Lady Companion
by Anita Birt

copyright © by Anita Birt, June 2000
cover art by Eliza Black
ISBN 1-58608-
ISBN Rocket Edition 1-58608-
New Concepts Publishing
www.newconceptspublishing.com

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1855

Catherine Hartleigh gazed from her bedroom window at the small park across the way where forsythia bloomed golden and beds of crocuses and snowdrops opened their petals to the sun.

Nervous about leaving home for the first time in her entire life, she swallowed her fears and turned away from the window as her mother bustled into the room.

"Catherine, you must cancel the arrangements. No good will come of this." Lady Jane Hartleigh sniffled into a wisp of lace-bordered handkerchief. "What will dear Uncle Frederick think when he hears you have turned your back on society and taken yourself off to the countryside as paid companion to an invalid...a person about whom you know nothing."

Bent over her small trunk, Catherine sighed and straightened up. "Mother, you know as well as I, the Earl does not care a jot what we do. He's not shown a shred of interest in us since father died."

She crossed over to her wardrobe and lifted out the two plain dresses she'd purchased for her new role in life; one a dark gray with a white collar, the other of similar design in azure blue. She had packed no crinolines or fancy furbelows. Only her simplest clothing would do. A lady companion had to be reserved and not draw attention to herself.

Agitated, her mother paced Catherine's bedroom. "Can you not wait until your brother returns from abroad? He'll know what is best for you. Do not lower yourself...I can hardly bear to say the words...by taking employment. Think on it. You will never be able to raise your head in society. Never."

"I'm sorry, mother, but I cannot wait for Johnny. We've not had a word from him in eighteen months and the greengrocer, the butcher and the coal merchant are pressing us to settle our accounts. I am quite able to earn a little money and will not go begging to Uncle Frederick."

Catherine folded her last piece of clothing into the trunk and closed it. "Lady Beckwith has paid me three month's wages in advance. Since I'll be living in her home and my expenses minimal, I will leave most of my money for you to pay a few of our debts."

"But you will be languishing in the country, out of society. You will miss the season." Her mother sighed, gathered up her skirts, and sat on a chair facing Catherine. "How can you give up everything you are used to? There will be no balls or parties at a dreary old manor. There'll be no young gentlemen seeking your hand."

"Young gentlemen are not interested in a penniless girl like me with nothing to offer as a dowry."

Her marriage prospects were hopeless, but her mother remained cheerfully optimistic seemingly unaware of how far they'd fallen in the eyes of London society.

"I will not go to another evening function nor take tea of an afternoon. We are invited to very little since the gossips have tattled about our lack of money. Think how I felt at the Langton supper last month when Cora Wilson sidled up to me, simpering in that maddening way she has. "Why Catherine," she said, batting her lashes, I do like you in that blue gown. It suits you very well." She has seen me wearing the same gown to three different soirees. It is unpleasant to be constantly reminded of our lowered status in society."

Lady Jane shook her head, her eyes troubled. "It was your dear father's illness that led to his ruin. He never envisioned having you brought so low. Why he never allowed you to travel without a maid in attendance, and tomorrow you'll be alone in your compartment with strangers. I fear for your safety."

Catherine knelt beside her mother and clasped her hands. "Try not to worry. It's a two hour journey to Winchfield, and I shall write the minute I arrive at Beckwith Manor. If I am not happy with the situation, I will return home immediately."

This was to calm her mother. Whatever happened at the manor, Catherine had to stay for three months since she could not repay the wages.

Leaving her London home on the morning of March First was more difficult than Catherine had ever imagined. The adventure had taken on fearful overtones. When she arrived at Waterloo station, queasiness knotted her stomach. A porter tossed her trunk on a trolley and threaded his way through the crowd on the platform. At the luggage van, Catherine had no idea what he expected by way of a tip. She dipped into her purse and handed him thr'pence. He turned it over in his hand.

"That's it, is it, Miss?" With an impudent grin, he turned on his heel and, whistling cheerfully, pushed his trolley back through the crowd. An engine puffed into the station blowing clouds of steam and hissing like an angry teakettle.

Her mother had warned Catherine to find a third class compartment with elderly passengers already seated. "Avoid gentlemen traveling without female companions. One of them might take liberties."

Catherine hurried up and down the platform until she found a compartment occupied by a gray-haired, elderly couple, a mother with two young children and a single lady. Catherine opened the compartment door, stepped inside, nodded at her traveling companions, and slid into the one vacant seat. She swallowed the lump in her throat, took a deep breath and pressed her feet flat on the floor to anchor her to the train and keep her from beating a hasty retreat back home.

A sharp blast from the guard's whistle announced their departure and the train rolled steadily out of the station. Gathering speed, it passed through London and swept into the early spring countryside.

Catherine locked her gloved hands together and tried not to think. In two hours she'd be there. Tense with excitement, rushing headlong into a future with no past experience to guide her, she willed herself not to open her handbag and read the advertisement and letter again. It was no use. Fiddling with the clasp, she opened the bag and drew out the advertisement clipped from the February Fourth edition of The Times and with it, the letter from Lady Beckwith.

Young lady to live in a country house for three months as companion to an invalid recovering from injuries sustained in a fall from a horse. The young lady must have a pleasing personality and a well-modulated speaking voice. She will read aloud from newspapers, periodicals and selected books. At times, she may be asked to discuss current events. Excellent wages. Impeccable references required. Duties to commence March First. Write to E. Percival Knightley, Solicitor, Grey's Inn, London.

Unbeknown to her mother, Catherine had written to the solicitor, been interviewed, and offered the position. The advance of three months wages had helped a little to weaken her mother's resistance and soften the blow to her family pride. She had come this far. Everything would be fine.

The letter from Marie Claire, Lady Beckwith had been folded and unfolded so many times, it was a near ruin. Catherine knew every word. She'd be met at Winchfield station and conveyed to Beckwith Manor.

Catherine refolded the letter and slipped it into her bag. Anxiety about the coming months threatened to undo her precarious composure. Lady Beckwith's solicitor had assured Catherine the manor was well staffed and its occupants were kindly people. She could not retreat now, for she had spent some of her wages and left the balance with her mother. She had to work the full three months. Or repay the money. And that was out of the question.

Tightening her bonnet ribbons, she fingered the posy of velvet violets tucked under the brim. The violets were sheer extravagance. The pennies they cost would have been better spent on an extra lace collar for her dresses.

"Would you like a sweet, Miss?"

Catherine smiled at the child sitting opposite. "No, thank you. It was kind of you to offer."

"We are going to visit our Aunt Emily and Uncle Geoffrey in Winchester. He sings in the cathedral choir."

"How lovely for you." Chatting with the children and their mother helped pass the time and Catherine she was surprised when the train squealed to a stop at Winchfield.

She bid them good-bye, plucked up her courage, opened the compartment door, and stepped on to the platform. The guard in the luggage van set down her trunk, the guard at the front of the train blew his whistle, signaled to the driver and the train chugged down the track and disappeared around a bend.

Catherine looked around. Winchfield station seemed deserted. As she approached the Waiting Room door a porter emerged from a shed at the far end of the platform.

"Excuse me." Catherine called out. "Please take my trunk around to the Beckwith carriage."

He hurried up to her and touched his cap. "Carriage, Miss? There's no carriage here. Were you expecting someone?"

"But I am expected...I am expected at Beckwith manor. I am to be met." The day, warm and spring-like when she'd left London, had turned chilly and dark clouds scudded across the sky.

"Best come inside then, perhaps your friend has been delayed."

Catherine scanned the two roads leading away from the station. "Which direction is the manor?"

The porter removed his cap, scratched his head and pointed to the right. "It's a fair distance, Miss, a mile from here to the cross-roads, and the estate is the best part of three miles farther on."

"That far?" Some of Catherine's confidence seeped away but she decided walking was better than waiting at the station. Her shoes were stout and a turn in the countryside would be pleasant after sitting in the train.

"Very well, I shall set out and likely meet the Beckwith carriage come to fetch me. Please secure my trunk in the left luggage and I'll arrange for it to be picked up."

"If your friend comes looking for you, I'll send him along."

"I don't expect..." Catherine did not correct the porter. She had no male friend, neither here nor in London and none to be expected. Not now. When she'd been presented at eighteen, her mother's close connection with landed gentry had ensured her acceptance into the best society.

All that had changed when her father died. There were no invitations to parties or balls or country weekends and no young men vying for her attention.

On her way through Winchfield, she admired the pretty gardens and thatched cottages. Golden daffodils bloomed in sheltered nooks and crannies, but when she reached open countryside beyond the town, a chill breeze swept across the fields. To the east, a billowing mass of dark clouds drifted towards her. Catherine huddled into her coat and drew up the collar.

Feeling more alone than she'd ever been in her life, she trudged on, longing for a cup of tea, something warm and sweet to bolster her courage. At the crossroads, she looked in vain for a carriage. Another three miles farther on, the porter had said, and already her feet hurt.

The sound of wheels coming up behind lifted her spirits. Her employer had missed her at the station and come for her. Catherine stepped to the side of the road. A farm wagon, loaded with bales of straw and bulging hemp sacks, trundled up and the farmer reined in his horses.

"Are you going far, Miss? Weather's threatening. There's rain in the air, can smell it acoming." His smiling ruddy countenance and friendly voice cheered her.

"Could you take me to the Beckwith estate? I expected to be met at the station."

"Come along, it's right on me way." He grasped her hand to assist her.

Catherine climbed up and sat beside him on the wood seat. "Thank you, I'm Miss Hartleigh, come to stay at the manor."

