Page 71 of Miss Desirable
“The first time I overheard my governess disparaging my eye color to the head footman, I knew I’d be looking after myself, though I didn’t understand the why of it then. Not even Mama could shield me from whispers, stares, and rumors. I’m used to it, though I will do anything to spare Marie the same slings and arrows.”
“Even marry her disgrace of a father.”
“Even marry her father.”
“You will not allow me to kill him?”
“You and I are lovers, Fournier, not murderers.”
He kissed her gloved knuckles. “I would dearly love to be both.”
Catherine rose, and Fournier stood as well. “We have some time,” she said as they returned to the horses. “Armbruster hasn’t quite steeled himself to propose to me. He might make a few inquiries first, and the settlements will have to be negotiated. Kettering will take up that challenge if I ask it of him. For some of my money to go to my daughters will be expected.”
“I cannot tolerate the resignation I hear in your voice.” The hopelessness he saw in her eyes.
“But you cannot argue with my reasoning.”
“I do argue with it. A solution which gives Armbruster exactly what he wants, while condemning you and your daughter to misery is no solution at all.”
Bertold left off grazing to peer at Fournier.
“I spoke too sharply,” Fournier said, untying Franny’s reins. “I apologize.” He boosted Catherine into the saddle and arranged her skirts when he wanted to howl with rage and frustration.
“You spoke honestly, but how do you conclude that Marie will be worse off as Armbruster’s acknowledged by-blow than as my daughter rusticating away in France?”
Fournier swung onto Bertold’s back and considered the question. “You assume Armbruster will allow you to live in the same household with your daughter. He might well keep you separated and use you and Marie to control each other. You love that girl, and she clearly holds you in affection as well, sight unseen.
“But let’s assume,” he went on, “as you do assume, that Armbruster will raise his daughter under his own roof. Think back, Catherine, to how he treated you when he was supposedly smitten with you. Was he prompt for every assignation? Did hekeepevery assignation? Did he ever apologize for having been a cad and a bounder? Did he make any effort to learn what became of you when you left Rome? Did he write you doting little notes or leave you anonymous flowers?”
Catherine made an elegant picture on her mare, but she was listening, so Fournier treated her to more of his much-vaunted honesty.
“When you returned to London, did he call on you privately to assure himself of your wellbeing or willingness to be civil to him? No, he did not. According to you, he slandered you in the churchyard and at the men’s punchbowl. Now that you are wealthy and orphaned, he slinks forward, once again offering nothing but threats while he eyes your fortune and pretends to be your champion.”
Fournier was making himself even angrier with this recitation, though he nudged Bertold forward at a placid walk.
“What makes you think,” he said quietly as Franny fell in step beside the gelding, “that such a man will treat an illegitimate daughter well? He has treated you abominably, and you are that girl’s mother. He has seduced, lied, exploited, threatened, and spied on you. I cannot accept that his reward for these trespasses will be your fortune, your hand in marriage, and an opportunity to daily shame and insult the daughter you love more than your own life.”
Catherine said nothing in response, and she remained silent when they met Nevin Thurlow—sidesaddle whip in hand—at the park gates. Fournier accompanied the lady back to her stable and assisted her to dismount.
Thurlow—the traitor—led the horses away.
“Is this our farewell?” Fournier waited until he and Catherine were behind the garden walls to pose the question.
“I don’t want it to be, but you must do as you see fit, Fournier. I want you to be free of whatever misfortune is about to befall me, but I can hardly appropriate the right to choose for myself while denying it to you.”
He took her hand and stood too close to her, and bedamned to the various spies who doubtless took note of his boldness.
“I gradually became aware that my marriage had been a mistake. I was slow to accept the reality of my error, and when I did, I was profoundly disappointed. That grief pales in comparison to the utter fury you force upon me if you again go willingly into Armbruster’s arms. The first time you fell in with his schemes, you were an innocent, but you do not have that excuse now.”
“Plain speaking,” Catherine said, “and not precisely fair, but what would you have me do, Fournier? My daughter’s happiness seems damned no matter what path I choose.”
Fournier leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Trust me,mon coeur. Please, for the love of God, trust me, or I will walk out of this garden and take passage on the first ship bound for Bordeaux.”
* * *
Fear was not always bad, though it was always a painful experience. Catherine was full of fears, some of them for herself—she abhorred the thought of a lifetime yoked to Fortescue Armbruster. Fournier was right that when his lordship took it into his head to be arrogant, sneering, and condescending, his words could cut as effectively as any rapier.
Armbruster might, on the one hand, take any further slurs against Catherine seriously, but he’d deliver plenty of his own when in a petulant mood and private with his wife.
