Till Next We Meet Page 17

  “Moncrief was Harry’s commanding officer,” Catherine said. The comment was said almost in the nature of a goad, but when Moncrief glanced at her, she was still studying the floor intently.

  “Were you, indeed, Your Grace?”

  “I was only recently released from my commission,” Moncrief said. “My brother had died, and I inherited my title.”

  “Was my son a good soldier?” Mr. Dunnan asked.

  Once again Fate maneuvered Moncrief into the position of praising Harry. But he couldn’t very well tell the man who looked at him so expectedly and proudly, that the hero, the son, he mourned had been a despicable human being.

  “A very fine soldier, indeed,” he said, finishing his whiskey in one gulp.

  “Did he mention me at all, Your Grace?” Mrs. Dunnan’s voice was hopeful. Moncrief was all too aware of that tone. He’d heard it whenever he’d visited a dead soldier’s home, and read it in the letters he’d received from parents and loved ones.

  “He had a great fondness for his parents,” Moncrief said. “Indeed, for everyone he left behind in Scotland.”

  There, if liars went to hell, he would be leading the procession.

  Dunnan looked down into his whiskey, twirling the glass around in his hands. “Which makes it all the more strange, Your Grace, that Catherine would wed so quickly.”

  “It is an advantageous alliance,” Moncrief said, referring obliquely to his title.

  Dunnan looked around a room at all the trinkets accumulated over the centuries for the sole purpose of impressing guests at Balidonough. “I can see that, Your Grace,” he said slowly. He glanced at Catherine. “But she was devastated by Harry’s death. And gave no mention of you.”

  Moncrief exchanged a glance with the vicar, who had evidently maintained some shred of decency and not divulged the tale of his wedding, candlelit and surreptitious.

  “I can assure you that Catherine is a beloved bride,” he said, trapped in the position of not telling a lie after all. “I adore her.” He turned his empty glass one way or another, watching a droplet of whiskey roll around the bottom.

  When the room remained silent, he unwisely glanced at Catherine to find her staring at him. “In that, Harry and I are alike,” he said softly.

  A half lie, then. Harry loved no one but himself, but again, that was not a comment he could make to a father who was so intent on enshrining his son’s memory.

  “He was a fine young man,” Mrs. Dunnan said. “A kind and a handsome young man who would have warmed any mother’s heart. I shall never forget him, even though others have.” She didn’t look in Catherine’s direction, but there was little doubt about whom she spoke.

  Moncrief put down his glass and forced a smile to his face. “Regrettably, life is for the living. We can mourn those who have passed, madam, but if we live for them, it’s the same as dying.”

  Mrs. Dunnan’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, no doubt unsure of how to respond to being censured by a duke.

  Catherine looked away, her flush replaced by a sudden pallor. Good. He wanted to disturb her, wanted to shake her from her widow’s weeds and her soft air of constant mourning. He wanted to press her up against the wall and feel every curve of her body, and gauge how it fit against his. He wanted her to feel how hard he grew whenever she smiled in a certain way or brushed against him accidentally, unknowing. Or when she put her arm around his neck and sighed against his chest as he carried her.

  He had never, to his knowledge, hinted at his feelings for her, but some part of him wanted to make a declaration, to strip her of the ignorance that surrounded her.

  I want you for my wife now and always. I want you in my bed, and I will be content with only a portion of the devotion you’ve lavished on Harry.

  She would no doubt be shocked or clench her hands together and back away slowly as one would from a madman.

  When Wallace announced dinner in that newly self-important tone of his, Catherine allowed Moncrief to assist her into the dining room. She insisted upon walking, so he merely wrapped his arm around her waist and allowed her to lean on him so that she needn’t put any weight on her bad ankle.

  They were pressed so close together, however, that he couldn’t help but feel her hip, the brush of her arm, the curve of one impudent breast. If he bent his head just so, he could smell the scent she used and place a quick, surreptitious, kiss on the nape of her neck.

