Till Next We Meet Page 12

  He leaned back in his chair, both hands on the arms. Despite the indolent nature of his pose, she knew he wasn’t relaxed. The muscle in his cheek flexed, and his lips bore a half smile that was more for their guests’ benefit than hers.

  She folded her hands on her lap and faced him.

  Perhaps he was angry at her after all.

  “What would you prefer that I do, Catherine?” he asked. “Allow my sister-in-law to say anything she wishes?”

  “If necessary,” Catherine said calmly. “Why should it matter what anyone says about me?” She picked up her wine and took a sip. “After all,” she said, in a parody of his earlier declaration, “I’m Moncrief’s wife.”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “You are.”

  How strange that the comment sounded almost like a dare.

  They had been at Balidonough only a week. The longer she knew him, the easier it was to understand why Moncrief had felt compelled to marry her. Never once had she seen him be unkind. Irritated, yes. Annoyed, of a certainty. Yet Moncrief possessed a core of honor, something so ingrained that it defined him. He’d thought she needed protection, and therefore had married her.

  The thought was oddly disconcerting.

  She concentrated on her dinner, but as the night wore on, it grew harder and harder for Catherine to view Juliana with any charity. The lower half of the table where she held court swept into laughter several times, and Catherine suspected it was at her expense.

  Finally, Moncrief pushed back his chair and regarded Juliana with a look that could only be construed as murderous.

  Catherine glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and immediately looked away, thanking Providence that such an expression was not directed at her.

  “Madam,” he said in a voice that could have carried to the other side of Balidonough so loud and commanding was it. “You will want to make your apologies to our guests.”

  Talk abruptly ceased. Every single pair of eyes turned in Moncrief’s direction except for hers. After a glance down the table, Catherine kept her attention determinedly on the plate in front of her.

  “What can you be saying, Moncrief? Of course I’m not leaving our guests.”

  “Madam,” Moncrief repeated, “you will want to make your apologies now. Now,” he repeated, as if there had been any doubt that she’d not heard him.

  Juliana stood, her fingertips resting on the snowy white linen as she glared at Moncrief. Wisely, however, she remained silent.

  “If you wish to remain in this room, you will remember that my wife is to be addressed as Her Grace. Her rank is higher than yours. At no time, especially within my hearing, will you say anything less than favorable about her. Is that understood?”

  The guests’ heads turned as they regarded first Moncrief, then Juliana. The older woman looked as if she could cheerfully throttle Moncrief in plain view of forty people, but she raised her chin, her ghostly white face seeming even more pale, and nodded. Only that, but it seemed to satisfy Moncrief.

  She sat amidst silence so thick that Catherine could feel it.

  When Catherine glanced at Moncrief, he sat and smiled at her. “Try the beef, Catherine. I think you’ll find it delicious.”

  The rest of the dinner was horridly uncomfortable. The guests rarely spoke, and Juliana said nothing at all. The occasional question Moncrief posed resulted in a monosyllabic reply from Mrs. Sinclair while the earl to her right had resumed his habit of dozing between courses.

  Catherine was very conscious of Moncrief’s mood. With every passing moment, he grew stiffer, almost as if he were freezing inside. He would raise his head from time to time and glare down the table. The guests grew even quieter. The soft murmurs of “Excuse me,” “Pardon me,” “Would you mind,” faded away into silence.

  She had never been so humiliated in her life.

  Finally, Catherine stood, surprising Moncrief, her dinner companion, who was jolted awake, snorting, and the footman, who rushed to pull out her chair. She arranged her napkin on the table and forced herself to face the assembled guests.

  “You’ll have to excuse me.”

  She left the room, not even bothering to look back at Moncrief.

  Catherine debated whether or not to return to their chamber, and decided against it. Instead, she went to the library, a place Moncrief had made his sanctuary and a room that would serve the purpose for her as well.