"George Pennyfeather, Miss. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

He clucked at the horses and snapped the reins. "Off you go, Jenny. Off you go, Jessie."

The horses tossed their heads and leaned into the traces. Catherine settled in to enjoy the ride. This was much better than walking, and the horses were as pretty a team as she had ever seen. Steam rose from their sweating backs.

The farmer turned to Catherine. "Grand place the manor, it's quite the finest establishment in these parts, so I've heard, not being familiar with many of them. Young Lord Beckwith is in residence, recovering from that terrible business in the Crimea."

"Lord Beckwith?" Mr. Knightley, the solicitor, had not mentioned Lady Beckwith's husband so it must be their daughter who'd been injured. Catherine's fears eased slightly. Three months as companion to a young lady would be pleasant. Time would pass quickly.

"Aye, his father died while he was away serving with the 17th Lancers. Inherited the title, he did. Came back wounded and a right shame, it was. He's a pleasant enough young fellow, much like his father. Right easy to talk to. No side to him at all."

The farmer peered up at the sky and flicked the reins. "Best hurry them along, the rain's coming fast. I want to get home before it starts."

The horses picked up the pace, and Catherine clung to the rail beside the seat. Jolted from side to side, her thoughts muddled, she longed to be safe at home, warm and cozy by the fire. Instead, she was out in the middle of nowhere, had no idea where she was going or what kind of welcome awaited her at Beckwith Manor. They'd not sent a carriage as promised, and she was cold.

Rounding a bend in the road, the farmer slowed the wagon and pointed. "Look over the trees yonder. There's smoke coming from the manor chimney pots."

She could scarce see over the ivy-covered stone wall bordering the road. "The manor seems a long way off. Where are the gates?"

"Just past the next milestone. 'Tis not far."

Catherine rubbed her hands together. The wind had turned bitterly cold, and her fingers were freezing in her thin gloves. The farmer drew up at the closed gates and jumped down from the wagon. "I'll take you up to the manor, it's a good mile from

here."

He rattled and pushed at the heavy wrought-iron gates. "No use, Miss, locked they are. Can't see a light in the gatehouse either. Are you sure they expect you?"

Catherine climbed down from the wagon and brushed straw from her coat. "Quite sure. I have the letter from Lady Beckwith with me. Thank you for your kindness, I shall wait here until someone comes."

The farmer shook his head. "As you wish, Miss, but weather's coming, find a bit of shelter out of the wind, there's a real edge to it." He stepped up on the wagon, took his seat, snapped the reins, and waved to her. Within minutes, harnesses jingling, the horses, the wagon, and George Pennyfeather were out of sight.

Huddled outside the locked gates of Beckwith Manor, Catherine's heart sank. Why had she not stayed safe and warm at Winchfield station? Starting out on her own had been foolish. Perhaps this whole venture was foolish.

"Typical of you. Her mother would say. Always up to some mad scheme or other. Never thinking of the consequences."

It had not been her fault there was no one to meet her at the station. Lady Beckwith's letter had stated quite clearly someone would be there. With the storm about to break over her head, Catherine had to do something. But what if no one came? What if the Beckwith carriage had broken down?

Standing around like a lost soul waiting to be rescued would not do, not if she hoped to make a good impression on her employer.

She banged at the wrought-iron gate and shouted. "Halloo! Is anyone home?" Not a sound, only the wind whipping through the trees inside the grounds. Not a single light in any of the gatehouse windows.

Catherine studied the imposing gate emblazoned with the family coat of arms. It would be easy to climb except for the spikes lining the top. She turned her attention to the stone wall. When she and Johnny were children they'd scaled many like it.

Venturing alongside, she found a loose stone part way up and pried it out. Sticking her left foot into the gap, she slung her handbag on top of the wall, gathered her coat and skirt with one hand, and clambered up. Kneeling on the rough stones, she studied the threat below. A narrow ditch, filled with murky water, barred the way. She measured the threat with her eyes and decided to risk jumping over it.

Handbag in one hand, bonnet firmly fixed on her head, Catherine struggled to her feet. Without pausing to be afraid, she bent her knees, swung her arms, counted to three and leapt. Barely clearing the ditch, she skidded on the muddy bank and scrambled to safety.

Taking a minute to catch her breath and get her bearings, she started across the grassy park towards the drive. The threatening storm howled into life and torrential, wind-driven rain beat down on her.

"My new bonnet!" Catherine swept it from her head, unbuttoned her coat and sheltered the precious straw bonnet and its violets against her chest. Holding her coat around her as best she could, she reached the drive and began the long trek to the manor through an avenue of leafless trees, their bare branches creaking like skeleton arms.

A mile, the farmer had told her. A hound bayed in the distance, joined by another. Fearing dogs might be on the prowl she picked up her heels and ran.

Bedraggled, her shoes squelching in puddles, hair streaming water down her neck, her precious bonnet crushed under her coat, Catherine hurried up to the manor, sheltered under the portico and pulled the bell. A liveried footman opened the door. Nose twitching, lips pursed, he studied her. "Yes?"

The last of her strength gave way and she burst into tears. "I am Catherine Hartleigh come to be a companion. No one met me at the station, the gates are locked, and I had to climb over the wall. I'm wet and cold, and I want to go home."

"Oh dear, oh dear, what is this?" An elderly gentleman, a puff of white curls on his head, peeked around the vestibule door.

"The young lady says she is Miss Catherine Hartleigh."

Stepping around the footman, the gentleman approached Catherine. "Are you really, Miss Hartleigh?"

Speechless, Catherine nodded. Tears and dribbles of rain trickled down her cheeks.

"My goodness, you are wet. Come inside at once, we must dry you off."

The footman stood aside to let Catherine pass. Shaking with cold, she followed her savior across an enormous entry hall. Ahead was a grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor. Scarcely conscious of her surroundings, Catherine staggered and almost fell.

"Oh dear, oh dear, let me take your arm, you are in a bad way."

He tugged her into a brightly-lit room, its walls lined with book-laden shelves. A fire blazed in the hearth, and flickering sparks whirled up the chimney. Seated in a chair close by the fire, a lady worked at her embroidery. Startled at Catherine's bustling entrance, she removed her spectacles and leaned forward in her chair. Her beautifully coifed hair gleamed red-gold in the firelight.

"Who is this, Francis?"

"You'll never guess, Marie Claire. This poor child was left out in the rain. Just look at her, she'll catch her death of cold if we don't dry her off and find some warm clothing."

Catherine peeled off a wet glove and offered her hand to the lady. "I am Miss Hartleigh. Someone was to meet me at the station. I left my trunk there."

Eyes blurry with tears, her gaze was drawn to the crackling fire and its life-giving heat. Not caring if she appeared rude, she edged closer to the hearth.

"Miss Hartleigh, your hand is frozen. Francis, ring for the housekeeper."

She stood and helped Catherine out of her sodden coat. "My dear girl, you are almost soaked through to the skin. Come close to the fire and warm yourself lest you catch a chill. I am Lady Beckwith and it seems there's been a terrible mix-up. Did you not receive my letter canceling our arrangements?"

Catherine sank to her knees on the rug in front of the fire and held out her hands. Chilled to the bone, teeth chattering, shivering uncontrollably, she struggled to speak.

"I'm...not...to..." Her tongue thickened around the words. "Not to...stay."

Floating, light-headed, her thoughts drifting, Catherine tried to understand...tried to make sense of what Lady Beckwith was saying.

"The poor child has fainted."

Fainted? She had never...

CHAPTER TWO

Catherine surfaced slowly from the mist clouding her brain. A man's voice penetrated the blurry haze. What was he saying?

"She's had a severe chill, my lady. A near brush with pneumonia. Don't expect her to be up and around for several days. She's to have complete rest. Nothing must upset her. We do not want the fever to return."

Catherine puzzled over the words. Who was he and whom was he talking about? Forcing her eyes open, she peered at the gray-haired stranger hovering over her.

"Who are you?" She croaked.

"Bless my soul, Miss Hartleigh, you have decided to wake up. I am Dr. Boothby."

He turned aside to address a beautiful woman standing at the foot of the bed. Wearing an emerald green gown, her titian hair smoothed away from her face into an elegant chignon at her nape, she smiled at Catherine.

"We are pleased to have her back with us, are we not Dr. Boothby?"

"We are indeed, Lady Beckwith."

Catherine licked her dry lips. She had only a fuzzy recollection of Lady Beckwith's face, but her devastating words had seared into her brain. She was no longer required as a companion. The money had to be returned.

Returned!

And most of it already spent!

"Lady Beckwith, why am I in bed? What has happened to me? I remember...I remember being cold and wet and, you...you said there'd been a mistake..."

The doctor shook a finger at her. "There, there. Don't go upsetting yourself, otherwise you'll bring back the fever. You've been a very sick young lady."

Lady Beckwith came and sat beside Catherine. "Do not fret, Miss Hartleigh. You collapsed when you arrived two days ago and we've been very concerned. The letter I wrote canceling our arrangements was mislaid and that is why no one met you at the station and you had the misfortune to be caught out in the storm."

Catherine struggled to sit up. "Two days? I've been here two days? Then I must leave at once. My mother will be frantic, worrying about me."

Lady Beckwith hushed her. "I informed your mother immediately about your illness and have written daily to assure her you are in good hands."

Dr. Boothby tucked a shawl around Catherine's shoulders and settled her back on the pillow. "You are to rest until I decide you are fully recovered."

Too weak to resist, Catherine huddled into the shawl. "Thank you for your kindness. I regret causing you such inconvenience. Since you no longer require my services, I will repay the wages you advanced." How, she did not know. If she could not return the money, would they put her in debtor's prison?

