The Duke Suggests a Scandal Page 3

  Catherine glanced helplessly at Alice, who was engaged in lively conversation with the gentlemen seated about Miss Hendrington. The sight of her sister’s innocent round face and cheerful demeanour stiffened Catherine’s resolve.

  She was better than Agnes. She would do anything for the benefit of a sister.

  “I must admit I am not well-educated in the appreciation of sculpture,” she admitted, lowering her eyes. Mr Hinton was delighted.

  “Hmm! Then I must endeavour to educate you, Miss Sharp! I shall give you a lesson in all the niceties of the art!”

  “How generous,” said Catherine faintly. She lowered her head still further, the better to escape the breath which emanated from Mr Hinton’s wrinkled mouth.

  The scheme was proposed to Lady Hendrington, who made neither any objection nor any move to accompany the pair. She rang for her housekeeper, Mrs Jenkins, and settled back in her chair quite comfortably.

  Unfortunately for Catherine, Agnes had been tracking her movements most closely and was immediately at her side to offer the courting couple some assistance.

  “I would be very pleased to accompany you through the house,” she announced, taking her sister’s hand and giving it a subtle squeeze of reassurance. “Mr Hinton, nothing would delight me more than to take in a little art.”

  Having secured both the object of his affections and a willing chaperone, Mr Hinton was very satisfied for all of the thirty seconds it took the Duke of Westbourne to catch on to their plan and throw a spanner in the works of Hinton’s scheme.

  “Sculpture?” he announced, so loudly as to startle the ladies with whom he was occupied. “How jolly! We must make a party of it, Hinton.”

  “I was unaware that you were so enamoured by art, Your Grace,” said Mr Hinton waspishly. He appeared not at all pleased at the Duke’s intervention. It was clear to anybody that a Mr Hinton was only a dim candle compared to the radiant features of the Duke.

  “Art? Don’t care for it,” Harry admitted cheerfully. “Miss Sharp, I must press upon you to educate me.”

  “But Mr Hinton is the true expert in the medium,” interjected Mrs Blakely, keen to draw attention back onto the object of her ambitions for Catherine.

  “I shall give you my best attempt, Your Grace,” said Catherine. Her large brown eyes connected with Harry’s piercing blue ones. She knew immediately that he had understood her feelings for Mr Hinton and intended to rescue her from a very dull afternoon.

  “Then it’s settled. I shall join you, Hinton.” He clapped a heavy hand upon Mr Hinton’s shoulder, and was rewarded with a strained smile.

  “I am very pleased to hear it, Your Grace.” The added rasp in Mr Hinton’s voice made it clear that he was not, in fact, pleased at all.

  Mrs Jenkins appeared in due course and took the little party of art enthusiasts into the house. Catherine could not help but admire the high ceilings, large glass windows, and Gothic archways of Hendrington Manor. It seemed the perfect place for all manner of intrigues and scandals to happen – how she longed for a more interesting companion than the coughing Mr Hinton to explore with!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Harry had offered his arm to Catherine as they made their way into the house, but was extremely surprised to find it taken immediately by her older sister, Mrs Agnes Blakely. Agnes then proceeded to walk at a fantastically slow pace, with the result that Catherine was carried away ahead of them on the arm of Mr Hinton and it was impossible for Harry to exchange a word with his old friend.

  Agnes engaged him in polite conversation, giving her condolences for the loss of his father, his wife and his cousin Charles, but Harry could barely find the words to respond to her.

  The sight of Catherine had shaken him to his core. She was exactly as she had been at seventeen, when Harry had been forced to bid goodbye to her seemingly forever.

  In the years since his marriage Harry had done his level best to avoid the Sharp sisters, who had once been his neighbours and closest friends. The memory of the close friendship he shared with Catherine was too painful. The small pieces of news that he heard of her life and her adventures every Season with the men of the ton were needles in Harry’s captive heart.

