How to Seduce a Scot (6 page)

Catherine did not sleep well. When she finally did doze a few hours before dawn, her rest was troubled. She did not see the beautiful Mr. Waters in her dreams even once. She dreamed only of a parade of ledgers and figures that did not add up, and once of a ship going down into a black ocean with all her hopes inside it.

She woke feeling bleak, but when she checked her appearance in the mirror, her looks seemed unaffected, save for a little tiredness around her eyes. She applied a cold compress while Marie, the upstairs maid, drew her blonde hair into the one design they knew how to affect, a pile of dainty curls on the top of her head, with a few tendrils left around her forehead and ears to soften the look. She wore pink that day instead of light blue, and made certain that she looked well in it, though she wasn't going out again until the next night, when she and her mother would be attending Lady Jersey's ball.

In spite of her success at Almack's, she had received no invitations save to take tea with the Waterses, which, while enjoyable, had mostly been a disaster. Her arm had already healed almost completely, as if Alexander's touch and his honey compress had worked some kind of strange magic. She had Marie tie a light dressing over it, in case it broke open and started bleeding again, but covered by her long, light muslin sleeve, the wound was not visible at all.

When she took the compress off her eyes, her sleepless worry had been concealed as well.

Her letter to Mr. Philips, their solicitor, had been written the night before and no doubt sent to Lincoln's Inn before the sun was up. Catherine was not sure what she was going to do with her day while she waited for his reply. She would do her best to avoid the Waters family, both for her own sake and for the sake of Mr. Robert Waters's musical sensibilities.

She took breakfast with her mother and sister as she always did, and saw that Cook had furnished the breakfast table with more beef from the roast the night before. Though it stuck in her throat, she ate it, for she could not bear the idea of it going to waste.

The morning passed in relative silence for their household, with her mother writing letters to friends and Margaret working diligently on her French verbs. Catherine sat in the window of the family sitting room at the back of the house, overlooking her flower garden. She might go down and weed it later, though Charlie seemed to keep up with their little patch of green well enough.

There was something soothing about having her hands in the dirt, though she could not fathom why. Of course, in Town, she had to wear gardening gloves, which took away half the fun. Still, the soil under her hands always brought her comfort. And there was comfort in knowing that both the town house and their small estate in Devon were free of mortgages.

Jim entered the family room without knocking and Catherine sighed as he addressed her mother. She reminded herself to speak to Giles about Jim's need for further instruction on how to behave as an under butler.

“There is a gentleman caller to see Miss Catherine,” Jim announced, his Devon accent doing nothing to take away from the grandeur of his address.

“Did he leave his card, Jim?” Mrs. Middlebrook asked, laying her pen down.

“No indeed, madam.” Jim stood silent then, not giving any further indication of who might be waiting for Catherine even then.

Mrs. Middlebrook went back to her letter as usual, not caring about the running of her household. Catherine suppressed a sigh of martyrdom and told herself to stop being a fool as she rose to her feet with a smile. “I will be happy to greet the gentleman, Jim, but please, in future, obtain a calling card before you announce a visitor.”

“Yes, miss.” Jim bowed low, as if this stricture were a revelation, though Catherine was quite certain that he heard it once a day.

Neither Mrs. Middlebrook nor Margaret took any more notice of the proceedings, so Catherine checked her hair in the mirror above the fireplace and smoothed her pink gown where it had wrinkled a bit at the waist. She stepped into the hall and made her way downstairs to the formal parlor, where her visitor waited.

She took deep breaths and tried to pinch color into her cheeks, her only thoughts revolving around Alexander Waters. So when she opened the door and discovered Lord Farleigh waiting for her, she lost her train of thought altogether. At least she did not lose the manners that her grandmother had drilled into her when she was only knee-high.

“My lord Farleigh, good morning.” She left the door wide open behind her and curtsied to him prettily. He stood from his perch on the uncomfortable settee in the center of the room as soon as he saw her, and bowed with an elegance and grace she could not remember him displaying before.

“Good morning, Miss Middlebrook. Do forgive the early call, but as the morning sun rose, I found myself hungering for a bit of a ride in the park. I know it is not the fashionable hour, but it would be my honor if you would accompany me.” His handsome features were schooled into a calm smile, which revealed nothing of his inner thoughts. As this was only proper, Catherine was surprised that she was disappointed.

Catherine blinked at him, and wondered for a fleeting instant if he did not want to be seen with her. Despite his remote politeness, she dismissed this idea as vaporish nonsense. He had taken the time and trouble to call on her, after all. “Thank you for the kind thought, my lord. I would love a ride in your carriage. Let me go and fetch my pelisse. May I call for refreshments while you wait? Some tea?”