"No need for that, Miss Hartleigh. My plans have changed again. You will stay with us for three months as agreed. Let us hear no more about leaving." Lady Beckwith rose gracefully to her feet

"Are you hungry, my dear? You've eaten nothing since you collapsed. Only water has passed your lips."

Safe from debtor's prison, her stomach grumbling, Catherine knew exactly what she wanted. "I would love a cup of tea and some buttered toast, spread thick with honey."

"Then you shall have it. Come along, Dr. Boothby, your patient is on the mend." Catherine's employer paused at the door. "I've assigned one of the upstairs maids to attend you. Anna will be along with your tea. If there's anything else you require, send word to me."

When the door closed behind them, Catherine gazed at the dark rose silk bed draperies looped back to allow brilliant sunshine to beam across the shimmering pale rose comforter on her bed. No luxury had been spared in the room's appointments. A fire had been laid in the grate of a pink marble fireplace. Arranged in front were two wing chairs, a chaise longue and a gate-leg table. To the side, under a window was an escritoire and chair.

Raising her head for a better look, she realized the sun shone through slightly open French doors, leading to a small balcony. A large oak wardrobe occupied much of the far wall and next to it a Cheval glass. On a small table beside her bed was a pretty lamp, its lustrous pink shade catching some of the sun's rays.

Her visual tour of the room complete, Catherine sank back on the pillow mystified by the opulence surrounding her. As a paid companion in the service of a wealthy family, she had expected to be given a small room in a remote wing of the manor reserved for...for what? Servants? Is that how she'd fit into the Beckwith staff? Perhaps they intended to move her when she recovered. The rose room, so she had named it, was much too fine for the hired help.

A maid bustled in with the tea on a tray with folding legs. Setting the tray down, she plumped up the pillows and helped Catherine sit up.

"I'm Anna, Miss. If there's anything you want, I'll fetch it for you. Now, you enjoy your tea. I'll return later with hot water for you to bathe. You are not to leave your bed."

The honey toast and tea revived Catherine. When Anna returned with a china bowl filled with hot water, Catherine sponged herself as best she could. The maid then set about brushing Catherine's blonde curls.

"Such pretty hair, you have." She examined her work. "Quite a scare you gave the mistress and Mister Francis when you fainted. Do you faint often, miss?"

Catherine smiled. "I have never fainted in my life and regret causing everyone so much trouble when there's an invalid in the house requiring attention."

Anna raised her brows. "An invalid?"

"I am engaged to be her companion."

The maid smoothed the silk comforter on the bed, gathered up the damp towels, and closed the French doors. "The weather's been lovely and warm but the evenings are still cool. We don't want you in a draft and taking another chill. I'll bring your dinner later. If there's anything you require, tug the bell-rope there beside your bed."

The effort of bathing tired Catherine. She fell asleep and did not waken until she heard Anna's footsteps crossing the room.

"I'll light the lamp, Miss Hartleigh. Cook has sent up a light meal. Try to eat a little. That will help regain your strength."

Surprised at _how hungry she was, Catherine ate a morsel of meat and some potato, then her stomach rebelled. Grateful for the large pot of tea, she drank three cupfuls. She was never sick and usually had a good appetite.

Anna turned down the lamp until the flame flickered and died, removed the tray, and left. Catherine reviewed her situation. The doctor said she had to rest for several days. That definitely would not do. She had been employed as a companion and intended to honor her commitment to Lady Beckwith. Lying about in bed, waited on hand and foot, did not suit her.

Tomorrow, she would try walking around her room. Unable to stay awake, she closed her eyes and snuggled under the covers.

***

A loud crash jolted Catherine from a deep sleep. Heart pounding, she sat up in bed. A man's agonizing cries shattered the night. "No! Go back. Go back."

The dreadful words echoed in her ears. Prickles of fear cascaded up and down Catherine's spine. Goose bumps shivered along her skin. Too frightened to stay huddled in bed waiting for more blood curdling shrieks, she swung her legs over the side, stood, and promptly fell back. Light-headed, weak as a robin, she sat on the bed and waited for her head to clear. Footsteps hurried past her room.

"Coming, milord." A door nearby opened and closed.

Wrapped in her shawl, heart thudding against her ribs, Catherine stared into the shadowy dark. The man's room must be close to hers. What if he walked in his sleep, wandered into her room, and cried out as he had minutes ago? She would surely die of fright.

Did her door have a lock? Risking a dizzy spell, she staggered to her feet and very slowly felt her way across the room to the door. There was no key! Forcing herself to stay calm and not fall prey to her fears, Catherine waited until her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and she could make out the vague shapes of the wing chairs. Tiptoeing over to them, she took hold of one and pushed, shoved, and bumped it across the room to barricade the door. Exhausted, down on her knees, she crawled back to bed and curled up under the comforter.

Unable to sleep, she gazed at the windows, hoping it would soon be dawn. With the sun in the sky, the night's events would be less frightening. A sound outside her room disturbed her. A shaft of light flooded under Catherine's door. She held her breath and waited.

"I'll not be long, milord. Hot water and brandy should do the trick."

"Bring the whole damned bottle, for God's sake, and be quick about it. I don't give a tinker's dam for the doctor and what he thinks is good for me. Brandy and water is for females with the vapors."

"Very good, milord." A soft click and the light disappeared. Footsteps hastened past Catherine's door. The man demanding a bottle of brandy. It had been his voice she'd heard after the crash. It had been him, shrieking as though all the devils in hell were after him.

Knowing she would not sleep, Catherine propped pillows behind her back and sat up. Already the sky lightened. She could not think clearly lying down, and what had just transpired across the hallway demanded a clear head. Not for a minute had she imagined her position as a paid companion would be a bed of roses, but surely Lady Beckwith did not expect her to sleep in a room so close to a man who was not right in the head. Perhaps he was mad.

A blackbird burst into song outside her window. A rosy dawn promised a fine day, a day when Catherine had to decide whether to stay or leave. Other arrangements had to be made. How could she carry out her duties if she was unable to rest at night? She did not fancy waking to screams and cries terrifying enough to freeze the blood in her veins.

Settling into her pillows, Catherine dozed, safe now that daylight had come.

A sharp knocking jarred her from a light sleep. The door handle rattled. "Do let me in, Miss Hartleigh. I've come to help you bathe." It was Anna.

Catherine eased out of her warm nest and slowly, not to make her head swim, padded across the room. She dragged the chair away from the door and opened it.

"Why ever did you shut yourself in, Miss?" No harm will come to you in this house. Are you feeling poorly then?"

Catherine shook her head. "I've had a shocking night. A wonder I've not had a relapse. Who is in the room across from mine?"

Anna had fresh towels over her arm. "Across from you, Miss? That will be the young master, Lord Beckwith." She bustled ahead of Catherine. "Since you are on your feet, let me show you where to bathe. 'Tis right through here."

Catherine had not noticed the door as the panels were covered in the same silk print as the walls in her room. It was all but invisible except for a solid, glass doorknob. Following the maid, Catherine found herself in a luxurious bathing room with a marble-tiled floor, French porcelain wash basin, and a large tub. In a cubicle off to one side was a water closet.

Anna draped the towels on a brass rail. "The fire's been lit under the boiler next to the tub. You'll have plenty of hot water. I'll leave you to bathe and will away to fetch your breakfast. Lady Beckwith had your trunk brought up from Winchfield station. I've put your clothing in the wardrobe but I doubt you should be up and around. Doctor Boothby has ordered you to rest in bed."

"Thank you. I will be very careful not to upset Dr. Boothby."

Anna left through a door leading into the hallway, and Catherine locked it behind her. Refreshed after bathing, she felt more like herself. If she did not move quickly, her head remained clear. Surprised at how her arms tired when she brushed her hair, Catherine found one of her blue ribbons in a wardrobe drawer and tied back her curls. It was the best she could do.

Not wanting to languish in bed, she found her undergarments, neatly put away by Anna. Dresses, skirts and, blouses hung on wooden hangers. She chose to wear the gray dress with the white collar.

The effort of bathing and dressing wearied Catherine, and she was glad to rest on the chaise longue. Draped over the foot was a cobweb-fine, pale blue wool throw. Still feeling a bit shivery from the events of the night, she wrapped the throw around her shoulders.

Anna arrived with breakfast and set the tray on Catherine's lap. "Lady Beckwith will be along shortly. She will be cross not to find you in bed."

Catherine did not care. Not for a minute. Not while her mouth watered and she relished the delicious aroma of a thick country sausage, its skin crisped dark brown. She cut a small slice and ate it. Cut another slice and ate that. With every bite, delectable juices rolled around her tongue.

The savory ground meat, flavored with onions and herbs, restored her strength. She finished the sausage, buttered two scones, and spread them with strawberry jam. With nothing left on her tray to eat, Catherine poured a cup of tea from a tea-cozied pot, tipped in some milk from a small crystal jug, and sighing contentedly, settled back on the chaise to enjoy her tea.

Sunlight streamed into the room. In broad daylight, her stomach comfortably full, the strange events of the night seemed less frightening. Perhaps she was making much ado about nothing. Setting the tray aside, she waited for her employer. Once the mysterious happenings across the hall were explained, there'd be little need for her to be alarmed. She'd ask to be moved to a different room and if that was not possible, insist on having a key to lock herself in.

Lady Beckwith knocked and entered. "Miss Hartleigh, you are supposed to rest in bed. You have been a very sick young lady."

She rested a cool hand on Catherine's forehead. "You are feeling better then?" Her slight French accent charmed Catherine. In a morning dress of pale green watered silk, her titian hair sleekly coifed, Lady Beckwith radiated elegance, true Parisian elan. Next to her employer, she felt like a plain little sparrow.

