Chapter 17
They rode into Caerleon, Catherine sitting side-saddle in front of Gideon. He held the reins around her slender waist as she rested back against his chest.
The storm had passed over, though it could have swept them both away on a torrent and Gideon did not think he would have noticed. He enjoyed the feeling of Catherine’s soft body against his, relished her delicate embrace.
“Are we to dine together this evening?” she mumbled, tired.
“Yes, with the Threnthorpes,” he nodded once, “we were invited at the wedding breakfast. Did I not say?”
She shot up, pinning him with a level look.
“You did not.”
Gideon shrugged. Caerleon was coming into sight, and there was still time to dress and take the carriage to the Threnthorpes’ house near St James.
The wind of their passage was cold against his bare chest. While attempting to recover his shirt, he had dislodged it to be swept away by the stream.
Perhaps some shepherd would use it to keep his sheep warm.
“Is this the need you spoke of?” Catherine arched her brow.
“Need? What need?” he asked.
“You told me you needed me,” she replied swiftly, heat entering her voice as though a fire had been stoked within her once more. A very different sort of fire.
“I do. I cannot go to this dinner alone. The Threnthorpes are damnably holy. They’ve made that abundantly clear. I must be married.”
“So… you needed me to impress the Threnthorpes and secure your business arrangement?” she repeated slowly, voice rising and hands tense against his chest.
“Yes,” he shrugged, mirroring her tone. “Why is that so difficult to understand? It is not the only...”
“Stop!” she cried out.
Caerleon was still half a mile distant.
“Stop? No. Do you want to walk?”
“Yes. I want to walk.”
“Well, we do not have time for a stroll. There is barely time to bathe and dress before we must be in the carriage. Can we not discuss this later?”
Why on earth was she being so difficult all of a sudden?
“Let me off this horse at once!” she cried, shoving hard against his chest.
He reined in the animal. Catherine slid from the saddle, brushed at her skirts, and began to stride towards the house. Gideon spurred the horse after her, keeping pace.
“Devil take it, will you tell me what is wrong this time?” he demanded.
She shook her head, arms folded neatly beneath her breasts. Her mouth was a tight line, eyes intent on their destination.
Finally, he spurred ahead of her, reversed his position, strafed the horse, and blocked her path. His ankle throbbed, and this, combined with her inexplicable behaviour, set sparks of frustration flying.
First an accusation about my rifling through her correspondence. Now flying off the handle because I did not tell her about a dinner engagement!
Catherine came to a halt but refused to look at him. He steered the horse in front of her, but she turned away each time.
“Will you speak to me?” he sighed, massaging his temples.
“Can you not deduce what is wrong?” she hissed. “On the surface, you look to be an intelligent man.”
He gaped at her, seething with irritation at the game she seemed so intent on playing.
“I thank you for the compliment, my dear, but my academic prowess does not extend to the knowledge of a female’s mind. Now, speak to me straight or not at all—”
“Not at all then!” she spat back.
Gideon reined back the horse and spurred it away. He did not look back.
Is this sabotage? She seeks to undermine me by thwarting my relationship with the Threnthorpes. Is she behind those letters?
His mind whirled as he reached Caerleon and tossed the reins to a stable hand.
He stormed into the house, instantly forgoing his earlier discovery of how far a kind word and a smile could go.
When he reached his chambers, he tore off his coat and hurled it across the room.
Gough appeared belatedly at the door, catching the coat in time as he entered.
“Not now, Gough! Am I a babe in arms that I cannot dress myself?” he roared.
This is what comes from trust. This is what comes of weakness. My father was a brute, but he knew that a man needed to be strong—and attachment is anathema to strength.
He dressed as though he loathed every garment, stressing stitches with the force with which he thrust the fabric upon his body. In the mirror amid the chaos, his eyes caught on something behind him.
Fresh letters on the bureau.
He turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. The top envelope bore a name written in an unfamiliar hand.
Not Aaron's name.
His.
Gideon's throat went dry. He picked up the letter, then let it fall back to the polished wood.
He knew what it would say. What it would demand. What it would threaten.
God above, could the universe grant me a single bloody day of reprieve!
Something would have to be done. But not now.
Not tonight. Tonight, he had to smile and charm and convince a Quaker investor that he was a man worth trusting with a fortune.
