Chapter Twelve
Catherine
The invitation to a tea in Miss Raught’s back garden is a lovely surprise.
Catherine wishes she weren’t so anxious. She’s still riled up just thinking about that moment in the water closet last week.
Was Lady Rosalie really leaning in? She felt something. Something tingly, and confusing, and exciting. She doesn’t know quite
what to call it, other than want.
But she hardly knows if Lady Rosalie felt the same way. They haven’t seen each other since. And it’s not likely there will
be a moment to pull her away at this tea.
What would she even ask?
“Were you about to kiss me in the cloakroom?”
“Do you like to kiss girls?”
“Would you like to kiss me?”
“You’ll need to lose him.”
“What?” Catherine asks, blinking across the carriage at Mother as they trundle toward the Raught house.
“Mr. Sholle. I want you to distance yourself from him. I think Mr. Dean may think Mr. Sholle’s intentions are serious and
might be backing off in deference. You need to make it clear that you’re not interested.”
That seems a bit cold. Mr. Sholle is perfectly nice. But perhaps avoiding him would give her more time to suss out what’s going on between her and Lady Rosalie.
“And don’t spend all your time with Lady Rosalie. Clearly the side-by-side comparison isn’t helping us either.”
Catherine sucks on her cheek. “Thank you.”
Mother scoffs. “Don’t be daft. You are the most stunning girl around. It’s simply that we cannot compete with her wealth.
I’d rather he see you amongst a group so you can shine properly.”
She’s not sure it’s much less of a slight, that she must look shabby next to Lady Rosalie. But Catherine keeps her face blank
and nods.
Perhaps she can convince Mother to let her go on a walk with just Miss Raught, Miss Linet, and Lady Rosalie? And then maybe Lady Rosalie might come up with some clever reason to send Miss Raught and Miss Linet off together
to give them time to talk. Or . . . whatever.
The idea of whatever makes Catherine hot around the ears. Mother’s too distracted to notice as they arrive, looking around the Raughts’ lovely
back garden, which has been set up for tea and lawn games.
It’s not as picturesque, nor as grand, as Lady Jones’ garden, but clearly Miss Raught, her mother, and their staff have worked
very hard to put together a charming and inviting spread for Miss Raught’s friends, their mothers, and their sons.
A prickle of guilt eats at Catherine. Some dedication to friendship she’s showing, planning how to manipulate Miss Raught
into giving her alone time with Lady Rosalie.
“I’ll go speak to the mothers, see what suggestions they can make for good outings. You should go mingle,” Mother says conspiratorially.
Catherine smiles tightly, even as she wants to scream, Can we just give up on this already?
Catherine doesn’t want a man who falls asleep at the theatre, and only seems interested in talking to other men. Catherine
doesn’t know if she even wants a man at all—no, no, there is so much more time lying awake at night to grapple with that thought.
But it’s hard to ignore when even now, Mr. Dean is just standing in a cluster of other young men, ignoring the ladies, who
have clearly worked so hard to look beautiful.
It’s hard to want to want a man—any man—who cares so little.
Catherine let Miss Teit do her up in her best tea gown with her prettiest green bonnet rimmed with pink ribbon. She secretly
wondered the whole time whether her outfit might make Lady Rosalie’s eyes go that littlest bit dark again, her cheeks so prettily
pink.
She spent not a single second thinking about Mr. Sholle or Mr. Dean.
But Lady Rosalie probably won’t notice. The thing in the cloakroom probably didn’t mean anything to her and—
Lady Rosalie is staring straight at her, ignoring something poor Miss Raught is saying while they stand over by the hedges
in the back garden. Her eyes are incredibly hungry and—
“Back straight,” Mother whispers before pulling away from Catherine.
Was she saying something just now?
Catherine walks as sedately as she can make herself across the small back lawn to where Lady Rosalie, Miss Raught, and Miss Linet
are clustered across from the men.
Lady Rosalie hangs back while Miss Raught steps up to her, and Catherine endeavors to give Miss Raught her full attention. Her yellow dress is very charming, and her round face so excited.
“Thank you so much for the invitation,” Catherine says.
Miss Raught beams at her, taking her hands and squeezing before dragging her back to Miss Linet and Lady Rosalie. “Of course!
We wanted you here, and we need to spend much more time together. It’s really a shame your mother’s kept you so busy. You
would have made a wonderful addition to our walking party the other—”
“We ought not overwhelm Miss Pine, nor remind her of events to which she wasn’t able to attend,” Lady Rosalie cuts in.
Miss Raught blushes and drops Catherine’s hands, nodding quickly in Lady Rosalie’s direction. Catherine has half a mind to
swat at Lady Rosalie for taking the smile off Miss Raught’s face. But at the same time . . . the look Lady Rosalie is giving
her—the way her eyes sweep slowly up and down Catherine’s figure—
“Perhaps a round of battledore, to prevent any more verbal mistakes?” Miss Linet suggests, pointing over toward the set of
rackets and the small bucket of birdies by the fence.