"I feel very well, my lady. Will you stay with me awhile? I wish to discuss a troubling experience I had during the night."

"Of course. What is troubling you, my dear? Not worried about taking up your duties, I hope."

Lady Beckwith sat in a chair opposite Catherine. "Perhaps I should explain them more fully."

"My duties are clear, milady. I am to be a companion to a sick person. Since the duties are not onerous, I am prepared to start immediately. Reading will not tire me.

"No, that will not do. Dr. Boothby wants you to rest for two or three days. Then you will meet my son. You are to be companion to Lord Beckwith." She folded her hands together and rested them on her lap. Diamond rings glittered on her fingers.

Catherine gasped. "Your son? But I assumed my charge would be a lady, a young lady close to my own age. I've been misled. Your solicitor should have informed me."

"We did not mislead you, my dear. We advertised for a companion to read to an invalid injured in a fall. I particularly wanted a young lady to cheer Douglas up. He's much too much by himself, does not leave his suite, and sees no one but Francis and me. And his valet, of course."

Shocked, Catherine's heart skipped a beat. "But how can I be companion to a gentleman? I know very little about masculine pursuits. I fear I must leave and return home. I shall, of course, return your wages when I am able."

"Please listen to me, Miss Hartleigh. My son was badly wounded in the Crimean war. He won't speak of it. The little we know is horrifying. His horse was ripped apart by cannon fire and Douglas was thrown. Since returning home, he has isolated himself from his friends. I have engaged young gentlemen at various times hoping they would amuse Douglas, but he made their lives so miserable they all refused to stay."

Catherine sat up straight. "Surely you do not expect me to act as companion to your son who has a penchant for making people unhappy?"

Lady Beckwith sighed. "Please forgive me. I was at my wit's end when I placed the advertisement. I am very worried about Douglas and gravely concerned about his state of mind. I thought an attractive young lady would cheer him up. Make him want to live again. Mr. Knightley was quite taken with you and chose wisely. Douglas will not treat you unkindly."

Shivers ran up and down Catherine's spine. What did they expect of her? The situation was going from bad to worse. She had to think of her reputation. If London gossips learned of this, she would be ruined.

"Do you mean I am supposed to lure your son into..." Dare she say it? "Lure him into a close relationship with me?"

"Not at all. Please do not misunderstand your role, Miss Hartleigh. Douglas is betrothed. You are to be his companion for a few months, nothing more."

Catherine weighed the options inside her head. She could stay, make the most of a bad situation, or leave right this minute, only not right this minute because she was still too weak to travel. For the time being, she had no choice but to remain where she was.

"Very well, my lady, but if your son should treat me ill, I will not sit back and allow myself to be abused."

"Try it for a month, Miss Hartleigh." A diamond-ringed hand rested firmly on Catherine's. "If you find it impossible to remain here, you may keep your wages."

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. She could put up with anything for a month, especially if she did not have to repay her wages. She'd not allow Lord Beckwith to drive her from the house. "Then the matter is settled. One month. Unless I find your son too difficult."

A dreadful thought crossed Catherine's mind. "Where is his suite?"

Lady Beckwith rose to her feet and walked to the French doors. She opened them, then turned to Catherine. "His rooms are opposite yours. When you are quite well, I shall introduce you."

"Then...then what I heard last night was him! Why, he is mad, my lady. I wakened to him howling like a wolf and shouting for someone to bring him a bottle of brandy. I was very frightened and pushed a chair against my door to keep him out! My eyes scarce closed after that."

Lady Beckwith returned and sat at the foot of the chaise longue. "Until you recovered from your illness, I did not have an opportunity to discuss Douglas with you. Please be assured he is not a violent person. He would not harm a hair on anyone's head. He suffers from recurring nightmares. His eyes have been affected in some way, and that is why I've engaged you to read to him.

"Douglas served with the 17th Lancers. They were part of the Light Brigade when it was led to its destruction by that fool, Lord Cardigan."

Catherine digested this piece of information. "I have read articles in The Times about the carnage." But she was not at all convinced the young lord might not stumble into her room at night during one of his screaming fits.

"I wish to have a key to lock my door, my lady. Lord Beckwith's shrieks made my blood run cold. I will not rest thinking he might...might walk in his sleep and..."

"The housekeeper will find a key. In the meantime, you are to remain in your room and rest. Doctor's orders. Would you like Francis to pop in for a visit?

"Francis?" Catherine asked.

"Francis Delacroix is the white-haired gentleman who met you at the door when you arrived dripping wet. He is Douglas' great-uncle. He lives with us."

Catherine smiled at the memory. "He was like an angel from heaven come to rescue me."

"Then he will be along after lunch." Lady Beckwith left the balcony doors slightly open. "The fresh air will do you good. Should you feel a draft, have Anna close them."

When she had gone, Catherine sat back to mull over the present situation. How was she going to survive a whole month as companion to a man who had shut himself up in the manor, shunned his friends, abused previous companions and shouted for bottles of brandy in the middle of the night? Her confidence wavered. She did not relish the prospect of becoming his next victim.

Lord Beckwith's uncle popped in to visit Catherine after lunch. "Brought you some books from our library. What do you like to read? Here's the latest novel sent down from London. Perhaps not quite the thing for a young lady. Or what about the complete works of Shakespeare? Devilish heavy stuff, eh? Not right for a recovering invalid. How does this volume strike you? The history of bee-keeping in the Cotswolds." His mouth twitching in a quirky smile, eyes twinkling, he leaned towards Catherine. "What do you think?"

She could not help it, she burst out laughing. His merry presence warmed her heart. Like a tonic, he lightened the pessimism dogging her thoughts about how to deal with Lord Beckwith.

"Not bee-keeping, please. I'm not keen on bees, unless they are busy making honey, and I'm much too weak for Shakespeare. I think I shall have the latest novel."

"Excellent choice. Now what do you say to a game of piquet?" He pulled a pack of cards from his jacket pocket. "Do you play?"

"My father taught me, but I haven't played in years. I fear you will not have much opposition."

"Just the thing. Just the thing. I love winning. Douglas never lets me win." He helped Catherine to the table. "Oh dear, I've not introduced myself properly. I am Douglas' great uncle, The Honorable Francis Delacroix, but you may call me Francis or Mr. Francis or be very proper and call me The Honorable Francis or Uncle Francis, whatever takes your fancy. I like having a young person around, especially a young lady as pretty as you. Now sit down and we'll see how good you are at piquet."

The rules of the game came back to her once the playing began. Within the hour, they were tied, two games apiece. When she tired, Francis promised to return the following day.

His second visit cheered her, and she delighted in calling him, The Honorable Francis or The Honorable. Being with him helped her forget that within one day, two at the most, she had to meet Lord Beckwith. There had been no more blood curdling screams in the night, for which she was truly thankful.

"What is Lord Beckwith like?" Catherine ventured the question while Francis dealt the cards.

"A fine fellow, fine as they come. Had a bad time in the Crimea, body and soul took a battering. He'll come round. Needs to get out about the grounds. Never leaves his suite. Not good for him. Not good at all. He keeps the curtains closed against the light. Lives more like a hermit than a young, healthy man."

Catherine quaked inside. Lord Beckwith's presence loomed over her like an evil spirit. "I fear I shall be little use to him." She played her cards, putting down seven in one suit.

Francis slapped down his cards. "There! You've won again! Can't beat that." He jotted down the score. "The thing is, be tough with Douglas. He frightened the wits out of the gentlemen Marie Claire hired. Wishy-washy chaps they were. No fight in them at all." He pursed his lips and gazed at Catherine. "Now, you've fire in your eyes. Can tell by the way you play piquet. He'll not get the better of you, if you stand up to him."

Catherine smiled. "I'm afraid you make too much of my card playing. What can I do that his male companions could not?"

Francis patted her hand. "You are the prettiest creature to enter this house in years. Douglas is a gentleman, he'll not abuse you as he did the others, why just the sight of you will be like a breath of fresh air in those bleak rooms of his."

It was all very well for Mr. Francis to have high hopes for her success but bearding the lion in his gloomy den was a daunting task, a fearsome task for which she was not prepared.

What had possessed her to accept the position advertised in The Times without asking pointed questions about the invalid? Here she was in Beckwith Manor about to be fed to the lion. What if she ran away? Escaped back to London and left the difficult Lord Beckwith to his own devices.

The fact was she had no choice. She was in debt to Lady Beckwith and pleasant as she seemed, her employer might not take kindly to being cheated by a runaway companion. It had to be the lion.

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. Boothby was pleased with Catherine. "Two day's rest and you're bright as a trivet. Don't overdo things, young lady, your lungs may still be a trifle weak. Dress warmly when you venture outdoors."

Lady Beckwith nodded. "Miss Hartleigh will be well looked after." She saw the doctor out and returned to Catherine. "Now, my dear, I will introduce you to my son. Take no notice of his ill-humor, it's just his way."

Uneasy, her knees shaking, Catherine followed her employer across the hall. Lady Beckwith tapped lightly on the door and opened it.

"Douglas, here is Miss Hartleigh come to read to you." Her hand on Catherine's back, she propelled her into the room. "There," she whispered, "I'll leave you to become acquainted."

The door clicked shut and Catherine was alone. With him! She sidled to one side hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster. The room was dimly lit. A single lamp glowed on the mantelpiece. Blurry images reflected in a mirror hanging above it. When her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out a table, a bookcase, a chair by the fireplace and on the far side, opposite where she stood, a high-backed chair facing away from her swung around and a book sailed across the room, crashing into the door.