  The library took up two floors of Balidonough. One of the newer sections of the castle complex, it was nestled next to the conservatory and boasted thousands of volumes. The room was constructed in a horseshoe shape, with the opening stretching out toward the mullioned windows and the view of the river flowing beneath the battlements. Light streamed into the room even on the dimmest of days, and at night she often found the oil sconces still lit as if in readiness for the duke’s pleasure.

  Like the entranceway, the library boasted at least a dozen statues, all standing on the edge of the second level, their solemn and classically lovely faces turned toward the bookshelves. Their diaphanous garments proved them to be female, with figures no mortal woman could hope to attain.

  Several glass cases were arranged against the wall, each containing objects from the family’s past. The buttons belonging to a famous ancestor were mounted alongside a broken sword, its blade remaining blood-encrusted all these years. But there were other, less martial, treasures. A fine Chinese porcelain bowl was a present from a Duke of Lymond to his bride, shipped from Portugal to Scotland, and wrapped in a spare pair of his woolen trews so that it wouldn’t be broken on the journey. The Booke of Common Praier dating from 1550 encased in the glass display cabinet was a prized possession of a less warlike duke.

  Catherine had been in the library often in the last week when she could find nothing to do and time seemed to creep by on turtle feet. She always waited until the business of the estate took Moncrief from Balidonough before exploring the selection of volumes, some of which were old and evidently valuable.

  Unlike the dining room, a fire was laid here, and it blazed brightly in anticipation of a reader’s presence. She stood before the marble mantel and stretched her hands out to the flames, wondering how long until Moncrief followed her.

  Less than five minutes.

  The door opened and closed behind her. She sighed and turned, facing him.

  “We’ve made a shambles of dinner, Moncrief,” she said. “They’ll be talking about this night for months.”

  “If not years. Are you truly concerned?”

  She considered the matter for a moment. “I am a farmer’s daughter, Moncrief, but that does not mean that I lack manners.”

  “You’re a duchess now.”

  “Then what excuse shall we claim for the disaster of this evening? Temporary madness?”

  He didn’t answer her, only began to smile.

  She truly couldn’t understand him. When she was prepared for one emotion, he demonstrated another.

  “Why are you so amused?”

  “I like your temper. Today is the first time I’ve seen signs of it.”

  “Perhaps I was not irritated at you before.”

  “Or perhaps you were simply taking too much laudanum.”

  Catherine walked over to him, taking care to stop when a foot still separated them. She tilted back her head and wished he wasn’t quite so tall before poking him in the chest with her finger.

  “I would appreciate it, Moncrief,” she said, enunciating her words very carefully so he couldn’t mistake their meaning, “if you would cease mentioning that.”

  He only smiled, reached down, and wrapped his hand around her finger, then did something that startled her into silence. He kissed the tip of her finger, trapped as it was by his large hand. While she was still bemused at his actions, he kissed her nose.

  A sound at the door made her glance in that direction. At least six women were crowded there, each of them watching them with various expressions on their faces.

  “You have
just given them something else to talk about,” she whispered.

  He glanced over his shoulder, his smile widening.

  “Then shall we continue?”

  In front of the women, he bent his head and kissed her lightly on the lips, the first such time he’d ever done so. Of course, he wanted pretense, a masquerade. He wanted the world to think they were happily married and that theirs was a love match.

  His hands went to her shoulders, and he drew her to him, slowly so that she could pull away if she wanted. But, dear God, how wonderful it felt to be held. Just for a moment. Just for a second to feel the warmth of another person’s flesh against her own.

  She opened her mouth a little, and he deepened the kiss, and for a time, she forgot that it was pretense or that they were being observed. When he released her, she bent her head and tried to regain her composure, but it was difficult with her heart beating so hard and her breath feeling tight in her chest.

  Finally, she stepped back. His smile had disappeared and in its place was that intent gaze of his. She didn’t know what to say to him and as the moments passed, so did the opportunity.