Catherine blinks, rather having forgotten Miss Linet was here at all. She looks quite lovely in a soft green dress and short
white bonnet. The fact that she’s looking between Catherine and Lady Rosalie rather pointedly, and Lady Rosalie keeps shooting
glares at her, probably doesn’t mean anything.
Why should it?
“Oh, that sounds perfect. I adore battledore,” Miss Raught agrees.
They both look to Lady Rosalie.
Lady Rosalie smiles. “That’s a lovely idea.” She glances at Catherine and then at her friends. “All of us playing together should finally draw the boys over.”
Catherine can practically feel all four of them deflate with the thought.
She just hates this. Hates that she and Lady Rosalie are forced to fight over the oblivious Mr. Dean. Hates that Miss Linet and Miss Raught
must watch their every word. They’re worth so much more than the attention of that pack of silly boys.
“My brother and I used to play with friends, facing off in pairs. Whoever misses the birdie loses a point, and it switches
pair to pair,” Catherine suggests. “Adds a bit of competition, if you’re willing,” she says, looking among them.
“Miss Linet and I against you and Miss Raught?” Lady Rosalie asks.
“If you dare,” Catherine replies, smirking as Lady Rosalie’s eyes darken with challenge.
“Oh, we dare,” Miss Linet says.
“As do we,” Catherine agrees, glancing at Miss Raught. “Right?”
“Yes!” Miss Raught says quickly. “We’re, um, we’ll, ah—”
“We’re going to slaughter you,” Catherine says, grinning as Miss Raught cackles.
Lady Rosalie’s eyes narrow so, so deliciously. “Are you now?”
“Yes,” Catherine says, letting the s sit tauntingly on her tongue.
Lady Rosalie steps closer, staring up at her. “You’re on.”
She reaches back, grabs Miss Linet’s wrist, and stalks over to the cleared area at the back of the lawn where buckets of croquet
mallets, battledore rackets, and various other lawn games have been spread out.
Miss Raught giggles and takes Catherine’s arm. “This is going to be such fun.”
“I’ll go first,” Miss Linet says, grabbing a birdie from the basket off to the side. “Come on, Henrietta, show me your stuff.”
Catherine and Lady Rosalie watch Miss Linet and Miss Raught bat the birdie back and forth with their rackets. It starts daintily
and low, neither moving overmuch, but quickly, Miss Raught begins to show a surprising competitive streak.
Catherine watches gleefully as she shoots the birdie this way and that, forcing Miss Linet to lunge side to side, back to
front, to keep the volley going. Catherine glances at Lady Rosalie, who doesn’t look the least bit surprised, nor particularly
worried. Which must mean she thinks she’s better than Catherine.
Catherine bounces on the balls of her feet to warm up and hears Lady Rosalie snort. But when she looks over, Lady Rosalie’s
rolling her wrists and cracking her neck.
Their eyes catch and Catherine can’t help but smirk. Screw the boys, this is war.
After a minute, Miss Raught scores the first point, sending the birdie down and low in a hit that Miss Linet just misses.
“One, nothing!” Miss Raught exclaims, her words ringing around the garden.
“Take her down, Rosalie,” Miss Linet insists, passing the birdie to Lady Rosalie.
Catherine bends her knees, racket at the ready. Lady Rosalie stares at her for a long pause, and then lightning quick, the
birdie is up and they’re volleying.
Immediately, Lady Rosalie has Catherine dodging to one side.
Catherine does her best to aim her return high, so tiny Lady Rosalie has to jump to hit the birdie.
Which she does with impeccable reflexes.
But Catherine didn’t spend her entire childhood locked into tournaments with Richard and her father for nothing.
“Come on, Rosalie!” Miss Linet exclaims.
“You’ve got this, Miss Pine,” Miss Raught counters.
Catherine lunges as far as her dress will allow to bat back Lady Rosalie’s latest shot. She hopes she hasn’t torn it.
“I could do this all day,” Lady Rosalie says, faking a yawn.
Catherine flicks her wrist to hit the birdie toward her knees, forcing Lady Rosalie to bend at an absurd angle to bop it back
into the air. “So could I,” Catherine says.
But she’s breathing pretty heavily. At least Lady Rosalie is as well. Her beautiful chest is heaving, her throat all pink,
cheeks red, eyes wild, hair going frizzy beneath her pretty bonnet.
She can’t let herself get lost in Lady Rosalie’s beauty. Not now. She needs to win. For Miss Raught. To wipe the smug look
off Lady Rosalie’s face. To continue to see the challenge in her entrancing gray-blue eyes.
“Come on!” Miss Linet shouts.