Chapter 15 - Violations
“Catherine! You are holding your teacup like it were a weapon,” her mother’s voice gently but unmistakably scolded. Steam curled lazily from the teapot between them, the delicate porcelain rattling faintly against its saucer when Catherine set the cup down too sharply.
Due to her upcoming wedding, Lady Butler had waived the usual tea company. She had decided Catherine and she needed some much needed private time with each other instead.
“I’m sorry, my Lady,” Catherine replied.
She consciously relaxed her grip around the delicate fine bone china in an attempt to mimic her mother’s posture of effortless dignity — and failed the moment her exhale caused the stiff piece of paper she had hastily tucked inside her corset to faintly crackle against the whalebone stays.
She cleared her throat, hastily sipping some tea.
She had found another letter underneath her pillow.
The same bold handwriting as on the carelessly scribbled note, but this time it had been a heavy, formal envelope, adorned with one single word.
Catherine.
He had intruded her private chambers again.
Catherine had no clue how he managed to get in and out of the estate unseen. Nobody had spotted Viscount o’Donell anywhere near the house since he had left the ball.
Yet he had been there.
The proof of his criminal skills searing against her bare skin, the stiff edges of the letter digging deep into her flesh.
Her hands twitched with the desire to rip it out from underneath her bodice.
Catherine carefully shifted her position, heat threatening to tinge her face when the motion caused another faint sound of paper against bone.
A sharp crease appeared on her mother’s forehead as the Lady watched her carefully, lips tightening briefly to a thin white line.
“A lady doesn’t fidget, Catherine. Hold yourself with some dignity, child,” she chastised.
Catherine closed her eyes and carefully inhaled.
Then exhaled again.
To no avail.
She delicately set her cup down and rose, striding toward one of the windows overlooking the gardens. Her hands gripped her skirts, but instead of gracefully lifting them a bit they bunched into fists in the heavy folds.
Her mother’s voice rang out.
“Catherine?”
The young Miss Butler apologetically shook her head and started to pace.
The silk of her skirts dragged softly across the carpet with every turn.
She hated it.
Hated losing composure like that.
She had accepted she had to marry the man who had played her like an instrument. Who had made her betray her own blood. Who had made a laughingstock out of her.
And now he didn’t even stop at intruding into her most private space.
He didn’t even stop there in his attempts to manipulate her. No. He kept violating every single boundary she might have had.
And she could do nothing about it.
But keep her composure.
It might have been easier had she managed to store the envelope in her private casket — but alas Anne had entered to announce Lady Butler’s demand for Catherine to join her for tea.
She forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths, finding her mother at her side, her hand resting against Catherine’s shoulders in worry.
“Catherine! Talk with me, child. What’s weighing you down?” Lady Butler inquired.
Catherine almost burst out laughing.
The situation felt absurd at best.
Of course she couldn’t tell her Lady Mother that Viscount o’Donell secretly was a criminal and traitor and that it wasn’t even that bothering her.
And so she burst out with the first thing she could come up with that even remotely might explain her distress.
She drew a breath.
“I kissed him, Mother.”
Lady Butler’s eyes narrowed.
“You kissed whom exactly, Catherine?” she inquired, her voice straining. The warning was loud in the absence of any further scolding.
“The Viscount. I kissed my fiancé,” Catherine replied quickly.
Her mother’s shoulders relaxed.
A hint of confusion settled on m’Lady’s features despite a visible effort to remain calm, composed, and unimpressed.
“While I daresay improprieties as such had not happened had I arrived here earlier, I don’t see the actual harm, child.”
Catherine groaned.
“You don’t understand, Lady Mother. I kissed him!” she repeated, despair lacing through her voice.
The muscles around the older woman’s eyes twitched.
She didn’t roll them.
Barely.
“I heard you loud and clear, Catherine. And while it was improper, your betrothed didn’t seem concerned with your frivolous nature when the two of you danced.”
Catherine tried to protest, but Lady Butler lifted her hand.
“I do not wish to hear anything more. Sunday is coming. Whether you love him, hate him, or wish to hang yourself, you will be Lady O’Donell and I do assure you, sweet child, that kissing will be the least of your concerns after the ceremony.
Speaking of which — either you compose yourself now, or I’ll have to pick the table decorations myself. Do you favor a particular kind of flower? I propose white roses for the occasion.”
Her mother’s deliberate devotion to detail, paired with an unwavering determination, would have done any general preparing for battle proud.
The younger Lady Butler slowly made her way back to the table and gracefully sat down, reaching for her tea.
“The anemones, Mother,” Catherine said, her voice as smooth as the porcelain in her hand. “Make sure they are the pale lavender ones.”
Lady Butler raised an eyebrow.
“They wither so quickly, child. They are the flowers of fading hope.”
Catherine offered a thin, practiced smile.
“Then they shall match the occasion perfectly, don’t you think?”