“Perhaps another day, Miss Middlebrook. I find that the warm spring sun calls to me, and I fear we must take advantage of it before it is gone.”

Catherine laughed. “That is true, my lord. So many fine days in the city seem to turn suddenly to rain. I will not be a moment.”

She sent Marie for her pelisse and bonnet, and sent word by Jim to her mother that she was going for a drive in the park. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she heard her mother chortle from above stairs as she and Lord Farleigh closed the wide front door behind them.

Before she knew it, she was perched high on the seat of his curricle, the matched grays charging down the sedate street as if they were at Newcastle. She watched as Lord Farleigh brought them under control easily, and let them keep their spirit and their gait if not their speed as he turned the carriage deftly into Regent's Park.

She kept up an easy chatter with his lordship, all the while watching him surreptitiously beneath her lashes. Her bonnet blocked a good deal of her peripheral vision, but as she faced him, he kept his eyes on the road, as any wise driver should. That left her able to look him over with no concern for embarrassment or propriety.

He was a fine-looking man, blond and blue-eyed where Mr. Waters was as dark and swarthy as a pirate. His hair was neatly pomaded, but not overdressed, and his cravat was well tied without being officious. His address was polite if a bit distant, as he was fully engaged in keeping his spirited beasts from overturning them at every opportunity. Though his pantaloons were not as tight as Mr. Waters's, his superfine coat showed his shoulders to advantage. All in all, looking on him for the rest of her life would be no hardship.

This thought brought a pain into her heart, which she ignored, the way she would ignore a stomach cramp brought on by too many croissants with jam.

They rode out for almost an hour before Lord Farleigh turned back and brought her safely home again. He called for a footman, and Jim deserted his post at the door at once and came down the front stairs to hold his horses. “I will see you indoors, if you will allow me, Miss Middlebrook,” Lord Farleigh said.

“It would be a pleasure, my lord. Will you take a cup of tea?”

He helped her down from the high seat then, and she forgot her question, his gloved hands strong and warm around her waist. As he swung her gently to the ground and stepped decorously back, she found that she felt safe with him, as she had all morning long. Safety and pleasant conversation were no small things.

As they stepped inside, she forgot to renew her offer of refreshments. Her mother was holding court with both Mr. Alexander Waters and Mary Elizabeth, all three laughing uproariously at something which had already been said. The laughter died abruptly when Catherine entered the room on Lord Farleigh's arm.

Mr. Waters stood, as politeness dictated, but he rose from his chair with an air of menace that seemed out of place in a formal drawing room. Catherine felt her tongue threaten to cleave to the roof of her mouth, and she forced herself to speak. It was suddenly difficult, but she managed it.

“Good morning, Miss Waters, Mr. Waters. My lord, may I present my mother, Mrs. Olivia Middlebrook. You no doubt remember Miss Mary Elizabeth Waters of Glenderrin, and Mr. Alexander Waters, also of the same.”

Lord Farleigh smiled his calm, warm smile and bowed to the two ladies, but when his eyes fell on Alexander, his bow turned to a simple nod, and his smile grew cool. “Good morning. I believe Mr. Waters and I have met.”

“Yes,” Mr. Waters said. “We discussed the fate of Scotland at Lady Jersey's latest soiree.”

Lord Farleigh's smile did not falter, but as Catherine watched, the last of the warmth went out of his eyes. “Indeed we did. And came to no firm conclusion, if I recall.”

“Oh, I don't know. I think one or two things were decided during that talk.”

Catherine did not understand why two men would take such a sudden and intense dislike to each other, but it seemed that they had. Lord Farleigh refused her mother's offer of tea, and bowed to the room at large before taking his leave.

He raised Catherine's hand to his lips, but did not touch his mouth to her glove. Instead, he asked, “Will you and your lovely mother be attending the ball at Lady Jersey's home tomorrow night?”

Catherine felt a little breathless as one man held her hand while a large, hulking Scot stood staring daggers at him. “Indeed, we will, my lord.”

“If I might be so bold, I would like to secure the first waltz and the second quadrille.”

“I would be honored, Lord Farleigh.”

She caught his eye, and for the first time, she saw a hint of the same heat that rose in Mr. Waters's gaze whenever she was near. She waited for an answering flutter in her belly, and was disappointed when none came. Still, such tender feeling no doubt grew in time, like good lavender, coming back year after year fuller and more beautiful with careful tending.

“The honor is mine,” he said, relinquishing her hand.

