Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Catherine—
You were right. I am a lovesick boy. I wish I could tell you, with confidence, I am a lovesick man, but I am very much afraid it is not true.
But you could be the making of me, Catherine. I know you could.
Would you do me the honor of marrying me?
Always your Jamie.
Catherine—
Are you never to write to me again? Even to answer my marriage proposal? I think I deserve that.
James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry.
Catherine—
Forgive my last letter. I must have sounded like a needing, petty child—exactly the opposite of the impression I want to give.
I am ashamed, most ashamed, of what occurred when you came to my rooms. I am not ashamed of the physical act itself but instead that I greedily allowed my appetites to supersede what was truly most important—that we speak to each other, that you make me understand how I can earn your love or earn the right to love you.
I have so little wisdom in these matters, Catherine. I know my saying that casts me again as a child, but it is true. I have never loved anyone but you.
Always your Jamie.
He continued to call at her house every day. He had not seen her except for the time she had come to his rooms and offered herself to him and he had done everything wrong.
Finally, on what might be his last day in London for quite some time, she was at home to him. His heart was in his mouth.
“Mrs. Lovelock.” He bowed.
“Lord Daventry.” She curtsied and nodded to her butler. Chelsom closed the drawing room door.
“Catherine.”
She did not answer but met his gaze steadily.
He went on, “I am grateful you agreed to see me. I leave London this afternoon for Middlewich. My father is ill.”
“I am sorry to hear that, my lord.” She sat. A long pause came here as she smoothed her dress in her lap. “Due to our previous degree of intimacy, my lord, I felt I should inform you that Sir Francis Ffoulkes has renewed his attentions and has again asked me to marry him.”
James’ vision darkened, and he felt his knees wobble.
“Sir Francis? Surely, after what he did to you, how he abandoned you, you cannot think to accept him?”
She said nothing.
“What made him ask you again?” Despite himself, James’ voice was rising in volume. “Did he suddenly realize what every man with eyes and a brain should realize? Namely, that you are the most beautiful and most extraordinary woman ever to . . . I don’t know, grace the empire?” He was shouting.
She spoke back in a whisper. “You are very flattering to me, James.”
Hope clutched at his chest. She had called him James. Much better than my lord.
Her voice grew stronger. “No, he has not realized that. He has realized I have a sizable personal fortune. Money I earned as an actress and invested long before I married. Money that grew and grew over the years. Money my husband was good enough to keep separate from the injunction in his will.”
James gaped, unbelieving. “You know Sir Francis is a fortune-hunter.”
“Yes.” She rose from her chair.
“You must refuse him.”
She snapped back, “What I must do is the same as what you must do. What is best for me and my family!”
He groaned. “Oh, the sins that have been committed in the name of family.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Jamie. Jamie. Whatever sins we have committed, they haven’t been in the name of family, have they?”
He liked the Jamie bit. And her laughing. He wasn’t happy about her use of the past tense. And it hurt she would call what they had done together a sin.
He went to her and folded her into his arms. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Kate, you tell me of this proposal to taunt me, I know. There is no need to do so. I will delay leaving London if you will come back to my rooms tonight in that old dress and brown wig. Let me hold you and kiss you and do any number of unspeakable things to you. Let me wash your mind clean of any thoughts of marrying Sir Francis. We belong together, Kate, you must know that.”
He did not know what in his words upset her, but she stiffened and pushed him away.
“My lord, I must ask that in the future you tender your affections elsewhere. I am sure your grief over your father’s illness has made you forget yourself.”
“My grief?” James tore at his hair in frustration. “All my grief is for you, Catherine. I am wild with it. Sick with it.”
“Then you must go. Away from my house. And convalesce. And when we meet again, we will meet as friends, I am sure.”
A cataclysm of pain tore through his entire body, his mind, his heart, his soul. Worse pain than when William had died and he had lost his brother, his hero, and his future in one fell swoop.
He made it to the door. A shaking hand put to the knob, a shaking voice when he finally spoke.
“I will never be friends with you, Mrs. Lovelock. Never.”