Find a way of presenting the right facade.
He raked a hand through his hair, staring at the dress mirror.
For a second, it was his brother’s reflection he saw back, sneering.
“I would never have allowed that woman to get this close. For the sake of the Dukedom, how could you? No wonder our father preferred me.”
Gideon closed his eyes.
You're dead, brother. I won. I'm the Duke now.
He turned from the mirror and strode from the room, jaw set.
His distraction lasted up until he entered the sitting room.
There, he halted on his heels.
Catherine stood in the center of the room, transformed.
Gone was the simple day dress—replaced by an evening gown of midnight blue that caught the crepuscular dusk light like water.
A single diamond hung from a delicate chain woven through her upswept hair.
A gold locket rested in the hollow of her throat, glinting like the warm gold flecks in her eyes.
Christ, how long was I staring in the mirror?
He breezed past her to the sideboard, pouring himself a brandy and trying not to stare.
“Your modiste did an excellent job,” she chimed from over his shoulder.
He turned, nonchalant as ever.
Her presence broke through the storm in his mind. The glass lowered, forgotten in his hand, and his resolution of not staring ultimately abandoned. He was staring, alright… utterly dumbfounded.
Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, dark and lustrous where it was swept up to bare her elegant neck. The gown’s neckline displayed the swell of her breasts in a way that made his mouth go dry—enough to make heat crawl up his spine, while still teetering on perfectly proper.
He drank her in instead of the spirit.
By the devil, she was beautiful.
“Do you approve?” she asked in uncertainty.
“Yes!” The word came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Very much.”
Catherine's cheeks flushed. A smile started to form, then died. She looked down, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.
“I am ready to do my duty,” she said softly.
There was a distance in her voice. He had not been aware of it before. Had not been aware of anything much. Now, he heard it. Her words were encased in glaciers. They dripped frost and seemed to reach him from a great height.
“…Your duty?”
“To be the perfect wife. To impress our hosts and further your ambitions.” Her eyes lifted to his, cool and distant. “That is why you married me, is it not?”
“No.” The word came out too quickly, too defensive.
One elegant eyebrow curled. They both knew it was a lie.
“I was under the impression it was. That playing your devoted wife was all you needed of me.”
Understanding hit him like a fist to the gut. His hands clasped behind his back, nails biting into his palms even as he kept his expression neutral.
A woman should not be so equal parts intoxicating and equal parts maddening!
Besides, he could think of many other reasons to need her—and a lot ended with her flushed and writhing beneath him.
“Indeed,” he swiftly cut instead, injecting a layer of frost to his voice, “I do need you.”
“As I expected.” She moved to the door. “Shall we?”
He nodded once, sharply.
It hurt to maintain the distance that had suddenly opened between them like a chasm in the earth after a quake. But he refused to be manipulated. Gideon Tarnley did not grovel or beg for forgiveness. He could see the glaring error he had made now—but resented the challenge being set.
Let her play her games. He could play his own.
They left Caerleon arm in arm, a portrait of marital harmony that fooled no one who looked too close. The carriage ride into London passed in peaceful silence.
At Obadiah Threnthorpe's rented townhouse, a butler announced them into the great hall where six other couples had already gathered. The Threnthorpes greeted them first, warm and effusive.
Gideon watched Catherine transform. She smiled, laughed, made pleasant conversation as they mingled, from guest to guest. His trained eye caught hints of uncertainty, the hesitation born of inexperience.
But her genuine warmth more than compensated.
There was something luminous about her that drew every eye.
Especially his.
“There you are at last!” Jeremy Bexley appeared at his elbow, grinning like a fool.
Gideon blinked. “Everdon? What the devil are you doing here?”
“Such prejudice! My unmarried state should preclude me, should it?” Jeremy put a hand to his breastbone in mock horror. “Alas, I’ve just been offered a commission with the South Lancashire County Militia. Sir Obadiah wants experienced officers to protect his northern mills from the Luddites.”
“Luddites?” Catherine turned from her own conversation, her interest clearly piqued despite the frost between them.
“Men who have been displaced from their jobs by the machinery they made,” Gideon explained, “and so smash the machines… before they can make more. A sort of industrial tantrum.”