He left then without another word, and Catherine sat down at once, for her knees were weak. She forgot, until she caught Mary Elizabeth staring at her, that she was still wearing her bonnet and pelisse.

“Eat something, Catherine, and then we'll go,” Mary Elizabeth said.

“Go where?”

“To the menagerie, of course, and then on to Gunter's. Did Alex not ask you yesterday when he was driving you home?” Mary Elizabeth offered the sandwich plate as if it were her home and her parlor. Catherine's mother did not seem to care one fig, as she was busy contemplating Mr. Waters, who had sat down once more. The circle was complete, for it seemed that Mr. Waters was busy contemplating Catherine.

Catherine could feel the heat of his gaze but she did not turn to look at him. She refused to feel at odds for going out for a lovely carriage ride in an open rig in broad daylight with a man it seemed was courting her, an eligible gentleman with whom she would hopefully stand before a parson before the summer was over.

She took one look at Mr. Waters from beneath the rim of her bonnet. His eyes were as hot as melted chocolate, but for once, they did not seem welcoming, but irritated. She did not know why he was frowning at her as if she had just kicked his favorite spaniel. She ate her tea sandwich, and took a second when Mary Elizabeth brandished the plate at her, but she did not look at him again.

“What do you think? Shall we see the lion in the Tower?” Mary Elizabeth asked, ignoring her brother completely.

Catherine managed to finish her second sandwich without choking, and she accepted a glass of lemonade from Mary Elizabeth's outstretched hand. “Sounds delightful,” she croaked, turning her back on the man altogether. She noticed that her mother's eyes moved from him back to her. In spite of the young man's glare, or perhaps because of it, her mother simply smiled.

Alex wanted to throttle that Englishman with one hand—his left, perhaps, so that his right hand would still be free to get at his knife if he needed it. He had always counted himself as a rational man, but something about that Englishman set his teeth on edge.

Lord Whatever-His-Name would be the perfect man to stand by Catherine for the rest of her life. No doubt he kept a decent wine cellar and went to church on Sundays. He might even keep country hours when at home, and no doubt judged the local roses with fairness and equanimity. His innate English assumption of superiority was simply part of his makeup, the way arrogance and self-assurance were part of being a Waters man. Alex told himself all these things, but as he stared down into his tiny cup of tepid tea, these attempts at rationality did not help in the slightest.

He knew now, with no uncertainty, that he had not begun to lose his mind. He had already lost it.

Catherine sat munching sandwiches, wilting under the heat of his stare as a hothouse flower wilts under the heat of too much sun. Alex tried to rein his irrational fury in, to contain it, to bottle it until he could thrash someone or something later. All this sitting in her mother's parlor, listening to his sister prattle on about the Tower and its long-ago-drained moat, was going to make him lose what was left of his control.

He felt a primitive urge to pick Catherine up, toss her over his shoulder, and make for the Highlands without looking back. He knew now that not only was he among strange people, but just as his sister always said, he was among the enemy. That blond English bastard was going to marry his angel, and there was nothing Alex could do to stop him.

Other than marry her himself.

He was too angry to see straight, and too angry to think wild thoughts. But for the first time, he wondered what his mother would say if he brought a slight, angelic blonde girl back to the frigid halls of his family's keep. How would this too-thin girl fare during her first winter in the Highlands, when even stout men sometimes caught a chill, fell ill, and died of it?

And what of his own ship, that in one month's time would have landed in Aberdeen, ready to take on luxury goods bound for the islands of the West Indies? What of his plans to see Mary Elizabeth wed, and then to return, as all sane men must, to the lure of the sea? He owned his own ship, not bought with the family's funds, but paid for with his own earnings. It had been his lifelong dream to serve as captain on it, and he had only done so once, a year ago, before his mother called him home to deal with his sister's lack of prospects. He had sworn that once Mary Elizabeth was settled, he would go back to the life he had built, the life he had always longed for.

He could not take Catherine to sea. He could not live here, among his enemies. And he could not marry her.

Still, for the first time since the Englishman had stepped into the room with Catherine's hand on his arm, Alex became calm and ready to listen to reason.

Catherine seemed sensitive to his moods, for as soon as the black cloud of his irritation passed, she smiled tentatively at him and offered the plate of tea cakes. Alex was not a man for sweets, or so he had always thought, but he accepted a sesame cake as a peace offering and made her blink by devouring it all in one bite, as he often wished to devour her.