  He had slowly rid himself of their mutual acquaintance, had shut himself away in his wife’s family home in Norfolk, and had convinced himself that Catherine Sharp would be married within a year.

  In this way, he had managed to go several years without hearing any word of the Sharp family at all.

  Now, here was Catherine – far away from her father’s house in Devon. Her clear brown eyes had the same knowing wit behind them. Her golden hair still bobbed in ringlets about her delicate face, begging his fingers to play with them. He had called her Miss Sharp and she had not corrected him.

  Catherine was unmarried. And Harry a widower. The possibilities overwhelmed him. His heart thumped painfully every time he looked up to see her elegant figure walking on ahead of him. So close – practically within his grasp.

  “Do tell me what brings you to Surrey,” he said to Agnes, sensing that he had been silent too long. She was more than happy to regale him with the story of how she had met Mr Blakely, the parson of the little town of Larksley, and married him after many tears on her part and much negotiation between the gentleman and her father. Harry listened with half an ear, interested only in news of Catherine. How had she come to be here? Was she staying long?

  He had to bite his tongue to prevent himself asking such indiscreet questions aloud.

  “My sisters have been staying with me this past fortnight,” Agnes chattered on eventually. “My father has hopes that they will find suitable matches here in Surrey. He is afraid that sending them to London for the Season this year…”

  She coughed and looked down, as if she suddenly remembered that Harry was no longer their intimate friend but practically a stranger. He thought with a pang of regret of the confidences they had shared in the past.

  “You need not stand on ceremony, Mrs Blakely,” he assured her. “Please, let us speak as freely as we used to.”

  He saw a glimmer in her eye that, if he was uncharitable, he might have attributed to her pleasure at being addressed so by a Duke. Harry had certainly become more popular since he had inherited the Dukedom. He was not entirely comfortable in his new, ennobled skin.

  “My father’s situation is sadly even more precarious than it was when we were children,” said Agnes softly. “I’m afraid my sisters have almost no dowry at all. And the dresses, the accoutrements required for the Season… No, it will not be possible this year. I am more concerned for Catherine than for Alice. Alice is only seventeen, after all. She has time still to make her debut. But Catherine…”

  “She must be three-and-twenty,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. He was astonished to find that even the most trivial details of Catherine’s life were still fresh in his mind. “And still unwed…”

  Agnes tutted under her breath. “Through no fault of anyone’s but her own, I’m afraid. Catherine has received proposals from all manner of gentlemen, I assure you – some of them most refined. Yet she is never satisfied with anybody, and now… Now, at least, she is beginning to develop a sense of the future. She knows she must make a choice quickly if she is to choose at all.” She nodded towards Mr Hinton with a wink. “And I am delighted to see her growing a sense of responsibility.”

  Harry heard this with a storm of emotions so violent that he struggled to keep his heart from beating out of his chest – let alone to maintain his face of expressionless, casual interest.

  She had turned down every suitor! A strike in his favour.

  She had realised she must marry, and soon! Another lucky strike.

  She had been courted by others! To the point of proposals! His fist clenched at the thought.

  And what was the meaning of Agnes’s wink towards Hinton? He was a pompous, coughing, red-cheeked old fool of a man. Surely Catherine could not seriously consider him a proper match? Not wh
ile she remained so bright-eyed, so radiant, so perfectly charming in aspect and manner.

  Like a blow from a hammer, Harry was struck with the memory that Hinton was a man of quite comfortable wealth. Seven thousand a year, it was rumoured. And if the girls’ father could not even provide them with dresses suitable for the Season… Harry could only imagine that Catherine’s present dilemma was something to rival the disaster which had once forced him to wed.

  His heart bled for her. So, Alice could not make her debut until more money was secured for the family! Harry knew too well the heavy responsibility that came with being an older sibling. He would have bled and died for his own younger brothers – in a way, some tender inner part of him had. He had made himself a martyr in marriage in order to secure James and William a better life.

