Chapter Three
John lay still in the morning light. His new wife was curled up next to him.
Her gentle breathing soothed him. It had been a mistake to continue kissing her, to stumble as they had back into the bed, which is why he had gone no further than kissing last night.
He had stopped it—as painful as it had been—because he had a plan.
He hoped he could convince her to fall in love with him.
Therefore, he would not have marital relations with her now.
When he’d impulsively offered to wed her, he believed no woman deserved to be used and abandoned.
But he now realized he had a more complicated motivation.
He had always liked Cate and enjoyed her company, but she was so far above him, a wondrous glittering blonde in high society not for the likes of him, the second son of a vicar.
It hadn’t mattered that he’d secretly pined for her from afar.
Things were different now.
It didn’t matter why they were different. All that mattered was making her life as pleasant as he could.
She deserved a loving match.
How could he make his wife fall in love with him?
Turning on his side, John glanced down at the sleeping Cate, brushing a small curl off her face.
She looked peaceful, angelic even, with soft, full cheeks that curved down into a rounded chin.
She had a rosebud mouth. But there was strength beneath her fa?ade.
To think of what her father had put her through…
And there was the looming, unspoken matter of the rake Mr. Hepworth.
John prided himself on his lack of jealousy.
After all, what was the point of wishing for what could never be his?
But now, as he held Cate close and watched her sleep, he wanted more.
He wanted her gentle spirit, her kindly consideration, her generous heart—all she had to give.
And he hated that the terrible Mr. Hepworth, through charm or calculation, might have hurt Cate.
Gently, he eased his arm out from underneath her and crept to the window.
Lyme Regis, with all of its neat little streets and architecture, lay before him.
The perfect seaside town. There were thatched roofs, glistening windows, and empty flower boxes.
It was almost Christmas, after all. In many ways, it was an idyllic place for romance.
The problem, of course, was the steady beat of rain.
“Good morning,” Cate called. At some point, when they had ceased kissing, she had removed her traveling dress and had been prepared to sleep in her chemise. She sat up in bed. John balled his fists to stop himself from hurrying to her side. She was practically edible, all tousled and sleepy.
He would need to focus, as his time in the navy had taught him. He was not to be distracted. Winning over his wife would require careful military precision. That was his greatest skill.
“Breakfast?” he asked cordially.
*
The rain had lessened as they meandered along the cobbled beachfront. Nonetheless, John was grateful for the hotelier’s umbrella that wobbled over their heads.
Cate grabbed the map. Over the sound of the waves and steady rain, she read aloud its directions.
“Mr. Weir informed me—”
“What?” John asked as a crashing wave landed half a foot away from them. He steered Cate away from it.
“Thank you.” She rested her free hand all too briefly on his chest before pulling back. For John, it left an imprint. He wanted more than anything to pull her closer once more. “The hotelier said Lyme Regis was mentioned in the Magna Carta.”
“As old as that.” John wished he knew what else to say to hold her attention, but before he could utter another word, someone responded derisively.
“It’s far older than that,” a woman with wild, rain-soaked hair sneered. She stood five feet away from them and resembled a terrifying bat. If it were up to John, they would have ignored her entirely, but Cate smiled encouragingly at the mad-looking woman.
“Is that so?”
“Aye.” The woman moved closer. John saw she was younger than he previously thought, possibly around Cate’s age of twenty-five or so. The woman pulled a rock from her basket. “See.” She held it up before their eyes, and John could see its strange markings.
“How nice,” he lied, tightening his arm around his wife’s slender waist.
“What is it?” Cate asked.
The woman gave her a contemplative look and then launched into an explanation of the fossil, its history, where she had found the curiosity, and how this area was rich in such discoveries.
In the distance, John made out another lady hurrying toward them.
He wondered if this was the madwoman’s keeper.
“Abigail,” an older woman cried as she slowed down before turning to the three of them. “Hello there. I’m sorry for bothering you both.”
“They asked,” the madwoman Abigail insisted, glancing defensively up from where she stood. Judging from her tone alone, John was certain they were sisters. They both had dark hair and rough-hewn features.
“I’m Mrs. Perrin,” Cate began awkwardly as she glanced between the two women. “We’re here on our honeymoon. This is my husband, Lieutenant Perrin. It is our first day on the beach.”