She seemed to catch something of this in his gaze, for she blushed, a delightful, delicate pink rising to color her throat and cheeks to match her pretty, pink walking dress. He could have stared at the girl for the rest of the afternoon—indeed, for the rest of his life. But he could hear the impatient tone of Mary Elizabeth's voice, though he had long since stopped listening to her words. He had to get her out of doors and soon, before she embarrassed them both by proposing a knife toss in the front parlor, or a race up the staircase in the corridor outside.

Alex smiled at the room at large, turning on the charm he had in abundance but so seldom bothered to use. “Ladies, the afternoon draws on. Shall we adjourn to the Tower, to hear of the fate of the doomed wives of Henry VIII and see the great lion of Africa?”

Catherine laughed, and her laughter was like music. Not a high, tinkling sound as a pianoforte made, but a lower thrum, like a bass drum used to call men to war.

“Have a care with my girl, Mr. Waters. She needs protecting from prowling beasts, do remember,” Mrs. Angel said.

Catherine finally spoke. “Mama, please.”

Mrs. Angel did not acknowledge her daughter's protest, nor did she heed it, but kept her blue-eyed gaze firmly fixed on him. Alex bowed, and took her mother's hand.

“Catherine need fear nothing so long as I am with her.”

Mary Elizabeth missed the byplay between him and Mrs. Angel altogether. She was not one for subtleties of any kind, as she found them a complete waste of time. “The lion is secure in his cage, and is no danger to anyone. Come, Alex, the Tower awaits.”

Mrs. Angel only raised one elegant eyebrow at him. The Tower's lion clearly was not the first beast that came to her mind.

* * *

The Tower was not quite as large as Catherine had imagined it would be. Nestled next to the bustling Thames, so close to the City, the noise of the streets was overwhelming as Mr. Waters handed her down from the duchess's open carriage.

She stood with her half boots touching the worn stones of the path that led up to the walls of the Tower of London. Somewhere in there were the black ravens that were said to keep England whole, and the king safe on his throne. She assumed that he and his ministers took great care that the ravens were well fed, and stayed close to home. It was only a superstition, but it didn't do any harm to look after a few birds.

She stood frozen in place, feeling overwhelmed both by the history of the place and the bustle of the street behind her, until she felt Mr. Waters's hand on her arm. Mary Elizabeth had forged through the crowd and had moved on ahead to the Tower's gate, where she had already struck up a chat with one of the yeomen. Dressed in the beefeater regalia of Henry VIII's reign, the man unbent enough to lean down and listen to whatever she was saying, and to smile at her. Catherine felt a surge of envy that her friend was so relaxed in such a strange place, and confident enough to speak with any man, about anything at all.

Mr. Waters drew close to her, shielding her from a group of lords and ladies who moved toward the gate. The moat was long gone and the water gate filled in with dirt, but many wanted to look at it and to speak of it, and of the doomed yet never forgotten queen, Anne Boleyn.

“It is a bit much,” Mr. Waters said. “I did not realize it would be so crowded on a Tuesday. Please forgive me.”

Catherine looked up at him, peering past the rim of her bonnet to see genuine concern on his face. He was watching her as if he feared she might faint right there. She laughed, and smiled at him. “I do not hold you responsible for the tourists of London, Mr. Waters. I am not quite as delicate as you seem to think.”

“You are more so,” Mr. Waters countered. “You are too good for this world.”

Catherine felt her cursed, telltale blush rise as it always did, but this time, she did not look away from him. She kept her eyes on his, wanting to see whether or not she could do it, whether or not he might look away first. He did not, and she found herself caught in the snare of her own game. For as she stared at him, she noticed for the first time that his deep brown eyes were rimmed in a light gold, and that his dark hair, while long and tied back in a queue, had slipped its moorings and fallen a little over one eye.

Her gloved hand longed to push it back, to slide in behind his ear perhaps, or to bind it back in the leather thong he wore at the nape of his neck. She wondered suddenly if he wore it long because he was Scottish, or simply because he was old-fashioned. She couldn't touch him—certainly not in public, and certainly not with such intimacy, then or ever.

He pushed his hair back on his own and, without a word, took her to join his sister. They were at an impasse, it seemed. But at least he was no longer annoyed. And she was no longer afraid.

Catherine decided to go against her rules of propriety, and spoke of what was in her thoughts, in the hope that Mr. Waters might listen. “My father always said that he would bring us here,” Catherine began. She had to swallow hard, for the very mention of her father, even five years later, made her feel melancholy. Mr. Waters's arm beneath her hand gave her strength, just as it had at the Almack's assembly. She wished wildly and without sense that he might stand by her for the rest of her life. She dismissed that thought at once, and returned to her tale. “Margaret was deemed too young, both for the journey to London and to take in the views of the Tower. Papa passed on before he could bring us.”

