Jacquie D'Alessandro (23 page)

“And what had you wanted?”

“Anything other than a diamond. Emerald. Sapphire. Something with color and life. My mother used to wear an emerald brooch that I loved—it is one of my most prized possessions.” She inclined her head and gazed at him curiously. “With all your travels I imagine you’ve collected some very interesting items. Which one do you prize the most?”

He hesitated for several seconds, then said, “I’d rather show you than tell you. I’ll bring it back with me tomorrow so you may see it.”

“All right.”

“Catherine…if you dislike this ring so much, why do you keep it?”
Why were you looking at it?

“Because it is another of my most prized possessions—but not because of its monetary value.”

“Then why?”

“It’s a reminder. Of what I had with Bertrand.” She stared down at the ring resting in her palm. “Unhappiness. Loneliness. And what I didn’t have with him. Laughter. Love. Sharing. Our union was colorless and cold, just like these stones.”

He tipped up her chin until their gazes met. “Why would you want to be reminded of that?”

Something in her gaze hardened. “Because I never want to forget. I refuse to make that same mistake again. Refuse to give my life, my happiness, my care, or that of my son, over to another man again. To allow anyone to have that sort of control over me or Spencer ever again.”

Andrew clearly read the resolution in her voice. Her eyes. And realized with a sinking heart that her words were a subtle warning, reiterating the fact that she did not want another marriage—the one thing he wanted more than anything.

He’d hoped, prayed, that after making love, she would have come to see that they belonged together. That there was room for him in her life. That their relationship would be nothing like her previous marriage. But the ring in her pocket was very telling. Clearly the thoughts their night together had inspired were not what he’d been hoping for.

Well, obviously he’d lost the battle. But he’d be damned if he would lose the war.

C
atherine entered the library, and smiled at the sight of Spencer sitting in his favorite wing chair before the fire, his nose buried in a book.

“Shakespeare?” she guessed, with a smile.

Spencer looked up and nodded. “
Hamlet
.”

“Such a sad story for a lovely day.”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, and he averted his gaze, apparently finding something fascinating on the carpet—
a gesture she recognized as one that signaled something was troubling him.

She approached his chair, then leaned down to lightly kiss his still damp hair. “Did you enjoy your morning soak?”

“Yes.”

“Is your leg hurting?”

“No.”

“Would you like to join me for a walk in the gardens?”

“No.”

“A ride in the curricle?”

“No.”

“A trip to the village?”

“No.”

“Accompany me on my visit with Mrs. Ralston?”

“No.”

Catherine sank down to her haunches in front of him and dipped her head until she caught his eye. She clasped his hand and smiled. “Can you tell me the names of three chess pieces?”

A puzzled frown creased his brow. “Knights, bishops, and pawns. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to hear you say something other than ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” she teased. When he did not smile in return, she squeezed his hand. “What’s troubling you, darling?”

Again his shoulder lifted. He plucked at his jacket with his free hand, and Catherine waited, forcing herself to remain silent even as she watched him struggle with whatever was weighing on his mind, knowing that he’d tell her when he was ready.

Finally, he drew a deep breath, and blurted out, “Mr. Stanton left.”

Catherine’s breath hitched. Ah. So
that
was the source
of his distress. Well, she could certainly understand. Andrew was most assuredly the source of all
her
disquieting, conflicting thoughts. “Yes, I know he left. He told me planned to ride by the springs to say good-bye to you. Did he find you?”

“Yes.” After a few more plucks on his jacket, Spencer finally lifted his gaze and looked at her. “I wish he could have stayed here.”

As do I
. The thought slapped Catherine like a cold, wet rag, and she pressed her lips together, as she realized for the first time just how very much she had not wanted him to leave.

Damnation, how had he worked his way into her life, into Spencer’s life, so thoroughly, in such a short period of time? She and Spencer had managed very well without any male interference for many years, and she realized with sudden unquestionable clarity that Andrew’s presence in their lives threatened to disrupt the peace and serenity they enjoyed.

And with all her attention on her own dismay at his return to London, she’d failed to consider how his sudden leave-taking might affect Spencer. Clearly her son had formed a strong attachment to Andrew. If Spencer was distraught by Andrew leaving for an overnight, how would he react when Andrew left for good after a week’s time? If his current expression were any indication, her son would be crushed.

“He told me about the vandalism at the museum,” Spencer said, jerking her thoughts back. “Do you suppose he’ll really be back tomorrow night?” he asked, his voice filled with both hope and doubt. “It sounds as if he’ll have much to do in Town.”

“I’m certain he’ll try. But as he cannot leave London
until he puts things back to rights, don’t be too disappointed if he must stay away longer.”

“But I don’t want to miss any of my riding or pugilism lessons. And we haven’t even begun with fencing. And Mr. Stanton shouldn’t miss his sw—” Spencer’s words cut off as if sliced by a knife. His eyes widened, and color rushed into his face.