  Instead, he did nothing but meet her gaze, and curse Harry to damnation in his mind.

  Chapter 16

  The wind fought the building, roaring around the ramparts of Balidonough as if it were in the midst of a fierce winter battle, striving for dominance against stone and mortar that had stood for centuries. Catherine could hear the fire spit and hiss in response to the muted roar of an angry wind. The night itself seemed viciously indignant, not a setting to induce peaceful sleep.

  Catherine and Moncrief lay in bed together, each staring up at the ceiling. Catherine couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about, but that was such an intimate question that she couldn’t voice it.

  “How long will they be remaining with us?” Moncrief asked in the silence. She was relieved to know his thoughts were on their guests and not her.

  “I don’t know,” Catherine said. “Surely not long. It’s less than an hour’s journey back to their home, not a vast distance.”

  “I have a suspicion, however, that travel time will have no bearing on the length of their stay.”

  She turned her head to see his shadow. “I fervently hope you’re not correct.”

  If he was right, she was disheartened. Mrs. Dunnan had a way of making her feel inadequate, and together she and Juliana could make her life at Balidonough miserable. Unless, of course, she busied herself with everyday tasks. But with her ankle, that was going to be impossible. Not impossible, merely inconvenient. She would learn how to walk on the crutches tomorrow, and surely her ankle would get better with each passing day. All she needed to do was to take care on the stairs.

  “Did you see Mrs. Dunnan often when you were married to Harry?”

  “No,” she said, recalling those early days of her marriage. “I can’t help but wonder now if Harry forbid her to come to Colstin Hall. I only saw them infrequently. In fact, the last time I saw her was at Harry’s funeral.”

  For a long time neither spoke, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Moncrief had fallen asleep.

  But then he turned toward her.

  “The past can be a burdensome thing, Catherine,” he said softly. “Shall we call a truce and pretend, at least, that it does not exist for either of us?”

  To pretend that Harry had never been alive? To expunge him from her heart? No Colstin Hall? No memories of her father? No bittersweet recollections of a happy childhood?

  “Who should I be,” she asked him finally, “if I cannot be myself?”

  “Whoever you might wish to be.”

  “When I was a child, my father was forever calling me a princess. I thought I was one, and that he was a benevolent king who had given up his castle for a small home next to the woods.”

  “You have a castle here at Balidonough.”

  “Are you the prince?”

  “Why not a king as well?”

  She smiled at Moncrief’s arrogance even in this playful pretense.

  “Very well,” she said, “you shall be a powerful king. You’ve united all the kingdoms and here you reign.”

  “Then I must have a queen, not simply a princess.”

  “No,” she countered, “princesses have golden hair and ride unicorns. Queens are more serious, like Juliana.”

  His laughter made her smile.

  “There, you’ve destroyed my illusion with just one name.”

  “So I did. Then shall we imagine another place? Although I can’t imagine a more enchanted castle than Balidonough.”

  “You like it here?”

  “I do,” she said, surprised to find it true. “It insp
ires awe, don’t you agree? I haven’t yet explored all the rooms, but what I’ve seen is amazing. If we ever grew tired of this wing, we could choose to settle in the east wing. And there is a marvelous conservatory on the second floor that I discovered a few days ago. All it needs is a little care.”

  “I’m told my mother loved Balidonough,” he said, then added a few moments later, “I’m the one who has destroyed the illusion this time.”

  She turned toward him. “That’s all right. Tell me about her.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” he said. “My recollections are secondhand, from my brothers. They told me about her laugh, and said everyone who met her went away charmed. Colin said her hands were always cool and smelled of lilac.”

  After a few moments of silence, Catherine spoke. “I don’t remember my mother, either. My father always told me she was beautiful. And I think she must have been. But, then, he said the same about me,” she added, smiling into the darkness.

  “But you are.”