Catherine ducked. Why he'd nearly hit her! Furious, her heart racing, she shouted at him. "How dare you throw things at me?" And picking up the book hurled it at the shadowy figure leaning back in the chair. Her aim was bad. Instead of striking him as she intended, the book flew past and thudded against the wall. Hands clenched against her sides, Catherine edged towards the door and safety. She would not let him frighten her.

"So, this is how you comfort me?" He snapped.

"Comfort you, my lord? No indeed. I am not paid to comfort you. I am paid to read to you. Good morning, Lord Beckwith, I shall call on you tomorrow. Perhaps you will be in better humor. In the meantime, I shall walk in the garden."

"You are my paid companion, Miss Hartleigh, and I expect you to obey me. Put up with my ill-humor or leave me alone."

"That I will not do, Lord Beckwith. I am engaged to read to you. If you do not allow me to stay in your room without throwing books at me, then I shall sit outside your door and read loudly enough for you to hear every word. Good morning."

"Come back here, Miss Hartleigh. I've not finished with you!"

Catherine turned on her heel and slammed the door. For minutes she leaned against it until her heart steadied and her knees stopped shaking. This was much worse than she ever imagined.

Much worse.

She did not intend to be used as target practice by Lord Beckwith. She'd fulfill her one-month contract with his mother by sitting outside his door. He was quite mad. Little wonder his previous companions had taken their leave.

She crossed the hall to her room and put on her coat to go outside and breathe fresh air, away from the maniac in the room opposite hers.

Douglas grabbed his crutches and hopped across to the bell rope. "Bloody woman." He murmured and tugged hard, all but ripping the rope from its moorings. He felt around the floor for the book she'd thrown at him. His eyes were improving. They'd improved enough for him to see her outlined in the door before she stepped inside and closed it. She must have been wearing something dark. He hadn't really intended to hit her but a glancing blow might have driven her straight back home. Wherever that was. Likely a residence for single ladies past their prime.

His valet hurried into the room. "You rang, milord?"

"Of course I rang. Bring me a brandy and don't pretend there's none in the house. I haven't drunk my way through the cellar yet." Douglas threw himself into his chair. "And inform my mother to dismiss the young lady she has engaged to read to me."

"Very good, sir. I shall speak with her ladyship."

"And bring the brandy at once. My leg pains me." Douglas waited for the valet to leave. Damned stump acting up again. He massaged his left thigh and worked to below the knee. The muscle cramp eased. God, how he hated being a cripple. Everyone fussing over him. He'd lost part of his leg not his wits. His mother's insistence he have a female companion was the last straw.

Companion! He'd rid himself of the last two in short order... scared the hell out of them, and they were men. This...this female had to go. He couldn't stomach a woman feeling sorry for him. If he let her, the spinster would moon over him, pat his hand, and offer up a prayer for his deliverance from the demon drink. Like as not she belonged to a temperance movement.

"Your brandy, milord." His valet placed the glass on the table by the chair. "Your mother is on her way. Is there anything else?"

Douglas shook his head and dismissed Pickens with a brusque wave. Gloom descended on him. He tipped some brandy into the palm of his hand and rubbed the stump below the knee of his left leg. Alcohol soothed some of the lingering pain and helped toughen the skin, but it failed to blot out the nightmare memories haunting him.

Warming the glass in his hands, he sipped the drink.

First of the day. Another at noon. Another at five. Another at nine. Another if he couldn't sleep. The damned doctor had rationed his drink!

His mother knocked on the door and entered. "I know what you are going to say, and I refuse to dismiss Miss Hartleigh." She crossed the room and sat down.

Then I shall make her life a misery. I do not want someone to read to me. My eyes are recovering."

"Douglas." His mother tapped the arm of her chair. "It's not just to read that I engaged Miss Hartleigh. I thought having an attractive young lady in residence would bring new life into this house and brighten up your days. At least give her a fair trial. You have shut yourself up in these rooms for months, refusing to see anyone, refusing even to allow a visit from Madeline. She will soon tire of being neglected and wish to be free from her promise to marry you."

Fingering her long strand of pearls, she leaned towards him. "You must think of the future. You are twenty-eight years old, time you settled down and raised a family. It is your duty to provide an heir."

Douglas groaned and dragged his fingers through his hair. "Mother, please leave me alone. I have no desire to see anyone. I have nothing to say to anyone, especially to Miss Hartleigh. And I do not wish to marry. Not now. Perhaps never. It might be best if I wrote to Madeline and asked her to release me. She can do better than tie herself to a cripple."

"Please don't say that. Madeline still cares for you." Sighing, she rose to her feet. "I wish Dolly were here. He'd know what to do with you. I've a mind to write to the war office and ask for him to be sent home. Surely his regiment can do without him in India."

Douglas shook his head. His younger brother, Randall, was the last person he wished to see right now. Much as he loved Dolly, his brother had the sensitivity of a charging bull. Dolly loved army life. Being out in India to keep the peace between warring tribes on the Northwest frontier suited him just fine. His letters home described forays into the hills, the fighting qualities of the Indian troopers, and the crack of rifle fire echoing off rocks.

The carnage during the Crimea campaign had sickened Douglas of the army. Sickened his soul and wounded his body. "Mother, do not send for Dolly. All I want is to be left alone. Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?"

"Please, Douglas, I am trying to understand, but could you not be a little polite to Miss Hartleigh? She's come down from London. I have paid her three month's wages. The poor girl caught a chill when she arrived and has suffered greatly. We owe her something."

He gritted his teeth. "We owe her nothing. I haven't the faintest desire to be polite to this...this spinster you've hired. Pay her off and let her return home."

His mother raised her brows. "Miss Hartleigh is hardly a spinster. She is a very pleasant young lady and has agreed to stay at least one month. I cannot turn her out." She picked up the empty brandy glass. "You are drinking too much."

"Good morning, mother." Douglas waited for her to leave. Sinking back in his chair, he thought he might drop off to sleep. With any luck, he'd pass the morning unconscious. He closed his eyes, but the scene with his spinster companion invaded his thoughts. A pleasant young lady, indeed. Miss Hartleigh was more like a shrew. If her aim had been better, she'd have struck him, and striking him would be grounds for dismissal. A violent companion was not what his mother had in mind.

He dismissed the idea of luring her into throwing something at him. Something less extreme would do just as well. A plan formed in his mind. Pleased with himself, Douglas smiled. Miss Hartleigh would be gone within the week.

Catherine enjoyed her walk around the grounds. There was much to admire. She had seen only a small part of the splendid park surrounding the magnificent house. Drawn to the stables, she examined the horses. In a stall at the far end, humming quietly, a man currycombed a chestnut mare.

"Good Morning." Catherine rested her arms on the half door.

He straightened up and touched his cap. "Morning, Miss. I'm Pip Jones, head stable boy." Dressed in smock and leggings, his face nut-brown and wrinkled, gray hair straggling underneath his cap, he looked anything but a boy.

"I'm Miss Hartleigh come to stay at the manor. That's a pretty mare. Who rides her?"

"No one. I mean none of the family. The grooms exercise the horses. Lady Beckwith used to ride but hasn't this long time." He patted the sleek chestnut hide. "A right shame it is. There was a time when all the horses were saddled and out at the hunt. Deer hunting it was, up in the hills. Now Misty here is tearing to go. Likes a good run, takes fences like a bird, so I'm told."

Catherine stepped into the stall. Misty raised her head. Her neck tensed, and her ears flicked back. Not to alarm the mare further, Catherine waited before moving any closer. She spoke quietly. "I'd like to ride you when we become acquainted. I won't rush you."

"She's right frisky, Miss, and takes a bit of handling. You'd best talk to George Parsons, the head groom, if you want to take her out."

Catherine studied the mare. "You are a lovely little lady, aren't you? I'll come by every day until you are ready to let me ride. Then we'll explore the park."

Pip Jones shook his head. "Best not to enter the stall alone unless I'm here or Mr. Parsons. Misty is known to kick when it suits her."

"Very well, I shall be careful until she knows me." The mare lowered her head and relaxed her neck. Her ears flicked forward, listening. Soon, Catherine thought, Misty would recognize her voice and accept her.

But...but perhaps paid companions were not allowed to ride on their days off. She longed for a good run on the back of a spirited horse. It had broken her heart when her mother had to sell their small stable of thoroughbreds to pay some debts. Even if Misty tolerated her and she had permission to saddle her, she had not packed her riding clothes, they were folded away in a trunk back home in London and the moths likely feeding on them.

Shaking off the sorry-for-herself feeling, missing her old privileged life, Catherine hurried away from the stable. Not quite ready to face the formidable Lord Beckwith, she walked briskly along a gravel path leading to a hillock. At the top, she drew in a quick breath. Below was an orchard, buds on the trees still sheathed in their winter coats were fat almost to bursting. In one sunny corner a single tree rushed the season, a few tiny blossoms radiated spring.

Catherine whirled around in a circle and raised her face to the

sun, she had a whole month to spend at Beckwith Manor. The country air smelled of new life. Sweet new life, so different from the smoky pall that sometimes hung over London. No matter how badly Lord Beckwith treated her, she expected to have some time to herself. With the windows in her room open to the air, she'd sit on the balcony and enjoy the sights and scents of spring.

Making her way back to the house, she met Lady Beckwith in the entrance hall. "We'll be having luncheon within the hour. I would like you to join us."

Coming in from the bright sunshine, Catherine had to wait a few seconds in order to see properly. "You will have to show me where to find the dining room, Lady Beckwith. I fear I shall lose myself in all the corridors, it took me quite awhile to make my way from my room."