“Miss Fossey,” replied the older woman, who offered her hand. “Welcome to Lyme. This is my younger sister, Miss Abigail. Perhaps I can invite you to the first of the winter assemblies? It will certainly make you feel festive.”
*
John looked around the assembly room, covered by all of its winter yuletide finery.
Miss Fossey had not lied when she’d promised a festive atmosphere.
It was close to the beach, and the sound of the sea only added to the party’s charm.
A roaring fire at one end was balanced out by a cheerful collection of musicians at the other.
From the ceiling hung holly, ivy, mistletoe, and red berries.
White cut-out icicles had also been added to the decorations, adding to the wintry atmosphere.
He had the right setting for seduction.
Then again, John had had the right setting for the last few days.
They had tried dipping their toes into the sea.
They had also eaten roasted chestnuts over the fire when it had been too miserable to leave the hotel.
They had talked late into the night about their childhoods.
They had slept in each other’s arms, never going further than sharing a kiss.
They had bought each other keepsakes from the bookshop and fossils from the frankly bizarre Miss Abigail.
If he hadn’t been in love with Cate before the honeymoon began, he most definitely was now.
He adored her sweetness, her innate kindness, and her eager participation in their conversations.
The way she dimpled when he called her lass.
He doubted any man could resist her for long.
The problem was her secret—that of Mr. Hepworth, and whatever had happened between them.
The distant trill of a Scottish reel sounded. John made his way toward his wife, who had been talking to the matrons. “This, I believe, is my dance.” He bowed before Cate and smiled at her.
She looked magnificent as the most luminous woman in the room, with her soft, golden taffeta dress that made her look like an angelic princess. He felt so proud of himself, leading her out to dance and guiding her through the steps as he planned precisely how he would admit his feelings.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he gushed. Cate graced him with a smile before she grew worried.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” She glanced back across at the matrons. “At the hotel, did you make mention of your rank?”
The question perplexed him. Did she want to tell everyone about his position in the navy? It had never bothered her previously. “Aye.”
“I see.” Cate’s rounded bottom lip caught between her teeth.
Suddenly, fear snaked through him. “Do you think your…beau might have tracked you down? Would Mr. Hepworth have discovered our marriage and have sought you out?”
The reel ceased. Cate stared up at him, confusion distorting her face, before she blurted out, “He wasn’t my love. We never did anything more than share a kiss. Excuse me.”
She released John’s hand and slipped away from him, cutting through the milling dancers, townsfolk, and partygoers. Why hadn’t she told him sooner? If it were merely a kiss, then why had her father forced her hand? If she wasn’t truly ruined, why had she agreed to marry him?
Before he could dwell on the matter further, he strode after her, following Cate outside. When he saw she was ahead without her cape, he hurried after her.
“Why didn’t you—”
“Tell you?”
“Yes. You should have told me the truth.”
“I thought you would judge me. Or worse, you might refuse to wed me.”
John had closed the distance. The cobbled street beneath their feet was slick with a nighttime drizzle. The assembly windows’ candlelight and the stars brightened their surroundings.
“I don’t understand,” John admitted. He reached for Cate’s elbow to soothe her.
“I would have done anything with Mr. Hepworth, even ruined myself, if it meant I could escape my father. I did not want you to judge me for that.”
He was already so close to her. He could see she was trembling, either from the fear of her admittance or the pain of acknowledging the kind of man her father had been.
Either way, John wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and wishing more than anything that he could banish any painful memories.
“I would never judge you, Cate. I love you too much for that.”
She blinked up at him, her gloved hand snaking between their bodies as she hesitantly cupped his face. “You do?”
“Aye, lass. I think I have for months now. I’ve loved you from when we first met but, lord, I could never look so high upon one such as you…”
The assembly room doors banged open. Many cried out.
John grabbed Cate’s hand and pulled her away to the beach.
The tide was out, leaving behind rocks and bits of sand as he dragged her away from the crowd.
The outcrop of rock which curved downward offered a small slice of a wall to hide behind, and a fraction of privacy.
He backed Cate against the wall and shielded her from the noise and the rain.
“Aye,” he repeated, “I’ve loved you ever since your first kind act toward me, but I only realized when we’ve been here together—you and I…”
Cate wrapped herself around him, her mouth seeking out his. Gratefully, John started to kiss her, running his hands over her dress, driven wilder by the danger of discovery.