Chapter Twelve
“I have assembled some fine candidates,” James announced, his expression entirely too pleased with himself as he joined Katherine in the drawing room of Wexford House.
Katherine looked up from arranging the place cards for dinner, her brow furrowing. “Candidates? For what position are you hiring, brother?”
James chuckled, straightening his already immaculate cravat. “Not hiring, sister dear. I’m speaking of eligible ladies for Lord Greythorne’s consideration. Rosabel and I have invited several of the Season’s most promising young women to dinner tonight.”
Katherine’s hands stilled over the cards. “You’ve done what?”
“Come now, it’s hardly a state secret that the man must marry, and quickly.
” James settled into a chair, utterly oblivious to Katherine’s suddenly rigid posture.
“The Greythorne entail is growing rather infamous in legal circles. One year to wed and set about producing an heir, or the estate passes to the next male relative.”
“I’m aware of the provision,” Katherine said tightly, resuming her task with unnecessary precision. “But I fail to see why you’ve taken it upon yourself to arrange a matrimonial display at your dinner table.”
“Not just for Greythorne,” James continued, warming to his subject. “I’ve invited several suitable gentlemen as well.”
Katherine’s head snapped up. “For what purpose?”
James had the grace to look slightly abashed. “For you, of course. It’s been nearly a year since Edmund’s death, Katherine. You can’t mean to spend the rest of your life in perpetual widowhood.”
“That is precisely what I mean to do,” Katherine replied, her voice sharp. “I thought I had made that abundantly clear.”
“Your first marriage was unfortunate,” James acknowledged, his expression softening. “But that doesn’t mean all marriages must be so. Rosabel and I—”
“Are the exception, not the rule,” Katherine interrupted. “And I have no desire to test my luck a second time.”
James sighed, studying his sister with a mixture of concern and determination. “At least make an effort tonight. Lord Barrington will be attending—a widower himself, with an impeccable reputation. And Sir William Harding—younger son, admittedly, but with a flourishing legal practice.”
Katherine pressed her lips together, restraining the sharp retort that threatened to escape. James meant well, she reminded herself. He couldn’t understand her visceral aversion to remarriage because she had never fully revealed the extent of Edmund’s cruelty.
“I will be polite,” she conceded finally. “But do not mistake civility for interest.”
“That’s all I ask,” James replied, clearly pleased to have won even this small concession. “Oh, and Lady Elizabeth Crawford has confirmed her attendance. Her father is the Earl of Montrose—excellent family, substantial dowry. She would make a most suitable countess for Greythorne.”
Katherine felt a peculiar twist in her stomach at the thought of Lady Elizabeth—widely acknowledged as one of the Season’s great beauties—being presented to Drake as a potential bride.
It was a perfectly reasonable match, of course.
The girl was young, well-connected, and reportedly sweet-tempered.
Exactly the sort of woman who should become the next Countess of Greythorne.
So why did the very idea fill Katherine with such inexplicable dread?
“How thoughtful of you,” she managed, careful to keep her tone neutral. “Though Lord Greythorne may have his own ideas about suitable matches.”
James waved a dismissive hand. “Every gentleman benefits from guidance in these matters. Particularly one who has spent so many years abroad, away from proper Society.”
Katherine bit back another retort. Drake was perfectly capable of selecting his own bride without her brother’s interference. Indeed, despite his reluctance, she had no doubt he would approach the task with the same thoroughness and intelligence he applied to his business ventures.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it only intensified the strange hollowness spreading through her chest.
“I should finish these place cards,” she said, eager to end the conversation. “Dinner is in less than two hours.”
James rose, apparently satisfied with her acquiescence.
“Rosabel will be down shortly to help. Oh, and Katherine?” He paused at the doorway. “Do wear the blue silk tonight. It brings out your eyes.”
Katherine stared after her brother as he departed, torn between exasperation and reluctant affection.
That he genuinely believed she might be enticed into remarriage by the right gentleman was both touching and infuriating.
She had meant what she said—her freedom, so dearly purchased through five years of Edmund’s cold disdain, was not something she would willingly surrender again.
So why did the prospect of watching Drake court eligible young ladies make her feel slightly ill?
Katherine set down the place cards with unsteady hands.
