lordship is wrong.” What possessed her in that moment to turn and make her way to the sumptuous room that obviously belonged to the former marchioness she would never know. Maybe it was the rush of humiliation she felt that the servants should know her husband’s feelings toward her. Maybe it was the dark walls and hollow sound of her footsteps, tolling like a bell the empty years that lay ahead.

Whatever the reason, that was the moment she decided she wasn’t about to sit idly by and let Dominic ruin their lives. She wouldn’t meekly accept this dreary house, this dreary life of loneliness and despair. She was Catherine Barrington Edgemont, Marchioness of Gravenwold—she would fight back!

Blythebury surprised her by grinning—quite out of character for him, she would guess.

“Quite right, milady,” he said, following her into the empty room. “I should have suggested this chamber first.” He began to fuss with the draperies, drawing them open, fluffing the pillows on the huge gold silk canopied bed. “I shall have the chambermaid freshen the room immediately. Should have seen to it myself.”

“Thank you, Blythebury.”

He busied himself with her trunks until Gabby arrived to take over the task. “I’m going to have this room redone,” Catherine said firmly, noting the slightly mustard hue of the carpets, the too-gaudy luster of the heavy silk bed hangings. The walls were partially paneled in rich warm wood, but the ornate gold-flocked paper overshadowed its simple beauty.

“It’s entirely too dark and depressing. When Dominic sees how much better it looks, maybe I can convince him to let me do something with the rest of the house.” It could be beautiful, she thought, remembering the ornate carvings she had seen downstairs, the incredible architecture overshadowed by poorly chosen fabrics and carpets. Being built of stone, in a way it reminded her of Arondale. She wondered at the last marchioness and vowed to see the house better cared for than it had been.

“But of course your ’usband will agree,” Gabby said. “A man needs a woman to put things in order. ’Is Lordship will see what a wonderful marchioness you make, and ’e will fall even more in love with you.”

Catherine didn’t bother to explain that Dominic wasn’t in love with her at all. She hadn’t been able to tell even Gabby the circumstances of her marriage. It was just too embarrassing to admit her husband didn’t want her in his bed.

Catherine worked beside Gabby, rearranging the room and unpacking, until a soft knock sounded at the door.

“It is probably your ’usband,” Gabby said, crossing the room to let him in, “eager for ’is bride.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. Sooner or later she would have to tell Gabby the truth—unless, of course, she could somehow make things change.

As Catherine had guessed, when the French girl opened the heavy wooden door, it wasn’t Dominic but Percy who stood in the opening. What she hadn’t expected was the little boy standing there holding Percy’s hand.

“Janos!” Catherine dropped the lacy chemise she held and raced across the room in his direction.

“I hope we aren’t disturbing you, milady,” the old valet said. “Janos was supposed to let you rest until His Lordship returned, but you know how little ones are.”

With a warm smile, Catherine knelt beside the dark-skinned boy. When she opened her arms, he stepped into them, and she hugged him against her. “Dominic didn’t tell me you were here.”

Janos hugged her back, clinging to her a little longer than she would have expected, then he moved away. “Maybe he wanted to surprise you.”

“Yes … that must have been it.” In truth they had spoken so little since their betrothal, and never of anything important. Still, she wished she had known; she would have had something to look forward to.

“We came back together from France,” the boy said, in answer to her unspoken question. “My stepfather died in a fight.”

“I’m sorry,” Catherine said, remembering Zoltan, the huge brutish man Janos had lived with. She assessed the fine fabric of the little boy’s clothes, the polished sheen of his shoes. It was obvious that Dominic intended the boy to stay. “I’m so happy to see you. I was afraid I’d be lonely here. Now I have you to keep me company.”

His fine dark brows drew together. “I will be studying a lot. But you will have Dominic. He can be very entertaining.”

Catherine worked hard to stifle a grin. What a pleasure the child would be. Dominic, on the other hand, would hardly be entertaining. Most likely he would be as sullen and remote as he had been from the moment of their marriage. Unless …

“I am learning to read,” Janos said proudly.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Maybe one day I will return to the caravan to teach the others.”

“I think that’s a fine idea.” Catherine couldn’t help thinking that in the weeks since she had seen him Janos seemed older somehow “Do you miss them?”

“Mostly I miss the children. There is no one here to play with.”

“But that’s not true. The servants have children—there must be dozens of them living on Gravenwold land.” Too late, she saw Janos’s stricken face and felt Percy’s gentle nudge.

“’Fraid they haven’t got used to the boy quite yet,” the old man said. “He’s different, you know. Takes them some time.”

“They’ll never like me,” Janos said, “and I’ll never like them.”

“But Janos—”

“I have to go now, Catrina—I mean Lady Gravenwold.” He turned to Percy. “Mr. Reynolds will be waiting.”

“He’s the boy’s tutor,” Percy explained.

Catherine squeezed Janos’s hand. “I’ll be very upset if you don’t call me Catrina—at least while we are alone.”

Janos smiled.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now, off you go. We’ll talk again later.”

Taking Percy’s hand, Janos led the old man off down the hall. Catherine wondered just exactly who was looking after whom?

Thinking back to their conversation, she frowned. It didn’t surprise her that the little Gypsy boy was having trouble with the other children. Before her father had started the Charity School at Arondale, there had often been problems of prejudice or jealousy among the children. Education was the answer—her work at the school had taught her that. It was one more subject she intended to discuss with Dominic.

At the thought of their coming confrontation, Catherine squared her shoulders. She certainly had her work cut out for her.

For the first time in weeks, Catherine smiled.