“Shouldn’t miss his what?” Catherine asked.

“I can’t say, Mum. It’s a surprise.”

“Hmmm. You two have devised a fair number of surprises together.”

Spencer’s lopsided grin broke out, and Catherine’s heart smiled in response. “We’ve had a grand time.”

“You…like Mr. Stanton?”

“I do, Mum. He’s very…decent. He’s a kind and patient teacher, but best of all, he doesn’t treat me as if I’m made of glass. Or as if I’m a child. Or…defective.” Before she could reassure him, his gaze turned quizzical, and he asked, “Don’t you like him, Mum?”

“Er, of course.” She wasn’t certain that a tepid word such as
like
properly described her attraction to Andrew, but she couldn’t very well tell her son that she
desired
the man. “Mr. Stanton is very…”
Seductive. Tempting. Delicious.
“…nice.”

And kind
, her inner voice interjected, and she could not deny it. She had only to recall how Andrew had treated Spencer and herself to know it was true.

“Do you think he could be persuaded to stay longer than one week, Mum?”

Catherine froze at the question, anticipation and panic colliding in her. Not only for her own chaotic feelings, but for Spencer’s as well. “I think we need to accept that Mr. Stanton’s life is in London, Spencer,” she said carefully.
“Even if he were to stay on one or two days longer, which I greatly doubt he could, what with your uncle Philip not being in London, Mr. Stanton would still have to return to London.”

“But he could visit us again?” Spencer persisted. “Very soon? And often?”

Catherine prayed none of her dismay showed. Good God, she’d planned that once Andrew returned to London, and their brief affair was history, their paths would rarely, if ever, need to intersect. Seeing him again “very soon” and “often” when she had no intention of resuming their affair would be…awkward.
Torture is more like what it would be
, her irritatingly honest inner voice corrected. She mentally stuffed a handkerchief in her inner voice’s mouth to silence its unwanted musings.

“Spencer, I really don’t think—”

“Perhaps we can visit Mr. Stanton in London.”

Catherine simply stared, stunned.
Never
before had he made such a suggestion. After she swallowed, she said as casually as she could, “You would want to travel to London?”

Spencer pressed his lips together, then shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I…no.” He jutted his chin out at a stubborn angle. “So we’ll just have to make certain Mr. Stanton visits us. Surely he would if we
both
asked him, Mum.”

Catherine patted his hand, then rose. “Perhaps,” she murmured, knowing she would not extend such an invitation and hating herself for giving Spencer even that small bit of hope. The affair had to end. Permanently. Which meant that once Andrew returned to London at week’s end he would make no more visits to Little Longstone.

Andrew turned in a slow circle, surveying the museum’s damaged walls and floor, the empty spaces where paned glass should have glistened. His hands clenched, in a perfect match to his tight jaw, while anger pumped through him.
Bastards. By God, they’ll be bruised and bloodied bastards if they are ever caught.

“As you can see, all the broken glass has been swept away,” Simon Wentworth reported. “The glazier will be here within the hour to speak with you about commissioning new windows. I’ve taken on six additional men to help with the floor and wall repairs, which, as you can see are extensive.”

Andrew nodded, blowing out a long breath. “Extensive does not begin to describe this damage.”

“I agree. The way the wood is hacked up, well, it quite gives me the shivers. Smacks of violence, if you ask me. Would hate to meet up with the fiends who did this.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened.
I’d love to meet up with the fiends who did this
. “How long before the repairs are completed?”

“At least eight weeks, Mr. Stanton.”

Damn it to hell and back. That meant another two months of workmen’s wages to be paid, two more months of paying for storage for the museum’s artifacts, to say nothing of the two-month delay in opening the museum. Or the exorbitant cost of the materials. He knew exactly how much the windows, walls, and floors had cost the first time around.

“Any word from the investors?” Andrew asked.

Simon winced. “I’m afraid bad news travels quickly. Mr. Carmichael and Lords Borthrasher and Kingsly, as well as Mrs. Warrenfield, sent ’round notes requesting to see you today. The letters were rather tersely worded, I’m afraid. They await you on your desk.”

Andrew banked his anger and forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. Obviously, Mrs. Warrenfield, Mr. Carmichael, and Lords Borthrasher and Kingsly were no longer taking the waters in Little Longstone and had returned to London. Lord Borthrasher had already made a sizable investment to which he was considering adding a significant sum, while the other three had been on the verge of handing over funds. The museum’s success depended upon actually securing those monies…

“Answer the letters, Simon, inviting the investors to meet me here at five this evening.”

“Do you think it’s wise to let them see this?”