She stopped speaking then, for her heart was bleeding, and she did not want that sorrow to make her cry. She breathed deep, and Mr. Waters pressed her hand once, gently, before he let it go.

“I am sorry for your loss. Perhaps we should turn back. I would not cause you pain for all the world.”

His honeyed voice was deep and soothing, a balm for once instead of a temptation. Catherine drank it in, along with her next gulp of air. When she was certain she was in control of her emotions once more, she smiled up at him, tilting her head so that he might see her face.

“You do not cause me pain. I am glad to be here. I am glad to be here with you.”

She blushed anew at that unguarded statement, and wished she had not spoken at all. But she saw no censure in his gaze, only kindness. He turned the conversation back to safe topics, letting her regain her bearings as they walked on. “We will have to bring Miss Margaret with us the next time we come. She will love the lion.”

Mary Elizabeth had listened to their exchange in uncharacteristic silence. She still did not speak as she led them past the place for viewing the crown jewels, straight into the royal menagerie. The lion sat in his cage, just as Mr. Waters had said he would. Mary Elizabeth became bored with the king of beasts almost at once, and began to ask yet another beefeater how he would defend the Tower if London were invaded.

Catherine heard the question just as she caught Mr. Waters's eye. They exchanged a conspiratorial look, united in their effort not to laugh out loud. With Mary Elizabeth in the care of the Tower guards, Mr. Waters brought Catherine closer to the lion, who did not seem interested in them at all. Catherine moved closer still, and knelt next to the cage. She had to resist the urge to reach out her hand and pet the beast inside.

“Don't get too close, Miss Middlebrook. He still has his teeth.”

“The poor thing must be so lonely here, far from home.”

“Lonely or not, step back, please, for my sake. His keepers must see to his comfort. I would rather bring you back to your mother with all your limbs intact.”

Catherine smiled at him again and obeyed. “I'm not foolish enough to touch him.”

Mr. Waters seemed to relax as soon as she stepped back from the cage to stand beside him.

She felt buffered by his presence, as though the rest of the crowd in the room simply did not exist.

“It is wise never to try to touch wild things.”

She looked up at him and knew that he was no longer speaking of the lion. She felt as if she stood at the edge of a precipice. Never in her life had she been tempted to impropriety, but this once, she spoke. She leaped into the void, her pulse hammering in her ears. “Not even when those wild things are beautiful, and touch your heart?”

There was a long, stilted silence in which she wished very fervently to die. Mary Elizabeth was not just a terrible influence on her; she was also a force that might ruin Catherine's life. Catherine stood frozen, unable to look away from him, wishing that some kind soul might come to her side and distract them both, saving her from her own folly.

Sadly, no one came.

Mr. Waters spoke at last, and she could hear in the distant tone of his voice that he was not pleased that she had been so bold. “Especially then, Miss Middlebrook. Wild things are dangerous.”

She had never felt so humiliated, or so unwomanly, in her life. She cursed herself for being a fool, for speaking of her infatuation with him so openly. He had looked away and was scanning the crowd as if searching for the door.

Maybe, if she waited, he would look back at her and acknowledge the truth of what she had spoken. There was something between them, something odd that seemed to grow of its own accord every time they saw each other.

She waited, but he did not look at her again. He simply offered her his arm and led her to Mary Elizabeth's side. His sister was regaling the beefeater she had cornered with a description of a stronghold in Edinburgh, one that had left her unimpressed, it seemed, in relation to the Tower.

Catherine could not listen but kept her eyes down, fighting off the blush of mortification that seemed to have permanently painted her cheeks. She had spoken of her nascent feelings for him, and he had given her a gentle set down, then ignored her, as any gentleman would when a lady forgot herself and overstepped the bounds of propriety.

She took a breath, and reminded herself of Lord Farleigh's regard. He was open about his interest, and would dance with her the following night. She must set Mr. Waters out of her thoughts, and out of her life, altogether.

Catherine was not sure how she would see her way through the rest of the afternoon. She thought of her grandmother, and of the pride inherent in the tilt of the old woman's head, in the way she carried herself. She drew her shoulders back, as her grandmother had taught her to do. She schooled her face into the hint of a smile that her grandmother had told her made men run mad, wondering at the mystery behind it.

But there was no mystery to her. She was a girl, a green girl from Devon, a debutante with only enough coin for one Season. She could not afford to feel affection for Highlanders who would never marry her. She certainly could not afford to express that affection openly, no matter if her heart was touched or not.