Page 18 of Seducing an Earl under the Mistletoe
“She has?” Marcus asked, sounding incredulous.
Catherine sighed, shaking her head. “I swear, you men can be so silly sometimes. Just go over there.”
“It’s just a dance, old boy,” Arthur joined in the efforts. “Why make such a big fuss about a simple dance?”
“Because it is not just a simple dance, and you all know it,” Marcus hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep his composure, but they all knew that he was dying to approach her, but something wouldn’t let him.
“All right,” Arthur patted him on the back. “Think of it this way. What is the worst thing that could happen?”
Marcus turned to him. “What?”
“She could say no,” Arthur grinned.
“Or she could say yes, and she probably will,” Catherine interfered. “Unless you keep her waiting until it’s time for everyone to go home, and you’ve lost yet another chance.”
“You can do it, old chap.” Arthur gently pushed him forward.
Encouraged by their support, Marcus gathered his courage, ready to ask Isabel to dance. But just as he took a step forward, fate intervened in a cruel twist. Isabel’s beau, Henry Keppel, appeared, swooping her into his arms before Marcus could act.
The moment seemed to freeze, and Catherine’s heart sank as she witnessed the turn of events. Marcus, his hopes dashed and his emotions laid bare, struggled to mask his disappointment. The storm of emotions within him reached a boiling point, and he turned abruptly, storming out of the room.
Arthur and Catherine exchanged concerned glances, both realizing the weight of Marcus’ emotions and the sudden turn of events. Arthur’s touch on her arm was gentle but firm, a silent request for her to let him handle the situation. Their eyes met, and she could see the determination in his gaze, reflecting his genuine care for both Marcus and herself.
“Let me speak with Marcus about Isabel,” Arthur said softly, his voice carrying a reassuring tone. “This seems like a conversation that should take place between two men.”
Catherine nodded reluctantly, grateful for Arthur’s willingness to intervene and offer support. She knew Marcus needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand the depths of his emotions.
“Thank you,” she whispered, full of appreciation for this man who, it turned out, was now there for her when she needed him the most. She watched him walk away to find Marcus, a mixture of worry and hope in her eyes.
As she stood there, her thoughts drifted to Marcus and the emotional turmoil he was experiencing. She hoped that Arthur’s wisdom and friendship would bring solace to her brother’s heart, providing the reassurance and guidance he desperately needed in this challenging moment.
At that moment, she noticed her father coming back from the kitchen to join the festivities. She walked over to him and gestured at him to follow her out of the drawing room to the solitude of the servant staircase, where the dimly lit corridor provided a cloak of privacy for their conversation. She needed answers, and now that her father was inebriated, she hoped he might slip and reveal the truth.
“Father,” she began cautiously, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about. The missing painting in the drawing room. Do you know what happened to it?”
“Missing?” he asked, stunned. “There is no painting missing. It is there.”
“No,” she shook her head. “It is a replica. It isn’t the same painting from before.”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing at her. “There is no missing painting,” he repeated. His words, however, lacked conviction, and his uneasy demeanor betrayed a sense of guilt. She knew him that much to recognize it.
“Father, please. I know something is wrong. I can feel it. We’re a family, and if there is something happening, you should tell us. We should face these issues together,” she urged, concern evident in her voice.
An argument ensued, emotions running high. In the midst of their heated exchange, he interjected, his defense of his children palpable in his words.
“Everything I have ever done was to ensure the safety and well-being of you, my children!” he exclaimed. “I would do anything to protect you from harm, anything.”
The vehemence of his defense struck Catherine, making her question whether he had already taken actions that were beyond redemption. That realization gripped her like a cold talon around her heart. Amidst the turmoil, Catherine struggled to hold on to her sense of self. She grappled with the weight of expectations and the complexities of her relationship with her family. But she knew that something was wrong.
He took a long look at her. “London has changed you, Catherine.”
The mention of London and how it had changed her stung. The implication that her growth and experiences had somehow distanced her from her family struck at the core of her identity.
“London hasn’t changed me, Father,” Catherine defended herself, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. “I’m still your daughter. I’ve only gained a broader perspective on the world.”
“I see so little of my daughter in you…” he said, with words that struck her like a dagger to the heart.
He didn’t wait for her to say anything to that. Instead, he turned around and walked back into the drawing room to join their guests, leaving her alone. Catherine’s emotions finally overwhelmed her. Unable to contain her sorrow and frustration any longer, she stumbled down onto her knees, welcoming the darkness around her.
