Chapter Twenty
“Katherine, it’s time. You need a husband.”
James’s sigh preceded the words, a long-suffering exhalation that set Katherine’s teeth on edge even before his pronouncement.
She sat across from her brother in the elegant morning room of Wexford House, ostensibly reviewing correspondence but in truth merely folding and unfolding the same letter—an invitation to Lady Pemberton’s midsummer ball that held no interest for her whatsoever.
“I thought we had exhausted this topic, James,” she replied, keeping her voice deliberately light as she smoothed the creased paper in her lap. “Lord Clifton was perfectly understanding about my refusal. I see no reason to revisit the matter.”
Her brother leaned forward in his chair, his expression a mixture of concern and determination that Katherine recognized all too well.
It was the same look he had worn when negotiating her first marriage contract with Edmund—an unfortunate comparison that did nothing to improve her receptiveness to whatever argument he was about to present.
“Clifton was merely one possibility among many,” James said.
“You’ve received three invitations this week alone—Lady Pemberton’s ball, Lord Harrington’s musical evening, the Countess of Westwick’s garden party.
Society has noted your return from mourning, and suitable gentlemen have expressed interest.”
Katherine suppressed a sigh of her own.
She had returned to London three days ago at her brother’s insistence, though she would have much preferred to remain at Willow Park.
There, at least, she could lose herself in estate business rather than dwelling on the news that had hollowed out her chest like a physical wound: Drake Halston was to marry Lady Eleanor Thornhill.
The announcement had appeared in the paper the day after Hilaria’s note, exactly as her friend had warned, even if she had a detail or two wrong. Katherine had read it with a composure that had felt like a brittle shell around the ache within, the formal wording searing itself into her memory:
The Earl of Greythorne announces his betrothal to Lady Eleanor Thornhill, daughter of the Earl of Fairfield. The marriage is to take place in six weeks’ time at St. George’s, Hanover Square.
Six weeks. So soon. The haste only confirmed what Katherine had already surmised—Drake was moving with all possible speed to satisfy the entail’s conditions. Lady Eleanor, young and from an impeccable family, was the perfect choice for a man in his position.
“Katherine? Are you listening to me?” James’s voice broke through her painful reverie.
“Of course,” she lied, folding the invitation yet again. “You were enumerating social events I have no desire to attend.”
“Your avoidance of Society isn’t healthy,” James persisted. “Especially now.”
“Now?” Katherine repeated, her gaze sharpening. “What do you mean by that, precisely?”
James had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“I only meant that with Lord Greythorne’s engagement announced, it might be beneficial to demonstrate your own social standing.
People talk, Katherine. Your continued involvement with Greythorne estate, followed by this sudden withdrawal—it has not gone unremarked. ”
The implication stung, though Katherine was careful not to let her reaction show. “I knew there was talk, but I hadn’t realized I was being portrayed as some sort of scheming widow interfering with his marriage prospects.”
“Everything is the subject of gossip in London,” James replied with weary certainty. “Including the possibility that you might have formed an attachment to Lord Greythorne during your collaboration.”
“That’s absurd,” Katherine said automatically, the denial feeling hollow even as she spoke it. “Our association was purely professional.”
“Was it?” James asked, his tone gentler than she had expected. “Because if it was purely professional, sister, I cannot account for your pallor these past days, nor for the way you stare into the fire each evening as though searching for the answer to life’s mysteries.”
Katherine’s fingers stilled on the letter, the paper suddenly seeming to weigh as much as lead in her lap.
Her brother had never been particularly observant of her emotional state—had never noticed, for instance, the slow dimming of her spirit during her marriage to Edmund.
That he had perceived her distress now spoke volumes about how poorly she had concealed it.
“James—” she began, then stopped, uncertain what defence she could offer that wouldn’t sound like confirmation.
“It’s Lord Greythorne, isn’t it?” James pressed gently. “You’ve developed feelings for him.”
The direct question, asked with such unexpected perception, caught Katherine entirely off guard. For a moment, she considered maintaining the denial—insisting that her melancholy stemmed from something else entirely, that Drake Halston meant nothing more to her than any other acquaintance.