  She rolled onto her back to stare up at the ceiling, wishing he hadn’t said such a thing.

  “Surely you know that,” he said.

  She turned her head to look at him. He had risen up on his elbow and was a blur in the darkness, a looming dark shadow that was, somehow, reassuring.

  “I am not beautiful,” she countered. “But I thank you for the compliment all the same.”

  “Are you being foolish? I never thought you to be the type to solicit compliments.”

  “I am not.”

  “Your eyes are so deeply brown they’re almost black. Your nose is perfect; your mouth is full and shapely. Even in repose your face is lovely, but when you smile you’re the picture of joy.”

  “My appearance cannot compare to yours,” she said, embarrassed.

  He laughed. “Now who’s being a flatterer?”

  “Surely you see the way the maids look at you when you pass? Even Cook seems to be enamored of you. Why else would she always be sending a tray of tarts to you? If you ate everything she made for you, you’d be as large as a stoat.”

  “I doubt they see me as a man, Catherine, but simply their duke.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “You are either very modest, Moncrief, or foolish.”

  “I doubt I am either,” he said stiffly.

  She realized in that moment that he was embarrassed, and his discomfiture was another side to him, one she found utterly charming.

  “You have a very soft side to you, Moncrief, one that I suspect you do not show to others easily.”

  He didn’t answer her, and for a moment she wondered if she’d gone too far. Had their intimacy, only moments old, been endangered by her frankness?

  “I have revealed more to you, Catherine, than to anyone. I wonder why you cannot see it.”

  She heard him turn again and knew that his back was to her, his repudiation sudden and surprisingly painful. She clutched the sheet with both hands and wished she knew what to say. Finally, the words came to her, and she spoke them, praying they were the right ones. “I want to be your friend, Moncrief. Can we not have that between us?”

  “We have so much more than that, Catherine. The pity of it is that you don’t realize it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t turn. “I know.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder and felt him tense. “It is not wise to touch me at the moment, Catherine.”

  Slowly, she withdrew her hand, telling herself that she did so in order not to tempt Fate. It was not cowardice that kept her still and silent and wakeful on the other side of the bed.

  When he turned to his back, she half expected him to speak, but he didn’t. Finally, she pretended sleep to hide her hurt.

  “Your breasts sway sometimes when you walk,” he said sometime later.

  She kept her breath even, a more difficult task than she’d considered, since she could barely breathe at all.

  “I’ve begun to watch for it. I wonder if it’s because Mary doesn’t lace your corset tightly. If so, I must commend her. I want to put my hands on the sides of them and feel them against my palms. It has become my abiding curiosity of late.”

  Her breath hitched, and with great difficulty she kept up the rhythm of a sleeper.

  “The other day you were wearing a new dress. Something in that infernal lavender, but the bodice was lower. I had to keep myself from plunging my hand inside and teasing your nipples to hardness.”

  She didn’t move, too afraid to let him know that she was awake and privy to his licentious thoughts. That he had been thinking about her, that he had watched her like that was disconcerting.

  “I can’t help but remember the night I bathed you.”

  She closed her eyes tightly as if to banish the sound of his voice. But despite her wishes she had a flash of memory of the warmth of the fire, the sensuous abandon she felt as the laudanum warmed every part of her.

  “Hell is remembering that you are my wife, and knowing all too well what you look like and being forced to sleep next to you without being able to touch you.”

  He sat up and lit the candle on the bedside table. “You can open your eyes, Catherine. I know you’re not asleep.”

  Resolutely, she blinked open her eyes. “How did you know?”

  “Sleepers rarely blush,” he said.

  Catherine turned to find him standing there naked just as he had been this afternoon.

  She swiftly clamped a hand over her eyes, but he was still imprinted on her lids. He was wearing neither a dressing gown nor underclothes. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, and his legs long and lean.

  She heard the sound of him moving and allowed herself to peek behind her hand. He had turned and was bending for his dressing gown. Dear Lord, he had muscles even on his backside.