"The house is a rather formidable challenge. When I first arrived as a new bride, I asked my husband to draw me a map. The place is much, much too big. Forty rooms. It was built a century ago when the family entertained large parties and also had numerous children, now we rattle around in it like walnuts in a china cup. I've had most of the right wing closed off. The maids air the rooms, spring and autumn."

She tucked Catherine's arm in hers. "Come, let me show you where to go, we'll expect you to take all your meals with us, that is with Francis and me. Breakfast at eight, luncheon at one o'clock, a light tea at four and dinner at eight. We are very informal. Since Douglas came home from the Crimea, I no longer entertain. He shuts himself...but there, Miss Hartleigh, you'll soon find your way around this house. The small dining room is here." She paused, a look of concern in her eyes. "How was my son? Have you become acquainted?"

Catherine suppressed a smile and lowered her gaze. Acquainted hardly described their meeting. "He was not exactly welcoming but another time he may be more amenable." She did not want to worry his mother by tattling to her about the miserable brute and the book he'd thrown. It was Catherine's problem and she'd deal with it.

Lady Beckwith sighed. "I have done what I thought best for Douglas, but I feel quite without hope at times. Please do not abandon him yet."

"I do not intend to abandon him, my lady, I agreed to stay for one month, and I shall do so."

Catherine mentally mapped the way to the dining room and ran upstairs to freshen up before luncheon. She walked quickly along the long hallway, heels clicking smartly on the oak floor.

"Miss Hartleigh!"

Catherine stopped in her tracks. Lord Beckwith's voice thundered through his closed door. Using the door as a shield against another attack, she opened it and peered around the side into the gloom.

"Yes, Lord Beckwith." Her voice quavered and she fought to keep it steady.

"Come here."

"I prefer to stay where I am. I do not like having books thrown at me."

His harsh voice splintered the air. "Come here! I wish you to read to me."

"Now, sir?" Her stomach grumbled. The long walk had sharpened her appetite.

"Do you dare question me, Miss Hartleigh? You are paid to do as you are told, not to question my orders."

Catherine held her ground. "Do you promise not to throw anything at me?"

"I promise you nothing. Now step inside that I may look at you while you read."

"Not until you give your word not to..."

A book thudded against the door. Catherine stooped, picked it up, stepped out of range and left the door slightly open. Breathing hard, her heart beating double quick time, she studied the book. "I see this is Boswell's, Life of Johnson. I will fetch a chair from my room, and read to you...from here."

Douglas heard the scrape of her chair and suppressed a wild desire to laugh. He hadn't laughed in months. Not a real laugh. This Miss Hartleigh was fair game. She sounded young, but many a spinster kept a girlish voice. Standing up to him the way she did promised good sport. He'd have her out of the house in less than a week.

"Very well, read me all of Chapter Four." It would take her the best part of the afternoon. He'd tire her until her voice was hoarse. "And do not read too quickly, I may want you to repeat some passages."

Douglas settled back in his chair, prepared to doze off while his companion droned away. When she began reading, he came fully awake. Miss Hartleigh did not sound the least bit agitated as he'd expected. Her voice had a rare musical quality, very pleasant to listen to. An hour into the reading, footsteps echoed along the hall.

"Miss Hartleigh. The mistress and Mr. Francis are waiting for you to join them for luncheon." Douglas recognized the butler's voice. Blewett had been sent to fetch her.

"Thank you. Would you inform Lady Beckwith I am reading to her son. Perhaps you will have a tray sent up later. I shall eat in my room."

"Damnation woman, why did you not tell me my mother expected you?" Douglas shouted. His conscience pricked him. Not a lot but enough to unsettle him.

"It's not my place to refuse your orders, my lord. If you will excuse me, I shall return after luncheon and continue reading."

"Very well. And Blewett, send me up a tray, I am inclined to eat a little. Miss Hartleigh's reading has given me an appetite. I need strength to continue listening to her."

Catherine bit her tongue. She longed to tell him exactly what she thought of him and his wretched manners. No one should treat the hired help in such a cruel fashion.

On the way downstairs, she vowed not to allow Lord Beckwith to upset her. If he chose to act like a discourteous boor, she did not have to take the bait and lower herself to his level. As long as she remained outside his door, safe from harm, she'd survive the month...with her health intact. Lord Beckwith would not get the better of her. But come March 31st, she'd shake the dust of Beckwith Manor from her feet.

The butler showed her into the dining room. Lady Beckwith waved her to a seat opposite her at the table. Mr. Francis stood until she took her place.

"I am sorry you were kept waiting, my dear, perhaps Douglas was unaware we expected you to join us for luncheon. Blewett tells me you were reading to him. I am pleased. You must be making progress."

"He allows me to read to him, my lady, but since he has twice thrown books at me, I sit outside and read through the open door. Is he always so difficult?"

"Capital, capital!" Francis twinkled at Catherine, his blues eyes sparkling under bushy white brows. "You stood up to him. Just what he needs. Played merry hell with the last two he..."

"Hush, Francis, Catherine is not interested in past history. You may serve the soup now, Joseph." Lady Beckwith nodded at the young footman.

Although she was bursting with curiosity about what had happened to previous companions, Catherine was too polite to inquire and much too hungry to waste time talking when she could be eating. At the end of the meal she excused herself.

"I promised Lord Beckwith to continue reading." It wasn't exactly how she had imagined being a companion, sitting outside the door of a madman because she was afraid to tempt fate and enter his rooms. Maligning her with words was one thing, hurling books at her was quite another.

"Is that you, Miss Hartleigh?" His voice had mellowed from a bark to something like normal speech.

Civil.

The door was still slightly ajar. Catherine did not trust him. He was trying to lure her into a trap. She waited in the hall.

"Yes, my lord. Shall I continue reading?" She looked around for the book. Where had it gone? She'd left it on her chair. "The book, my lord, it's not here."

"I had my valet return it to me. I am tired of Mr. Johnson. I desire conversation."

"Conversation?" Catherine gulped.

"You heard me, Miss Hartleigh. You are paid to keep me company, to discuss world affairs, inform me of the latest London gossip, what books are being published, where one goes to take the waters, the efficacy of sea bathing, and so on."

Catherine pulled her chair close to the door. "I shall begin with world affairs. There are reports of warships built by the United States, one in particular the U.S.S. Constellation is a twenty-two gun corvette. There is cholera in London...."

"Is that the best you can do, Miss Hartleigh? I'm not in the mood for bad news. What is the latest London gossip?"

Catherine shifted in her chair. She knew nothing of London gossip. How could she? She had not been to an evening soiree nor a tea for weeks. As for riding in the park, stopping now and then to chat with friends, that was all behind her. "I am sorry, Lord Beckwith, I do not move in fashionable circles in London. My mother and I live a very quiet life."

"Then tell me about your quiet life."

To Catherine's ear, his voice had softened. Was he trying to make a fool of her? Lead her on so he could laugh at her? If she stayed the month as companion to this strange, boorish man, she'd have earned every penny of her wages.

"There is nothing to relate. Nothing of interest to you." Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. She would not tell him about her father's illness. How he'd changed from a cheerful family man to a sharp-tongued, gambling fool.

"Ha! How clever of you to know what interests me? It is for me to decide what I want to hear. It is not up to you. I wish to hear about your quiet life. Begin."

Catherine could not bear it another minute. So much for her vow not to let him hurt her. The man was impossible, ordering her around like a servant girl, as though she were a kitchen skivvy!

"I refuse to tell you about my quiet life! I came here to be a companion to what I thought would be a sensible person not a madman. You, sir, are a cruel, insensitive monster. You have no right to torment me because I am poor. I will speak to your mother and leave this house. I'd rather go hungry than remain here and be mocked by you."

She grabbed the doorknob and slammed his door. Angry tears trickled down her cheeks. Picking up her chair, she crossed the hall to her room and locked herself in. Delving into her pocket for a handkerchief, she swiped at her face. "I will not cry! I will not cry! He will not make me cry."

Sorely tempted to invade the lion's den and whack him over the head before he could retaliate, Catherine thought better of it. But how was she to survive, short of rendering him unconscious? A few hours as companion to Lord Beckwith had shaken her confidence. Did she have the strength to continue?

Questions assailed her. Would Lady Beckwith allow her to leave without working out the month? Did the time she was ill in bed and convalescing count as work? Perhaps she could fake a relapse and be sent back to London. She'd require train fare and money for a hackney carriage from the station. She emptied her purse and counted the shillings and pence. She had enough to purchase her train ticket, but she'd have to walk from Waterloo. In her rush to leave home and take up her duties, she had left herself short of money.

Douglas stared at the door. Perhaps he was mad for taking out his ill humor on her. The poor thing was probably in her room having the vapors. He hopped over to the bell rope. His valet hurried into the room.

"Yes, milord?"

"Go to the conservatory and cut one of the orchids. My uncle tells me there are several in bloom. I want a crystal goblet as well. Bring the orchid and goblet here."

"Very good, sir. Will that be all?"

"Help me over to my desk and turn up the lamp." Douglas blinked at the flame. His eyes were still sensitive to light but had improved in the past fortnight. He'd have a valid reason to dismiss his companion when his sight returned to normal. One of her duties was to read to him. Soon he'd be rid of her unwelcome presence. It was beyond reason that his mother expected a weepy spinster to cheer him up.

When Pickens left the room, Douglas drew his crested writing paper from the desk drawer and dipped his pen in the silver inkwell. What to say to her? Not enough to make her think he wanted her to stay.

Dear Miss Hartleigh: I apologize for upsetting you. Please accept this orchid. My Uncle Francis grows them for a hobby. He'll not miss this one.