  She turned toward the door to find that their guests had left. In defiance of her upbringing and training, she disappeared as well, not to play the part of hostess, but to their chamber, where she sat for a long time with her fingers pressed against her lips.

  Chapter 11

  “I think it would take months to do a complete inventory of Balidonough,” Glynneth said two weeks later.

  Catherine nodded, looking at the chaos around them. Furniture was stacked from the floor to the rafters of the attic. “Dour thoughts will only make this job seem longer and more boring.”

  Glynneth gave her a quick look. Today Glynneth looked every bit the housekeeper, with her hair pinned up high and a set of keys dangling from a heavy chain at her waist.

  “I do admit, however, that it looks like a daunting chore.”

  “Did they not throw anything away?”

  “Not if Juliana had anything to say about it,” Catherine said. “I think quite possibly that my sister-in-law is the most frugal woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

  “What we need to do,” Glynneth suggested, “is to have some of the footmen take a few of the trunks downstairs, so we can, at least, have room to move around.”

  “You’re right. We can’t even navigate through here.”

  “What shall we do in the meantime?”

  “There’s always the keep,” Catherine said.

  They descended the stairs only to find themselves in another area of the castle, one unfamiliar to Catherine.

  “It’s the Picture Stairs,” Glynneth said. “All we need to do is turn right and the corridor will lead to the Grand Staircase.”

  “Picture Stairs?”

  “It leads to the gallery of ducal portraits.”

  “There are more?” Catherine asked.

  Every night she faced the solemn faces of the previous dukes before falling asleep, and every night she pretended that it was not disturbing to be frowned upon—as if they, too, disapproved of her black nightgowns.

  She had not been sleeping well of late, no doubt a result of her avoidance of laudanum. But she would not have confessed that to Moncrief any more than she would have sought a substitute for the drug. At least her dreams, when she finally did fall asleep, were not torturous things filled with bright bands of color and images that couldn’t possibly be real.

  “Did they have an artist on staff whose sole duty was to paint the Dukes of Lymond?”

  Glynneth only smiled.

  “I’d like to see this gallery.”

  At the top of the stairs, they turned left and walked some distance before the ceiling abruptly changed, towering to a high pitch above them. On one side was a wall of glass, twenty-some-odd windows whose mullioned panes were casting patterns on the dark wooden floor. Here, the maids had not, evidently, had a chance to clean, since the floor was gray with dust.

  The walls were covered in a deep red silk that was faded in several places, especially where the sun struck it. But it was the other wall, the one facing the windows, that captured Catherine’s attention. Massive frames of gilt surrounded what looked to be a chronological portrayal of Lymond dukes. Life-size paintings faced them, some with the subject turned toward them in a three-quarters pose, ermine slung over one shoulder, a pair of hunting dogs playing around his feet, others more formally posed.

  Another portrait showed two boys, and she read from the tag affixed to the frame that it was Colin and Dermott, Moncrief’s older brothers. They were both blond, each possessing a narrow face and sharp chin.

  Another picture caught her eye and as she walked toward it, Catherine wondered if it was Moncrief. But then, she realized it couldn’t be. This man was older, with a commanding presence evident even in a portrait. His hair was black with touches of gray at the temples, his eyes a brilliant blue. In his right hand he held what looked to be a scepter. His left hand was at his back, and he stood with feet firmly planted apart much like Moncrief often did, as if he were resting from standing at attention. In the background was a cathedral, painted as if obscured by fog. The expression on the subject’s face was solemn, again a similarity to Moncrief. But amusement flashed in his dark blue eyes, as if he was privy to an eternal jest.

  “Who is that?”

  Glynneth bent forward and read from the plate. “The first Duke of Lymond. Conal.”

  “He looks like Moncrief,” Catherine said. The same features, the same chin, squared and determined against the world. No doubt they shared the same temperament as well.

  “I wonder why there’s a cathedral in the painting?”