  Her hands slithered down to cup her nose as she stared. She had been unable to stop thinking about him all evening. Now he gave her time for a more leisurely inspection.

  “Do you never wear a nightshirt?”

  “No, never.”

  “Is it entirely healthy to sleep naked?” She had never seen a man as gloriously fit as Moncrief.

  “Have you never slept without a nightgown?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Perhaps you should.” He pulled on his dressing gown. “I would give half my fortune to know what you’re thinking right at this moment.”

  No one had ever thought to ask her such a question. For a moment, she was more startled by his curiosity than by her thoughts. But when her eyes traveled slowly up his form to meet his gaze, she felt her blush intensify.

  “Is it necessary that I tell you?”

  “I do not command your thoughts, Catherine.”

  She was not that much a ninny that she would have confessed to him that he was quite the most beautiful specimen of man she’d ever seen. She pushed away the thought—disloyal as it was—that he was taller and broader than Harry. Dearest Harry had not been so…firm.

  But she was no coward either, and as the minutes stretched between them, she took his unspoken dare. “I was thinking that you must be very active to be so fit.”

  He stood with his hands at his sides, the dressing gown open, simply regarding her. She wanted to tell him to tie the belt at least, to overlap the material, perhaps. Or turn, if those actions were beyond him. Had he no modesty?

  An imp of a thought whispered that he was so beautifully formed that it was a shame for him to be covered.

  Finally, blessedly, he did tighten the belt, obscuring his most impressive attributes. Not, however, before his penis had begun to lengthen and harden.

  “Does it always do that?” she asked, staring at the tent forming in the front of his dressing gown.

  “I do not command it, either.”

  He turned his back to her, and she had the feeling that he was embarrassed. With Moncrief, it was difficult to be certain.

  “I will ask Juliana to move from the Duchess’s Cha
mber in the morning. We needn’t share a bed any longer.”

  He didn’t give her time to respond, merely opened the door and immediately shut it behind him.

  What about his time limit? What about her wifely duties? Had the arrival of Harry’s parents done what her mourning had not?

  She sat up and frowned at the door. Would she ever understand Moncrief?

  Chapter 17

  The next week was dismal. Worse than dismal, in fact, with as many different difficulties as Catherine could imagine all compressed into one seven-day period.

  She learned how to get around on crutches and did so with determination but not much grace. She wasn’t fast enough, despite her practice, to escape Mrs. Dunnan. The woman insisted upon following her around to the extent that not one single room was a haven, except, of course, Moncrief’s library. Mrs. Dunnan dare not invade that sanctuary, but neither did Catherine. Ever since that last night they’d shared a bed, he’d been very cordial but very distant.

  Perhaps it was better that way, but she couldn’t dismiss the niggling sense of sadness that trailed after her. This time, however, it had nothing to do with Harry.

  Added to her wretchedness was the fact that Juliana evidently suspected she was spending money, and consequently either watched Catherine closely herself, or sent Hortensia to follow her about. Catherine felt more and more like a mother duck with a bevy of ducklings tagging along behind her, some more surreptitiously than others.

  To make things worse, Hortensia had developed a rash, the cause of which was either the lavender water Catherine suggested the laundry maids use to rinse the sheets, or the salve someone had given Hortensia to ease her aching knees, or something she’d eaten. She would not cease telling anyone not fast enough to escape about the pustules that covered her body. The last time she’d done so, Catherine had grabbed her crutches and limped away, only to find Hortensia following her.

  Catherine had moved into the Duchess’s Chamber to find that the room was as daunting in its way as the Duke’s Chamber. The bed jutted out into the middle of the room, shielded by a noxious-looking drapery in a shade of green Catherine had never before seen. In fact, everything was green, from the floor covering to the tapestry behind the bed. Even in daylight the room was dim, as if seen through a murky pond, and the bed was entirely too large.