But she was so tired of pretending. Tired of the careful composure she had maintained for years, first as Edmund’s wife and then as his widow. Tired of denying the truth even to herself.
“Yes,” she admitted quietly, the single syllable both surrender and relief. “Though it hardly matters now.”
James looked stricken, as though he had not actually expected her to confirm his suspicion. “Katherine, I had no idea. When did this happen?”
“I’m not entirely certain,” she replied, her gaze dropping to the crumpled invitation in her hands. “It wasn’t immediate, despite what the gossips might suggest. We argued incessantly at first—about the western fields, about estate management, about practically everything.”
A faint smile touched her lips at the memory of those early encounters—Drake’s frustration when she challenged his decisions, his grudging respect when she proved her expertise, the gradual shift from antagonism to something more complex and compelling.
“But then?” James prompted, his expression caught between concern and curiosity.
Katherine sighed.
“Then I saw how he treated the tenants. How he listened to their concerns and addressed them promptly, without dismissing them as Edmund always did. How he valued their welfare above appearances or convention.”
She smoothed the wrinkled paper with deliberate precision. “He respected my knowledge of Greythorne, James. Not just tolerated it, but actively sought my input. Do you have any idea how novel that experience was?”
Her brother’s face reflected genuine regret. “I’m sorry, Katherine. I knew Edmund was not the husband I had hoped he would be, but I never realized the extent of his disregard.”
“I never told you,” Katherine acknowledged. “It seemed easier to endure in silence than to worry you with complaints you could do nothing about.” She paused, then added softly, “Drake is nothing like him. Nothing like what I expected a Halston man to be.”
“You call him Drake,” James observed, his tone neutral but his eyes keen.
Katherine felt heat rise to her cheeks. “We agreed to use given names in private conversations about estate matters. It was practical, nothing more.”
Even as she spoke the justification, she remembered the flutter in her chest the first time Drake had said her name without title or distance—the intimacy of it, the sense of connection it had created between them.
“I see,” James said, in a tone that suggested he saw far more than Katherine was comfortable revealing. “And were there many such private conversations?”
“That’s hardly relevant now,” Katherine replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “Lord Greythorne is engaged to Lady Eleanor. Whatever might have existed between us is immaterial.”
“Is it?” James challenged. “Because you’re still in love with him, engagement or no engagement.”
The word—love—hung in the air between them, both accusation and truth. Katherine had admitted her feelings to herself in the privacy of her sitting room at Willow Park, but hearing her brother state it so baldly made it suddenly, painfully real.
“What would you have me do?” she asked, an uncharacteristic helplessness creeping into her tone. “He has made his choice. Lady Eleanor is young, beautiful, from an excellent family—exactly the sort of bride an earl should select.”
“While you are a widow with a complicated history with his estate,” James finished for her, his expression thoughtful. “A widow who has stated repeatedly that she has no intention of remarrying.”
Katherine flinched at the reminder of her own oft-declared position.
“I didn’t think I wanted to remarry. After Edmund—” She broke off, struggling to articulate the transformation in her thinking.
“I believed that happy marriages like yours and Rosabel’s were rare exceptions—that for most women, especially me, independence was preferable to risking such unhappiness again. ”
“And now?” James asked gently.
“Now I understand there are different kinds of marriages. Different kinds of men.” Katherine stood abruptly, moving to the window that overlooked the garden where spring blooms were giving way to early summer verdancy.
“But the realization comes too late. Drake is engaged to another woman, for reasons that have nothing to do with me.”
“Are you certain of that?” James’s question was carefully measured. “The timing of his engagement announcement—immediately following your visit to Thornfield Park—seems rather precipitous.”
Katherine turned back to face her brother, puzzled by the direction of his inquiry. “What are you suggesting?”
“Merely that Lord Greythorne may have drawn certain conclusions from your presence at Lord Clifton’s estate,” James replied. “Conclusions that might have influenced his hasty proposal to Lady Eleanor.”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to Katherine, focused as she had been on her own pain at the news of Drake’s engagement.