Chapter Seventeen
Drake arrived just in time to see Katherine smiling at another man.
The sight struck him with physical force, like a blow to the chest that momentarily robbed him of breath.
He reined his horse to a halt at the edge of the tree line bordering Thornfield Park’s manicured grounds, far enough away to remain unobserved yet close enough to witness the scene unfolding before him with painful clarity.
Katherine stood on the terrace steps beside a distinguished-looking gentleman of middle years. Her face, turned toward her companion, wore an expression of attentive interest that Drake had come to treasure when directed at him.
Sunlight caught in her dark hair, highlighting those elusive auburn strands he had only recently noticed. Even from this distance, he could see the gentle curve of her smile as she responded to something the gentleman said.
They looked perfectly matched—the elegant widow and the dignified gentleman, framed by the graceful architecture of Thornfield Park and its famous rose gardens.
Drake’s fingers tightened around his riding gloves, the fine leather protesting.
He hadn’t planned to come here today.
After tearing up his response to Lady Westmore the previous evening, he had risen early, determined to ride to Willow Park and speak with Katherine directly.
The resolution had burned in him with uncharacteristic urgency—the need to tell her how thoroughly she had upended his careful plans, how completely she had come to occupy his thoughts, how impossible it now seemed to contemplate a future that didn’t include her challenging, exasperating, magnificent presence.
But Willow Park had been quiet when he arrived, its mistress absent.
The elderly housekeeper had informed him somewhat stiffly that Lady Katherine had gone out for the day and was not expected to return until evening.
No, she could not say where her ladyship had gone.
No, she could not accept a message on her behalf.
Perhaps his lordship would care to call another day?
It had been clear from the housekeeper’s manner that Drake’s sudden appearance at Willow Park was considered irregular at best, inappropriate at worst. He had been on the verge of departing empty-handed when he’d encountered Thomas Collins, the tenant farmer whose cottage roof they had repaired together, delivering fresh vegetables to the kitchen.
“Looking for Lady Katherine, my lord?” Collins had asked, touching his cap respectfully. “She’s gone to Thornfield Park for the day, with her brother the duke. Mrs. Collins mentioned seeing their carriage pass early this morning.”
“Thornfield Park?” Drake had repeated, the name vaguely familiar. “That’s Lord Clifton’s estate, isn’t it?”
“Aye, my lord. Borders Willow Park to the south. Fine gentleman, by all accounts, though keeps more to himself than Lady Katherine does.” Collins had hesitated, then added with the familiarity of a man who had witnessed their easy rapport during the cottage repairs, “Mrs. Collins thought it might be a match-making visit, begging your pardon for saying so. The duke’s been wanting Lady Katherine to marry again, she says. ”
The casual observation had sent a chill through Drake.
Could Katherine truly be considering remarriage—to Lord Clifton, of all people?
A man Drake knew only by reputation: respected, wealthy, and thoroughly conventional.
The antithesis of the boundary-breaking, independent woman Katherine had revealed herself to be during their weeks of collaboration at Greythorne.
He had thanked Collins and departed immediately, riding toward Thornfield Park with a sense of foreboding that only intensified with every mile. Now, observing Katherine and Lord Clifton together, that foreboding crystallized into something sharper and more painful.
They were walking again, descending the terrace steps to continue their tour of the gardens.
Clifton offered his arm with practiced gallantry, and Katherine placed her hand upon it with apparent ease.
Their conversation seemed animated, heads inclined toward each other in a way that suggested mutual interest.
Drake urged his horse farther into the cover of the trees, following their progress at a distance.
The rational part of his mind told him to leave—that his presence here, uninvited and unannounced, bordered on impropriety.
But a stronger, more primal instinct kept him rooted in place, unable to tear his gaze from the woman who had somehow become essential to his happiness.
What claim did he have on Katherine’s attention, after all?
They had spent weeks arguing over boundaries and repairs, gradually developing a working relationship that had evolved into something warmer, more personal.
But he had never spoken of deeper feelings, never indicated that his interest extended beyond Greythorne’s management.