  Catherine had always been a better person than he. Strong-willed, morally upstanding, altogether the bravest and most selfless person he knew. She would not flinch from the prospect of a marriage of convenience. Even to such a man as Mr Hinton! Did he know the value of the pure rose he was receiving?

  Harry doubted it. In that moment he refused to believe that Catherine’s true value could possibly be appreciated by any man other than himself.

  Once again he had been silent too long. He was grateful that his anguish went unnoticed by the others, as they had now arrived in the spacious room where Lady Hendrington kept her collection of fine sculptures. Mr Hinton began holding forth at great length about the various artistic schools on display, and Mrs Blakely, seeing Catherine’s eyes glaze over, hurried across to lead by example and give the gentleman her most rapt attention.

  Harry hung back, following Catherine with his eyes as she stepped gracefully between the marble busts. He noticed the way her eyes traced every detail of the space around her, quick and intelligent. The only place her gaze did not explore was the person of Harry himself. It was as if she were avoiding him.

  That would not do. Harry felt himself pulled magnetically back towards Catherine, even after the painful revelation of her impending engagement. He fixed her with his penetrating blue eyes and marched towards her the moment she strayed far enough from her sister that he could speak to her privately.

  “How do you like the collection?” he asked in a low voice. Catherine averted her eyes from his – how he longed to know why! Did she suffer the same dizzy longing each time their eyes met?

  “It seems very pleasant, Your Grace. I’m afraid I am no great critic of art.”

  “But you promised to educate me,” Harry pressed her. “If you can offer no opinion on sculpture then you must fulfil your promise in some other way.”

  The hint of a smile pulled at her lips. “And how would Your Grace have me do that?”

  How he longed to hear her call him Harry!

  “Tell me of your life,” he suggested. “What news do you have for me, Miss Sharp?” He could not stop himself glancing at Hinton. “What intrigues have you been embroiled in of late?”

  Catherine moved instinctively to the window, drawn by the prospect of the open fields which rolled away to the woods and the lake. Harry followed her. They were now standing quite apart from the others.

  “My intrigues cannot concern you,” she said, as she scanned the view and still refused to meet his eyes. “It has been some years now since we were intimate friends.”

  “Don’t say that –”

  “But I must and will say it. Why, I don’t think I’ve seen you more than three or four times since your marriage. Our friendship meant nothing to you once your mind was engaged with more important matters.”

  “That isn’t true –”

  “Please admit the truth,” she said with sudden force. She turned her face to him then and her hurt expression struck him dumb. “You forgot all about the Sharp sisters the moment you were married. You became wealthy and you had no more use for the friends of your poverty. I am not a foolish young girl to be taken advantage of in this way, Your Grace. Whatever scheme for your own amusement brings you to pay attention to us again, I want no part of it.”

  “It is true,” he said after a long moment. “I avoided you. For six years I have avoided you.”

  “Ha!” she said, bitterly, and made to leave. Harry’s hand darted out and caught hers. He pressed her firmly, willing her to feel his warmth through her soft white glove.

  “I avoided you because I was married,” he explained urgently. “Now I am free. Miss Sharp…”

  To Harry’s astonishment, Catherine’s lips twisted with amusement. She let out a short, tinkling laugh which drew her sister’s eyes towards her. “Miss Hendrington said you would flirt with me,” she said wryly as Agnes hurried over. “I did not believe her at first – are you really such a rake?”

  “Catherine, come and listen to what Mr Hinton is saying,” said Agnes sharply, stepping in between the two. “It is really most interesting.”

  Catherine went away on her sister’s arm, leaving Harry leaning against the window frame astonished.

  The depth of feeling he still had for her after all this time was overwhelming.

  Still more potent was the disdain she clearly felt for him.

  But he still knew her well, despite the passing years. He understood the meaning of every shadow which passed over her face. Particularly the boredom she politely concealed as Mr Hinton explained the difference between carving and casting.

  At least when she spoke to Harry her face had been filled with light. Angry light, to be certain. The pale lightning of pain from an old wound newly opened.

