Chapter 8 - Soonerlater
Catherine had kept herself very busy after her visit to the seamstress. She didn’t want to think about the kiss — and even less about the man she had kissed.
She had spent a great deal of time trying to convince herself it had been his fault.
It wasn’t.
He had asked for her time.
She had granted it.
She had tricked Maisie so she could meet him secretly.
And she had liked it.
That was the worst part.
Feelings like that were not supposed to be real.
The best a woman of her standing could hope for was a husband she could be friends with.
And her future husband? He had presented himself as kind and honorable.
The Viscount had tried to take her feelings into account and had even stood up to her father for her.
Aidan O’Donell did not deserve a wife who cheated on him before they were even married.
That was the ugly truth of it all — and still she couldn’t stop remembering the tingle on her lips and the warmth that had pooled low in her stomach.
With a soft sigh, she began readying herself for dinner. While her father usually didn’t expect her attendance when he met with his circle of gentlemen, he had explicitly requested her presence tonight.
She rang for her maid, and Anne helped her dress as usual. Catherine had chosen a lavender-coloured gown for the occasion.
Descending the stairs, she made her way into the salon, where her father and several guests were already gathered.
The Earl approached her and greeted her with a ceremonial kiss to her cheek.
“My dear Catherine.”
He offered his arm. She gracefully placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed him to guide her and the guests into the dining room, duly noting that tonight’s gathering was larger than usual — and that all the married gentlemen had brought their wives.
Catherine found herself seated to her father’s right, across from the sheriff and his wife.
The table buzzed with pleasant conversation. Catherine soon engaged in an invigorating discussion of the latest issue of Kilkenny’s weekly gazette with her ladyship — until the topic shifted to her betrothal.
“I hear Viscount O’Donell is a most pleasant gentleman,” the Lady Sheriff remarked, offering a reassuring smile.
Catherine inclined her head. “I can only agree with the rumour, M’Lady,” she replied. “M’Lord will show me his lands tomorrow. He has invited me to tour his stables.”
The sheriff himself interrupted, though he addressed the Earl rather than the ladies.
“A remarkable decision, M’Lord, if I may say so. Especially in light of the recent events with the Dhorn.”
Catherine’s lashes fluttered at the name.
A note beneath her pillow. Bold handwriting. Signed with what she had believed to be a real name.
“The Dhorn?” she asked innocently.
The Earl nodded. “A group of rebels, M’Lady. They call themselves the ‘Fists of Ireland.’”
He folded his hands thoughtfully.
“Hopefully O’Donell lives up to his reputation. My future son-in-law is said to possess a strategic mind. I am convinced the connection between our houses will prove beneficial. Neither of us truly wants the currently minor incidents to evolve into something greater.”
The sheriff’s chest swelled. “I daresay our men can handle the handful stubborn enough to attempt revolt.”
Lord Butler tipped his chin thoughtfully. “While that may be entirely true, dear Sheriff, I still prefer elegance over brute force.”
A dismissive shrug.
“I agree, however, that most of the radicals are sadly unorganized. Save for the so-called ‘Fists.’”
A satisfied smile spread across the sheriff’s face. “I have reason to believe that the threat imposed by this group of radical patriots — as they like to call themselves — will diminish sooner rather than later, M’Lord.”
The Earl replied with a polite smile. “As I would expect from a man of your reputation, Sheriff.”
Lord Butler turned toward the ladies with a rueful expression. “Forgive us, M’Ladies. We interrupted your conversation.”
Catherine inclined her neck graciously, lowering her gaze.
“Your concern for my safety is never an interruption, my Lord. I am touched and deeply grateful.”
The sheriff gently patted the back of her hand in a fatherly gesture.
“You can rest assured, Lady Butler. It is taken care of. Our measures have proven extremely successful so far. The Dhorn are already history.”
History. Examples made in public squares. Catherine offered the sheriff a look of innocent admiration and lifted her glass.
“To the brave men who stand up for our safety.”
She took a sip of the heavy Bordeaux. The warmth of the wine spread through her stomach, masking the faint flush rising to her cheeks.
The Fists of Ireland.
Of course they would call themselves by a name in their own language.
Dhorn.
More than one man.
A fist.
She had expected a harmless alias. He had given her a banner. No man signed a name like this unless he meant to stand behind it.
She resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands as memories surfaced — countless meetings between her father and the sheriff. Half-heard sentences she had once dismissed, knowing her father disapproved of her political curiosity.
Grain shipments expected to earn high profits in light of yet another failed yield.
A remark from a previous dinner.
“I have it on good authority from a local informer that there is some mischief brewing in the hills.”
She remembered the charges listed against the group — and in particular against their leader.
Theft. Robbery. Conspiracy. Treason.
Enough to send every one of them to the gallows.
As rebels and traitors deserved.
A warm voice echoed in the back of her mind.
A bitter sound, barely restrained.
And a treacherous heart that hammered so fiercely against her ribs she feared her father might hear it.