This was ridiculous. She had no claim on Drake Halston beyond their shared interest in Greythorne’s welfare. His marital prospects were none of her concern, provided he chose someone who would not interfere with the estate’s proper management.
Yet as she arranged the seating to place Lady Elizabeth Crawford conveniently near Drake, Katherine couldn’t suppress a twinge of what felt disturbingly like jealousy.
It was merely concern for Greythorne, she assured herself. Nothing more.
~~~~
By eight o’clock, Wexford House’s grand dining room glittered with candlelight reflected in polished silver and fine crystal. Katherine stood beside her brother and sister-in-law, greeting each arriving guest with practiced courtesy while silently cursing his matchmaking ambitions.
Lord Barrington, the widower James had mentioned, bowed over her hand with particular attention, his aging features arranged in what he clearly believed was a gallant expression.
Sir William Harding followed, younger and more handsome, but with the slightly pompous air common to successful barristers.
Katherine smiled and nodded and made appropriate responses to their compliments, all while keeping one eye on the entrance, anticipating Drake’s arrival with a mixture of dread and something else she refused to name.
When he finally appeared, she was engaged in conversation with an elderly dowager about the unseasonably warm weather.
The sudden hush that fell over the gathering drew her attention to the doorway, where Drake stood in formal evening attire, his tall figure commanding attention without apparent effort.
Katherine had seen him in many contexts over the past weeks—giving orders to workmen, inspecting fields, negotiating with suppliers. But never like this, in the formal black and white of evening dress, his dark hair slightly tousled as though he’d run impatient fingers through it before entering.
He looked every inch the aristocrat—and yet somehow different from the polished, artificial gentlemen who populated London ballrooms. There was a vitality to him, a substance that made the others seem like pale imitations of manhood.
Their eyes met across the crowded room, and Katherine felt a jolt of awareness that had nothing to do with Greythorne or boundary disputes or estate management.
For one unguarded moment, she simply appreciated the sight of him—the breadth of his shoulders beneath impeccably tailored wool, the clean line of his jaw, the intensity of his grey eyes as they held hers.
Then he moved forward to greet her brother, and the moment passed, leaving Katherine slightly breathless and deeply unsettled.
“Lady Katherine,” Drake said moments later, bowing over her hand with perfect correctness. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Lord Greythorne,” she replied, striving for her usual composure. “I trust you’re finding London to your liking?”
“It has its diversions,” he acknowledged, though something in his tone suggested he found those diversions less than compelling. “Though I confess I find myself strangely eager to return to Greythorne. The repairs to the Collins cottage should be nearing completion.”
Katherine felt a rush of pleasure at his evident concern for the tenant family. “Mrs. Collins sent word that the new roof is already in place. She’s most grateful.”
“The credit is yours as much as mine,” Drake replied, his voice dropping slightly so only she could hear. “Your insights regarding the proper reinforcement of the north wall proved invaluable.”
This easy acknowledgment of her contribution—so unlike Edmund’s constant dismissal of her efforts—warmed Katherine in ways she knew were dangerous. Before she could respond, however, James appeared at Drake’s elbow, a fair-haired young woman in tow.
“Greythorne! Allow me to present Lady Elizabeth Crawford, daughter of the Earl of Montrose. Lady Elizabeth, the Earl of Greythorne.”
Lady Elizabeth curtsied prettily, her wide blue eyes fixed on Drake with unmistakable interest. “My lord. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“All favourable, I hope,” Drake replied with a slight smile, though Katherine noted it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh, most assuredly,” Lady Elizabeth gushed. “Is it true you’ve lived in America? How terribly exciting!”
“For several years, yes,” Drake confirmed, his tone polite but noncommittal.
“You simply must tell me all about it,” Lady Elizabeth continued, placing a gloved hand on his arm with calculated delicacy. “I find myself fascinated by tales of adventure in foreign lands.”
Katherine watched as Drake allowed himself to be drawn into conversation with the younger woman, responding to her eager questions with courteous attention.
Lady Elizabeth was playing her part perfectly—expressing just enough interest to flatter without appearing forward, positioning herself to display her slender figure to best advantage, laughing at appropriate intervals with a musical little trill.