  Hinton inspired nothing in her – no passion, no pain, no interest and certainly no love.

  Harry vowed to himself then and there that he would rescue Catherine from such an unhappy match – whether she wanted him to or not.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The long visit with her sister had left Catherine not bored, exactly – she knew better than to admit to being bored – but longing for the kind of adventure that the little town of Larksley did not permit. She missed the rugged and dramatic Devonshire coast, where but a few short steps from her father’s house she was accustomed to find crashing waves, rocky cliffs, and all the lonely beauty of a pebbled shore.

  Agnes had never loved Devon as Catherine did. She was not enamoured of the outdoors. Her pursuits were more domestic – playing cards, drawing, needlework, and keeping house.

  The two younger girls chafed keenly at this life of solitude and refinement. Despite Agnes’s best efforts, Larksley offered very little in the way of social occupation. This was why she had seized so eagerly on Mr Hinton as Catherine’s one marriage prospect – not because he was particularly attractive, but because there was so little opportunity to meet a more eligible gentleman.

  It was, therefore, a cause of much interest and consternation among the ladies when the Duke of Westbourne stopped by to call upon Mr Blakely.

  The first Catherine knew of it was not the appearance of his card, or even the sound of a knock at Agnes’s door, but the thundering trample of feet above her head as Alice came running down the stairs.

  “Oh! Cathy, quick! Come and see! Do you know who is riding down the path?” She answered her own question before Catherine could guess, ignoring Agnes’s tut over her indecorous excitement. “It is the Duke of Westbourne! He looks very fine on his great black horse! Very fine! Cathy, come with me to the window at once!”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” snapped Agnes, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. “Goodness, Alice, your face is flushed quite red. Sit down and take up your needlework. We must prepare to receive the Duke in a genteel fashion, not by storming about the house like marauding pirates.”

  Alice plumped down into her chair with a chastened expression. Cathy turned her face to the wall, grateful that no-one had commented on her own red-flushed cheeks, which could not be excused by the exercise of running down the stairs.

  The ladies waited in varying states of anticipation for Agnes’s maid-of-all-work to convey the Duke’s
calling card into the drawing room. Catherine found that her needlework suddenly was not at all easy to follow. She dropped her needle more than once before pushing it away in embarrassment and taking up the book of poetry that she kept beside her on the table. Agnes’s eyes flashed.

  “Cathy, I will not have you reading that when the Duke comes in.”

  Catherine shut the book with a slap but did not put it down. She was saved from further argument by the entrance of the maid.

  “The Duke of Westbourne is in the hall, ma’am. Here is his card.”

  Agnes smiled as graciously as if she were a Duchess herself. “Please inform the Duke that Mr Blakely is away at present, but that the ladies of the house are most certainly at home.”

  The maid bobbed her head and left, in a state of some stuttering confusion at being asked to address a Duke. She must have managed to pass on the message adequately, however, as shortly the door was opened and the handsome figure of Harry, Duke of Westbourne, stood in the drawing-room dwarfing the furniture and looking quite as fine as he had done atop his black stallion.

  The ladies greeted him politely. Catherine struggled to remember the proper forms of speech. Something about Harry rendered her almost stupid.

  It was only natural that she should be angry with him, she told herself. This Duke – the one-time friend who had cheerfully abandoned the family when his fortunes took a turn for the better – this Duke who was now nothing but a notorious and incorrigible flirt – of course he must draw her anger.

  That was all it was, she told herself, as a peculiar flutter began in her chest when she looked Harry’s way. Anger and hurt feelings. Nothing more.

  Harry inquired after Mr Blakely and was told that he was out in the parish fulfilling his duties to the sick. Agnes inquired after the health of Harry’s mother and aunt and was pleased to hear they both did as well as could be expected. Catherine did not join in with the polite conversation that followed. She found that when looking at Harry she could find nothing to say to him that bore speaking in front of her sisters.