  Catherine shook her head. She didn’t know. Nor was she familiar with the scepter Conal held.

  “Do you think he was a bishop?”

  “Turned into a duke?” Catherine shrugged.

  “Why isn’t there a picture of Moncrief as a boy?”

  “He was the third son and no doubt considered unimportant.”

  “Isn’t it ironic that Fate delivered Moncrief up to be duke?” Glynneth asked.

  Catherine went to stand in front of the picture of the two older boys. What was Moncrief doing in the weeks it took to paint this portrait? Had he been banished to the nursery? Had he even been born yet? The boys looked smug, well fed, and content with their life. They were both smiling, one sitting on a thronelike chair, the other on a footstool beside him. The older boy had his hand on the shoulder of the younger, making Catherine wonder if it was to assist him up or to keep him down.

  Glynneth pointed out the portrait of Moncrief’s father, and she could instantly see that his older sons resembled him. He had a narrow face with a pointed chin and a regrettably hooked nose that age had not softened. He didn’t look like a pleasant man, but appearances were often deceiving. Next to him in line was Juliana’s husband, Colin, all grown-up. While he had inherited his father’s chin, his nose was blessedly not as hooked.

  “He’s an attractive man,” Glynneth said.

  “But don’t you think he gives an impression of weakness, rather than strength?” Catherine tilted her head and stared at the painting from a different perspective.

  One look at Moncrief, and one would have no reservations about forming an impression of him.

  “Perhaps Moncrief will arrange to have his portrait painted now,” Glynneth said.

  “Perhaps. I’ve often wished I had a portrait of Harry.” In her mind, however, she would forever remember him, standing there smiling at her, the sun on his golden hair, his smile one of excitement for the future rather than sadness for their parting.

  Glynneth said nothing, and Catherine glanced at her. “What about your husband, Glynneth? Do you have a miniature of him? Or a portrait?”

  The other woman looked away, a small, reminiscent smile softening her face. “No, I have nothing.”

  For a moment, Catherine watched her friend, wondering what she’d
said that was so amusing. But rather than questioning Glynneth, she turned and walked to the bank of windows. Stretching out before her were the grounds, manicured and beautifully laid out. Beyond the walls were undulating hills cut into square patches of farmland. Even now, after the crops had been harvested and the first frost already come and gone, she could see the pattern of the rows that would be hoed and tilled come spring. To the east was the river, where a slight haze rose from the water. To the west was a thick grove of trees. Perched solidly in the middle was Balidonough, like a jewel in a priceless setting.

  She glanced down at a movement and saw Moncrief striding across the pale grass accompanied by another, older man.

  What tasks had he done today? Another man might have rested, might have reassured himself that he was duke and others could perform the duties he’d set for them. Not Moncrief. He looked ready to work as he always did, dressed in his black trousers and shiny black boots. Today he wore a greatcoat over his white shirt, the only concession to the blustery day. He wore no hat and occasionally speared his hand through his hair as if impatient with the wind’s mussing of it.

  Sometimes, like now, he would look around him as a soldier might, as if not quite certain if an enemy lurked around the bush, a wall, or a tree. But his smile, when it came, tugged at her heart, especially as thoughts of him as a lonely young boy were still lodged in her mind.

  Just then he looked up, and they exchanged a glance.

  Ever since the formal dinner at Balidonough there had been a current between them, something Catherine told herself she didn’t quite understand. In the last two weeks, she’d rarely seen him except at dinner. He attended those meals in the family dining room, and was present in that he communicated, shared ideas, and occasionally frowned Juliana into silence. At night she went to bed alone only to awaken the same way. An indentation on the pillow was the only sign that he’d come to bed at all.

  She would be wise to be grateful for this new aloof Moncrief and not wonder where the other man had gone.

  Only a week remained of her month, and she counseled herself that it would be better simply to give herself to him like a good wife. Once the deed was done, it would not have to be repeated more than a few times a month.