“Yes. If we don’t invite them, they will come here on their own anyway, and that will reflect badly on us. They need to know precisely what happened and what steps we’re taking toward repairs and ensuring this does not happen again. We don’t want them to think we’re trying to hide something. Investors who feel as if they are not being told the entire truth can become very nervous, and nervous investors are not something I care to heap upon the mess we’re already facing.”

“I’ll send the notes off right away, Mr. Stanton.” Simon turned, then headed toward the small office tucked away in the far corner of the room.

Andrew blew out a long breath, then removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. There was much work to be done, and by God, he wanted some of it completed by the time he sat down to write to Philip about this.

Catherine paced in front of Genevieve, her peach muslin gown swirling about her ankles every time she turned in the confines of her friend’s cozy drawing room. “I’m glad he’s gone,” she said, proud of the decisive ring in her voice.

“So you’ve said,” Genevieve murmured. “Three times in the past hour alone.”

“Well, only to reiterate my point.”

“Which is what precisely?”

“That I’m glad he’s gone.”

“Yes, that is, er, evident. However, you do realize that Mr. Stanton will be
returning
to Little Longstone. Tomorrow.”

Catherine waved aside the comment. “Yes, but by then I’ll have everything once again settled into perspective. I’m certain my chat with you will clear up all my…confusion. Then, he’ll be here for only a few more days, and
poof!
” She snapped her fingers. “Back to London he’ll go.”

“A prospect that makes you happy?”

“Deliriously happy,” Catherine agreed. “Then Spencer and I can resume our routine without interruption.”

When Genevieve made no reply, Catherine glanced toward the settee. The expression of utter disbelief on her friend’s face caused her footsteps to falter, and she halted. “What?”

“Catherine, has it not occurred to you that the ‘interruption’ Mr. Stanton has brought to your routine is a
good
thing?” Before Catherine could reply, Genevieve continued, “From everything you’ve told me, the man is divine. Naturally he’s irritating at times, but as I’ve told you,
all
men are. However, all men are not the other things your Mr. Stanton is—handsome, strong, romantic, thoughtful. An accomplished and generous lover.”

Heat rose in Catherine’s cheeks, and Genevieve laughed. “Yes, I can tell that without your divulging any specific details, darling. The look of a well-loved woman is written all over you.”

“I never said he wasn’t all those things,” Catherine said. “But—”

“And the friendship he’s taken the time to forge with your son is clearly bolstering Spencer’s confidence. Surely that must please you.”

“In one way, yes, but it also represents another source of concern. I fear Spencer stands to be devastated when Andrew returns to London for good.”

“And what about you, Catherine?” Genevieve asked gently, her blue eyes soft with concern. “Do you, too, stand to be devastated?”

“Certainly not,” Catherine said, but somehow the words badly affected her knees to the point that she sought refuge in the wing chair opposite Genevieve. Once seated, she continued, “Today’s Modern Woman is not devastated by the end of an affair.”

“Darling,
any
woman would be devastated by the end of an affair if she cared deeply for her lover. I know firsthand of such heartbreaking pain, and trust me, I would not wish it upon anyone.”

“Well, I run no risk of that as I do not care ‘deeply’ for Andrew.”

“Really?”

Catherine laughed lightly. “I don’t mean to imply that I don’t care for him
at all
. ’Tis just that I barely know him. I’ll readily admit that I desire him; however, deeper feelings that could leave one ‘devastated’ only develop over long periods of time. And most often between people who share common interests and backgrounds.”

Genevieve nodded. “Naturally a lady of your noble lineage would share few common interests with a man of Mr. Stanton’s background. Why, he’s a commoner! Even worse, a
colonial
commoner.”

“Precisely,” Catherine said, although Genevieve’s ready agreement and true words irked.

“’Tis a blessing that your attraction to Mr. Stanton is
merely physical and that his departure for London at week’s end will not affect you adversely in the slightest.”

“A blessing indeed.”

An exasperated sound escaped Genevieve. “Catherine, what I am about to say, I say out of love, friendship, and loyalty to you.” Leaning forward, she pinned Catherine with an emotion-filled stare. “I have never, in my entire life, been forced to endure listening to a more ridiculous pile of rubbish. I’m utterly flabbergasted that I heard such idiotic notions coming from you, of all people. Not to mention lies.”

Dismay, edged with stunned amazement, not to mention a dose of hurt, flooded Catherine. “I would not lie to you, Genevieve.”

“It’s not me, but
yourself
that you’re lying to, my dear. You may say ‘I’m glad he’s gone’ and ‘I’m only engaging in a temporary affair’ as many times as you wish, but even a million utterances will not make those words true. You’re certainly not convincing me, and I think, if you took the time to examine your own heart, you’d realize that you can’t convince yourself, either. No matter how hard we try to wish away our heart’s desire, we cannot. We may choose not to act upon it, but we cannot ever fully wish it away.”