Page 32 of Miss Desirable
The air of genuine remorse and newfound good intentions was convincing, but then, Fort excelled at making the appearances convincing. Still, Catherine could put the moment to some use.
“Were you discreet all those years ago, my lord?”
Blond brows drew together. “I hope I was. I know the situation became delicate, but I did not bear tales. I did not, as the saying goes, kiss and tell.”
“But you did drink to excess frequently, carouse at length with other ex-patriots, and perhaps lament our situation in a sympathetic ear or two?”
He’d run with a crowd of similarly disgraced young blades, not all of them British, not all of them gentlemen by birth. The risk to Catherine’s reputation had nagged at her for years.
“I would never bandy a lady’s name about in a disrespectful context, Catherine. I was young and sorely troubled by what developed between us, but I hope I kept my wits about me.”
A fine declaration that amounted to an admission: Fort had no idea to whom he might have spilled the particulars of his affair with Catherine.
“Why?” he asked, peering down at her. “Has somebody said something untoward?”
“Somebody is always saying something untoward about me or within my hearing. That has nothing to do with our liaison.”
“Your eyes,” he said, raising a hand as if to touch Catherine’s cheek, then letting it fall back to his side. “Bewitching eyes. I see them in my dreams.”
“My eyes,” Catherine said. “Which announce to all of Society that my mother was indiscreet. As I was indiscreet.” A tame word for committing the worst possible folly in the varied annals of foolish young ladies.
“Drop a few words of Russian into your conversation, imply that you long to return to Saint Petersburg. The gossips will find something to notice about you besides your eyes—your fine figure, your witty conversation, your keen grasp of history—and they will do so in tones of respect and envy. Trust me on this. I know what I’m about.”
He twinkled at her, bowed again, and saw himself out.
Caesar leaned against Catherine’s legs and sighed.
“Tiresome,” she said, stroking his head. “But for now, a task completed. I don’t hate him. I hope I don’t.” But she had. For years, she had hated Fort Armbruster, and with good reason.
If she’d had the least inkling to whom he’d disclosed the details of their liaison, Catherine might have pressed him further. At the time, he’d murmured a few regrets, then shown the blithe unconcern of the strutting peacock.
Perhaps to him the whole situation hadn’t even merited gossiping about, while Catherine’s life had been shattered.
She was arguing with Bettis over how to style her hair—an argument she would win this time—when it occurred to her why Lord Fort’s call had caused such a lingering sense of unease.
The twinkle in his eye. He was a good actor—not as good as he imagined himself to be—but good. That twinkle, though, that hint of delight, had been genuine, and Fort Armbruster should not have been delighted with any aspect of a simple condolence call on an old friend.
He’d be back, and he’d not rest until Catherine had allowed him to at least drive her in the park. She would refuse, and he would pester, and she would refuse him, again and again. She was not a sheltered girl, and this was not Rome, and she was done with charming men intent on their selfish games.
She would refuse until he did what he’d done with all too much alacrity in Rome: walk away from her and leave her to get on with her life as best she could.
* * *
Catherine Fairchild’s attempted purchase of a case of Cahors would not leave Fournier’s mind. While moving through the series of stretches that started his every day, walking London’s streets, tending to his ledgers, and consulting with his customers, that humble claret bothered him like a sour aftertaste.
For a beefsteak dinner, she’d said. Was that the truth? A near truth? A young lady in mourning did not typically have gentlemen to dinner, and beefsteak was upper-class masculine fare.
Catherine was simply not a Cahors sort of lady. The wine was lovely in itself—forthright, robust, earthy—but not a fine lady’s preferred libation.
Fournier regarded his reflection in the cheval mirror. “You are looking for an excuse to be stupid again. She does not want you for that. She said as much.”
His reflection, an elegant fellow with a taste for understated lace and overstated embroidery, silently mocked him. For MacKay’s supper, Fournier had chosen his favorite waistcoat, burgundy satin done all over in peacock hues with flowers and birds. His cravat pin was amethyst, a tribute to Miss Fairchild’s eyes.
Had he not aspired to take the lady home at the end of the evening—an unlikely turn of affairs, given the proprieties—he would have walked to MacKay’s house. Walking London’s streets was not the same as wandering his vineyards by the hour, but it was exertion.
The gathering turned out to be small indeed. MacKay and his wife had invited only Miss Fairchild, Fournier, and the Goddards. The meal was surprisingly convivial, with conversation leaping nimbly from French to English. Ann Goddard, compact, dark-haired, and passionate about her cooking—quizzed Fournier at length regarding wine pairings. Mrs. MacKay, a prominent preacher’s daughter, wanted to know the state of religious affairs in France, about which Fournier could tell her little.
All the while, Catherine smiled graciously and offered only the occasional contribution to the discussion. When she did speak in French, Fournier realized that in his native language, Catherine had a slight Italian accent. He stored that detail away as he might have saved a letter from an old flame—or a new flame.