Douglas shook his head. That would not do. Even to his useless companion, he could not be so churlish. He crumpled up the paper and started a fresh sheet.

Dear Miss Hartleigh. He paused. What was her first name? From listening to her voice, he thought Mary might suit her. No. Mary was too timid. Miss Hartleigh was not timid. She had probably won her spurs in a schoolroom of unruly children before retiring to take on less onerous duties as a companion.

Elizabeth? Hmm. Possibly.

Grace? No.

A Grace would not have yelled at him.

A Grace would never be a shrew.

A Grace would not go around slamming doors.

Douglas dipped the pen. I apologize for my boorish behavior. Please accept this orchid. What now? Douglas blotted the paper.

What harm would it do if he put up with her for a month? She'd been paid three month's wages, and the poor woman obviously needed the money. He signed. Douglas. Folded the note and sealed it.

Pickens arrived with the orchid. It nestled in the center of a large crystal brandy glass. "Where shall I put it, milord?"

"Take it and this note to Miss Hartleigh's room. Before you go, light the lamp on the table by my chair. If there's a copy of Punch downstairs, bring it to me. I'll read awhile."

Douglas heard Pickens knock on her door. A key grated in the lock. "I've a note for you, Miss." Since he'd been near blinded, his hearing had become acute.

"A note?" She sounded sniffly. Surely to God he hadn't made her cry. He could not abide tearful women.

"From Lord Beckwith, Miss, and he asked me to give you this."

"Thank you." Catherine closed the door. She knew it was an orchid because the Honorable Francis had shown her his blooms. The petals on this one were pale rose edged with the merest hint of green. Tiny brown speckles led into its heart. She set the goblet on the table by her bed and slit open the note.

He had apologized! Perhaps the orchid was a peace offering. Not one to bear a grudge, especially when it involved not having to pay back three month's wages, Catherine cheered up. Perhaps the month would pass quickly. A few hours a day reading to him, even conversing...

She frowned. She knew nothing about him except he'd been wounded in the Crimean War. What might interest him? When no ready answer came to mind, Catherine put on her coat and tiptoed past his closed door. He had not asked for her, and she did not feel up to coping with him.

Not yet. He might have changed his mind about the apology and regretted sending her the orchid. A walk in the gardens would refresh her. Still recovering from her illness, she lacked the will at that moment to do battle with Lord Beckwith.

Catherine strolled through the formal rose garden. It was too early for blooms, but the roses were beginning to leaf. A robin hopped along the path ahead of her picking up tiny bits of straw.

Catherine found a bench in a sheltered corner where afternoon sunlight bathed the garden. Content to sit and soak up the warmth, she wondered about Lord Beckwith. What did he look like?

Until she could actually see him clearly, he was more like a ghostly figure than a real person. From his voice, she tried to imagine him. Probably had red hair. Every one she had ever known with red hair had a temper to match. If he was drinking a lot of brandy, he might have a nose to go with his hair and temper.

An ugly, cranky, disagreeable man.

And why did he shut himself away in those dark rooms? Was he physically deformed?

No, that could not be. If he'd soldiered in the Crimean War, he must have been fit and healthy. She guessed at his age. His mother was still a beauty although there were telltale signs of age at her neck, very much like her own mother. Lady Beckwith was probably fifty, so her son had to be in his twenties or early thirties.

She buttoned up her coat. The sun had dipped behind a huge beech tree and the air cooled quickly. Before returning to the house, Catherine hurried to the stable and spent time with Misty. She'd fallen in love with the pretty little mare.

"You do know me, don't you?" Misty nuzzled into Catherine's shoulder. Like two old friends, they talked together over the half-door. Catherine giggled to herself. She did all the talking. Misty listened.

On her way back to the manor, Catherine studied it from all angles. It was a magnificent building, many times larger than her family home in Dorset.

On the south side, French doors led on to a terrace overlooking the formal gardens. Curious about what lay behind the doors, she ran up the steps to have a look. At the far end of the terrace, the doors led into an elegant ballroom. She'd not had an opportunity to explore the downstairs rooms. Companions had their place and hers was not to poke around inside the house without permission.

She idled along the terrace. She longed to sketch the manor, but her materials were packed away in the box room back in London.

CHAPTER FOUR

Returning indoors, Catherine met one of the servants leaving Lord Beckwith's suite. Fingers to his lips, he hushed her. "Lord Beckwith has a visitor. He will speak with you in the morning."

In her room, Catherine hung up her coat and hat. An empty feeling settled in her stomach. She had looked forward to thanking Lord Beckwith for the orchid, even going so far as to venture into the lion's den.

Cradling the crystal goblet in her hands, she studied the flower, remembering the first posy she had ever received. She had been thirteen, and a lad from the village had thrust a bunch of violets at her. "For you, Miss," he said and, blushing furiously had dashed off.

Catherine smiled at the memory...seven years ago. Her life had been so different then. There'd been no money worries. Their large country house had been staffed with servants. They'd a stable of fine horses and a trout stream where she and Johnny fished.

It was there they'd captured Riena Stanley, a gypsy girl, netting fish. She'd begged them not to turn her over to the gamekeeper, promising her father would reward them if they freed her.

Half afraid of going to the gypsy camp, but tempted to do something forbidden by their parents, Catherine and her brother followed Riena to the colorful caravans ranged in a circle on the nearby common. Riena's father had given them each an amulet, a charm against sorcery, he told them, his dark eyes gleaming. "They will bring you good luck."

The amulets were similar...highly polished, thin wooden circles, delicately carved with crescents and linked dots. He had laced fine leather thongs through tiny holes in the wood and tied them securely. Saying a few words in Romany, he lifted an amulet over Catherine's head first, then did the same with Johnny's.

"Do not lose them." He warned.

The amulet, a treasure from her childhood, Catherine still wore around her neck, tucked beneath her bodice or hidden in a pocket. Even though luck had deserted her, she kept the amulet. It reminded her of Riena, her gypsy friend, whom she'd not seen since they were children.

Suddenly aware of an angry female voice in the hallway outside her door, Catherine held her breath. It was not Lady Beckwith but someone younger.

"Come to your senses, Douglas. I have missed most of the London season because you refuse to travel. I cannot go about unescorted. All our friends know we are betrothed. Gossip would fly behind my back if I appeared on the arm of another man."

There was a pause and Catherine heard Lord Beckwith say something but could not make out the words.

"Very well, Douglas. I journeyed here especially to speak with you. Send word within a fortnight. I expect you to be more reasonable, for my patience is running out."

Heels clicked rapidly away down the hall. So Lord Beckwith was betrothed. Then why did his fiancée not spend time with him? He'd not require a companion then.

The woman's voice had an unpleasant sharp edge. A bullying edge, as though trying to force Lord Beckwith to jump to attention. Never having seen her, Catherine took an instant dislike to the woman and her voice.

At tea and again at dinner Catherine expected Lady Beckwith or Mr. Francis to comment on the visitor but neither did.

Catherine had placed the crystal goblet on the table beside her bed. Perhaps she should send a note to Lord Beckwith thanking him for the orchid, although that seemed ridiculous when he was only steps away from her room. She'd thank him in the morning. But what if he wanted to dismiss her? After her tirade, he had every right to send her away. Perhaps the orchid was a peace offering to soften the blow when he discharged her.

Douglas frowned at the fire flickering in the grate. He was not being fair to Madeline, but he did not choose to play the wounded hero in London society. To be flattered and made much of by men and women who knew nothing of war except what they read in The Times, disgusted him. They knew nothing of the horrors. Nothing of the smell of blood, nor the pitiful moans of dying men, nor the terrible screams of horses torn apart by cannon fire.

"But you are a hero." Madeline's insistence had grated on him. Crimea was an unmitigated disaster. There was nothing heroic about it. The incompetence of three generals had sent hundreds of brave men to certain death against the Russian guns. The carnage still haunted Douglas.

A trooper, riding next to him, had had his head blown clean off his body. His warm blood had spurted like liquid fire into Douglas' eyes. Half-blinded, he remembered shouting at his men to go back. Then a burst of shellfire had smashed into his left leg below the knee and torn a gaping hole in his horse's neck. Staggering like a drunk, the blood-drenched animal had gone down on its knees.

Thrown to the ground, Douglas had crawled through dead and dying men. In agony from the splintered bone in his leg, he'd hoisted a wounded trooper on his back and struggled to a grassy verge. Out of his mind with pain, not knowing what he was doing, he had set his burden down, crawled back into the melee and dragged one of his Lancers to safety. The lad, no older than eighteen, had perished in his arms.

Hundreds of men had died that day. The memory lingered on. The Light Brigade had suffered terrible losses. His own 17th Lancers had been decimated when Lord Lucan held back the Heavies until it was too late to assist the Lights.

Douglas tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. But...but he had to think of Madeline. They had been betrothed before he'd left for the Crimea. He'd suffered for months in a wretched field hospital waiting to be fit enough to travel back to England. Returning to a hero's welcome, he'd avoided her and everyone else. He wasn't fit company and had had no desire to take part in social chitchat nor think about marriage.

Better to stay at home and deal with the devils invading his dreams at night, turning dreams into nightmares of remembering.

Madeline's latest ultimatum...either he come up to London for the final weeks of the season or she'd break off their engagement... did not sit well. Her voice had grated on him, and he had had difficulty controlling his irritation. At least he had not thrown a book at her, although he had been sorely tempted.

He hobbled to the bell rope on his crutches.

"Bring me tea, Pickens," he said when his valet arrived. "And find out what Miss Hartleigh is doing."

"Miss Hartleigh is having tea with your mother and Mr. Francis. Then I believe, they are going to have a game of piquet."

