Page 30 of Miss Desirable
Once upon a stupid time, Fort’s earnest blue eyes, his gentle grip, his manner of standing just two inches too close, would have imbued his platitudes with a sense of genuine sentiment and intimacy. An old and cherished friend, coming to offer support at a difficult time.
“I am not your dear, Fort. But let’s not quibble over trifles.” Catherine took her wing chair, lest he attempt to sit beside her. How well she recalled the quivering excitement of mere proximity to the man who’d captured her heart, the illicit thrill of his arm bumping hers, his hand brushing her waist.
She had been so innocent, and so eager, and he had played her so well—then.
She offered him a relaxed smile. “How is your dear mother? Her entertainments are always a highlight of the Season.” Not that the marchioness had ever invited Mama, much less Catherine, to those entertainments.
His lordship came down on the end of the sofa nearest Catherine’s chair. “Mama is concerned for you, and I am to report to her immediately. Here you are, alone in the world, bereaved, your ties to Society few because your dear Papa dragged you over half the known world. You must know I’d worry.”
The wretched varlet managed to sound sincere. “You can see I’m well, and I’m well looked after. If I have few ties to the polite world, that will mean fewer demands on my time as I adjust to my loss.”
God bless Harry for all eternity, for he chose then to bring in the tea tray and set it on the low table. “Anything else, miss?”
“No, thank you, Harry, but don’t go far in case Caesar needs some air.”
Harry bowed, and to his credit, he spared Lord Fort not so much as a glance. “Very good, miss.”
“You’ve become a lover of canines?” Fort extended a gloved hand for Caesar to sniff.
The dog settled to the carpet and put his chin on his paws.
“Caesar and I are keeping each other company for the nonce. His owners are traveling, and I have always wanted a dog. Papa’s changes of post precluded that joy, so I’m especially glad to have the loan of Caesar now.”
Catherine busied herself with the tea tray, adding the smallest lump of sugar to a cup of steaming China black and passing it over.
“You recall how I like my tea.” His lordship’s tone held approval and affection.
Catherine recalled the days when she’d lived for his next approving, affectionate word. She also recalled that Fortescue Armbruster snored. He’d made love with all the restraint of a hog going at the slop bucket, and he’d laughed at her assumption that she and he would be married.
Laughed. She passed him his tea without allowing their fingers to touch. “Keeping track of a guest’s tea preferences hardly requires thought. Shortbread?”
“Please.”
She held out the tray, and he—predictably—chose a slice, dipped it into his tea, and bit off the end while holding her gaze. He’d probably practiced that maneuver in the mirror while at public school.
What in the name of Drury Lane’s worst farces had she ever seen in him? The question brought a backward joy, because it acknowledged both her foolishness and the fact that, of all men, Fort Armbruster would never again command her attention.
Catherine poured herself half a cup, a trick her mother had taught her. Fort would get around to some other earnest declarations before he’d finished his tea, and then he’d sidle up to the real purpose for his call.
Mama had said in Rome that Lord Fort had gambling debts and ran with a bad crowd. He’d likely been sent abroad in an effort to treat both maladies, but to no avail. He had not called when Papa had died, and his gracious concern today surely presaged some scheme that would benefit him.
“You can be honest with me, Catherine,” he said, putting down his tea cup. “How are you getting on? One hears rumors, but rumors are often the opposite of the truth.”
“What have you heard?”
“Fantastic allegations. That you have become secretly engaged to a Russian prince. That you inherited a fabulous sum from an uncle in the fur trade. That you are rolled up and will soon be in service. Tell an old friend how you’re managing and whether there’s anything I can do to help.”
Two lies—three including that bit about being an old friend—and one truth. Uncle had been in the fur trade. How like Fort Armbruster.
“I will be comfortable and have no plans to marry any Russians. What of yourself? Is this the year your mother will see you marched up the church aisle?”
He winced. If such a thing could be done manfully, he doubtless aspired to do it thus. “Must you be so dismissive? What we had was special, Catherine, but at the time… I was an idiot. I was in disgrace with my family. I did you a favor by allowing you to keep your freedom, and matters turned out for the best after all.”
Caesar rose to sitting, such that his head came up under Catherine’s hand. She stroked soft fur, pulled gently on a velvety ear, and ignored the temptation to commit murder.
Fortescue Armbruster hadallowedher the freedom to be ruined, allowed her to risk sending her family into disgrace for all time, and—would the cost never cease rising?—allowed trysting with him to blight her days far into the future.
“You were an idiot,” she said. “We can agree on that much.”