He had been too cautious, too concerned with propriety, too focused on the inheritance dilemma that demanded resolution.
And now Katherine was here, with another man—a man of impeccable character and substantial fortune, a man with no inheritance deadline hanging over his head, a man who could offer her security and respectability without the complications Drake’s situation presented.
As they moved deeper into the rose garden, partially obscured by meticulously pruned hedges, Drake dismounted, securing his horse to a convenient branch before continuing his observation on foot.
He felt like a spy—or worse, a jealous suitor from some overwrought novel—but couldn’t bring himself to depart without knowing more.
Without seeing for himself whether Katherine truly appeared interested in Clifton’s attentions.
They had paused beside a particularly vibrant display of roses, their conversation too distant to overhear but their postures suggesting serious discussion.
Clifton gestured toward the flowers, then back toward Katherine in what appeared to be a compliment.
Katherine’s response was lost to distance, but the slight tilt of her head, the graceful movement of her hand as she touched one of the blooms—they spoke of comfort, of ease in Clifton’s company.
Drake felt something twist painfully in his chest.
Was this what she wanted? A peaceful, conventional future with a respectable widower? Had he misread every signal, misinterpreted the connection he had felt growing between them?
His mind raced back through their interactions, searching for evidence that might contradict what he was witnessing.
Katherine’s sharp intelligence challenging his decisions about the estate. Her fierce defence of the tenants’ welfare. Her rare, startling laugh when something genuinely amused her. The flash of jealousy he’d glimpsed at her brother’s dinner party when Lady Elizabeth had monopolized his attention.
Most of all, he remembered that moment on the terrace at Lady Fairchild’s reception—the catch in her breath when he’d touched her wrist, the intensity in her blue eyes as she’d whispered, “This is dangerous.”
Had he imagined the current of attraction beneath those words? Had he projected his own growing feelings onto her actions, seeing reciprocal interest where there was merely professional courtesy?
Lord Clifton and Katherine had moved again, following the winding path through rose varieties of every hue.
There was something different in their manner now—a slight relaxation in Katherine’s posture, a more animated quality to her gestures.
Whatever they were discussing, it appeared to have broken down some barrier between them.
Drake’s stomach clenched. The most damning evidence yet that Katherine was genuinely considering Clifton’s suit.
As they rounded a bend in the path, Katherine’s face came fully into view again.
She was smiling—that rare, unguarded smile that transformed her features and had made Drake’s heart stutter the first time he’d witnessed it.
At Greythorne, that smile had been reserved for moments of genuine connection—a shared insight about the estate, a mutual appreciation of a tenant child’s antics, the successful completion of a difficult repair.
Now she was bestowing it on Lord Clifton, and Drake felt as though something precious was being stolen from him.
Would she be happy with Clifton?
The question tormented him as he watched them continue their garden tour. The man seemed attentive, respectful—qualities Drake had strived to demonstrate in his own interactions with Katherine. There was no indication that Clifton would repeat Edmund’s cruelties or dismissals.
Perhaps this was what Katherine needed—a gentle second marriage to heal the wounds of the first. A union based on mutual respect rather than passion, with a man whose solid reputation and established position presented none of the uncertainties that Drake’s situation offered.
A safe choice. A predictable future.
Everything Drake could not promise her, bound as he was to the entail’s demands and Greythorne’s complex needs.
They had completed their circuit of the rose garden and were ascending the terrace steps once more. Katherine paused at the top, turning to survey the gardens with an expression Drake couldn’t quite interpret from this distance. Then, unexpectedly, she glanced toward the tree line where he stood.
Drake stepped back instinctively, though logic told him he was too well concealed among the trees to be visible.
For a breathless moment, he imagined she had somehow sensed his presence, that the same awareness that hummed between them during their most heated discussions had alerted her to his observation.
But Katherine’s gaze moved on, scanning the drive that curved toward the front of the house before returning to Lord Clifton. Something in her posture suggested disappointment, though Drake couldn’t fathom why. Was she expecting someone else? Another suitor, perhaps, invited to this same gathering?