"Are they now?" Douglas grinned. "Very well. Tell Miss Hartleigh I expect her in the morning. At nine o'clock."

So she plays piquet. Not what he expected from a paid companion. After the difficult interview with Madeline, it was a relief to think of nothing more demanding than a game of piquet with his companion. He almost sent for her then changed his mind. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

She knocked on his door precisely at nine. "It is Miss Hartleigh, Lord Beckwith."

"Come in. I promise not to throw anything at you." He swung around in his chair to observe her. For the first time in weeks, he had ordered the window draperies opened slightly. He remained in the shadows, all the better to have a look at his spinster. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Pinned in a narrow shaft of sunlight, Miss Hartleigh appeared like an angelic vision.

He'd not expected this. Not golden blonde hair with soft curls framing her serious face and blue eyes. Eyes the color of cornflowers. She was tall and slender and wore a simple gray dress. Her shoulders squared, back against the door, she waited.

And waited.

Douglas finally found his voice. "Please sit here." He beckoned her to a chair close to the window. She remained by the door.

"I prefer to stand here. Thank you for the orchid, it is very beautiful."

"It was a peace offering. I owed you something for my boorish behavior."

"You owe me nothing, Lord Beckwith. I expect you have your reasons for being..." She put her fingers to her lips.

Douglas finished her sentence. "For being ill-humored. Or a madman and a monster. I think those were a few of the terms you used to describe me yesterday." Even from across the room, he could see the blush coloring her cheeks. Miss Hartleigh was a very beautiful young woman.

"Forgive me, I regret my quick temper."

"Very well, all is forgiven. Now come sit there by the window. If you are to be my companion for the next three months, it is time we became acquainted."

She angled across the room, staying as far away from him as possible. Taking the chair he indicated, she folded her hands on her lap, remained still, and stared at the floor. The tip of her tongue moistened her lower lip.

"What shall we converse about this morning, Miss Hartleigh?" She raised her eyes. Like limpid pools, Douglas decided, being in a poetical frame of mind.

"The topic is up to you, Lord Beckwith."

"Good. We shall talk about you. Why are you a paid companion? You do not look like a companion. You do not speak like a companion. You have a hasty temper, not an attractive characteristic for a companion. And you threw a book at me."

"Only because you threw it at me first. I am not paid to be abused."

"If I cannot abuse you, what good are you to me? When I am ill-humored, I have every right to throw books at you." Sparring with Miss Hartleigh was a pleasant way to pass an hour or two.

"Then you must warn me, my lord, when you are out of sorts. I have a steady arm and a keen eye. Now that the light is brighter in your room, I may take aim at your head."

For the first time, Catherine could see him clearly. He had black hair, not the red she'd supposed earlier to match his bad temper and his equally bad manners, but black would do just as well. Despite the suffering etched on his face, he was a very handsome man with deep-set, dark brown eyes.

Doing her best not to stare, she studied him covertly. A rather nice mouth. Taut jaw line.

Still uneasy in his presence, she shifted her gaze away from his face to his legs, one crossed over the other. "Oh. No one told me. I did not know you were...were..."

"A cripple, Miss Hartleigh. Does that dismay you?" Bitterness edged his voice. "You'd not take aim at a cripple, is that it?"

Catherine winced. All the enjoyment drained from the morning. "Please, Lord Beckwith, do not mock me. I did not say you were a cripple. Those are your words." She lifted her chin. "If I have hurt you, I am sorry. Do you wish me to leave?"

"No. Stay where you are and converse." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Begin."

Catherine breathed deeply and began. "I have walked around some of the estate. The gardens are very fine. One apple tree has a few blossoms. It grows in a sheltered corner of the orchard. I do hope it will survive if we have a frost. Your stable of horses is impressive. One of the lads was curry combing a pretty little mare, he said her name was Misty." Swallowing hard, she continued. "Do you ride, Lord Beckwith?"

"Ride? With this?" He straightened up and folded back his left trouser leg. The leg had been amputated below the knee.

The scarred stump, the flesh newly healed and still very pink, shocked Catherine. Not knowing what to do or where to look, she clenched her fists and remained locked in misery.

"Well, Miss Hartleigh, does that answer your question?" He rolled back his trouser leg.

Catherine rose to her feet and walked to the window, her heart knotted in her chest. She looked over the formal gardens for several seconds to regain her composure, then turned to face him. "I did not mean to upset you. May I leave now? I shall not trouble you further."

Lord Beckwith grasped his crutches and stood. She had not expected him to be so tall. He was taller than her brother who was six feet. In a swinging, awkward gait, he walked to the door and opened it.

"Please leave. I am in no mood to talk."

Catherine crossed the room, wishing she had never answered the advertisement in The Times. Were all men so difficult? Her father had been good-natured until the last year of his life when something went wrong inside his head. "Am I dismissed then? No longer in your employ?"

"You are not dismissed. I expect you to work out your three-month contract as my companion. I've not done with you yet."

Catherine glowered at him. "I have no desire to have things done to me. I shall pack my trunk and leave. You cannot force me to stay."

He threw one crutch aside and grasped her around the waist. "I will decide when you leave this house."

Catherine tilted her head back and stared into his eyes. "No, you will not! I am not a kitchen skivvy under your control. Now please let me go."

He was too close. Much too close. A twisted smile on his lips, he bent his head and kissed her. She flattened her hands against his chest and pushed.

Staggering backwards, he released her. In a hop and a skip, he careened into a table, bounced off it, and sprawled on the floor.

Her heart beating wildly, Catherine flew to where he lay and dropped to her knees beside him. "Please say you are not dead. Say I have not harmed you."

Lord Beckwith opened his eyes. "Those are ridiculous requests. How could I answer if I were dead?" He rolled on his side, grasped the table leg, and hauled himself up. "You may leave now, Miss Hartleigh."

Catherine scrambled to her feet and smoothed her skirt. "Now am I dismissed, my lord?" She prayed he would say yes. Surely his mother did not expect her to remain with this unpredictable man.

"Only for the time being. Please tug the bell rope before you go. I expect you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."

Catherine locked her door and paced the floor. Lord Beckwith frightened her...Prickly as a hedgehog some of the time and nice as you please other times. Moody and difficult, that's how she'd describe him. She did not want to remember his arm around her waist, nor his mouth on hers, but the more she tried not to remember, she remembered.

No man had ever kissed her like that. The truth of the matter was, no man had ever kissed her lips. She had no experience of such kissing, but she knew full well, Lord Beckwith should not have kissed her. Not the way he did. Like he wanted to eat her. Throwing books at her, insulting her that she could cope with, but kissing...his kiss made her hot. Made her heart race. Made her jumpy. Perhaps this is how he intended to frighten her into leaving.

The bright sun and a warm breeze drifting into her room through the open French doors drew her outside. Free until tomorrow morning, when she had to face her tormentor again, she roamed the grounds, visited Misty, and tried to think how to cope with him. She could move more quickly than he. If he tried to touch her again, she'd beat a hasty retreat. Being set upon by the lord of the manor was not part of her role as companion. If he persisted in his actions, she would definitely speak to Lady Beckwith and leave without having to repay her wages.

"Shall we have a game of dominoes?" Francis escorted her into the library after dinner and laid the tiles out on a table. "I am very good at dominoes, very good indeed. You keep score. My head is not very good at adding up." He handed her a sheet of writing paper and a pen. "The inkwell is just there behind you, on the desk."

Lady Beckwith followed them and stood at Catherine's elbow. "How was Douglas this morning? He seemed in a better frame of mind yesterday evening when I popped in before I retired for the night."

Catherine picked up her seven dominoes and arranged them in front of her. "He...you did not tell me Lord Beckwith was...had...oh dear, he said he was a cripple, but I don't think of him as a cripple...he is very active."

His mother sighed and settled in a chair close to the fireplace. "Douglas was wounded in Crimea. He had a dreadful time and spent many months in a field hospital. My husband, Lord Beckwith, died while Douglas was on active service. When my son returned home, he had changed.

"I hardly know him. He keeps to himself. Sees no one. Even Lady Madeline, to whom he is betrothed, is not always a welcome visitor. I did hope someone other than Francis and myself would cheer Douglas up, bring him back to life, but it seems I was wrong."

Catherine played a five and three. Francis promptly laid a double three across hers. "Ha! Count that up," he chortled.

Distracted by the revelations about Lord Beckwith, Catherine hesitated before playing. "Why is he not fitted with a...with an artificial limb? I have seen men..." Oh dear, she was about to say she had seen men begging on London streets, showing off their wooden legs to gain sympathy from passersby.

"I mean, Lord Beckwith might return to society if he...if he could walk properly." She frowned at her tiles, wishing she had never embarked on this conversation.

"It would be better, my dear, not to suggest such a thing to Douglas. He refuses to discuss even the possibility. I was hoping your coming might brighten his moods. But there you are, it's not your fault he prefers to stay in his suite. You have been very patient. Should you wish to leave before the month is up, I will understand."

Catherine was not concentrating on dominoes and Francis won the game. "This morning, Lord Beckwith mentioned that he expected me to stay the full three months."

His mother looked at Catherine over her spectacles. "Did he then?"

Catherine lowered her gaze and hoped the warmth flooding her cheeks would be attributed to the fire in the hearth. "Perhaps I misunderstood him. He seemed angry with me when I asked if he rode. You have a fine stable."

Francis put away the dominoes. "Do you ride then? I like a turn around the grounds. No taking fences though. Would you join me?"

"I certainly would enjoy riding with you but my habit is in London."

"Then we shall send for it! Capital idea. When you're not reading to Douglas, you and I will explore the countryside."

Catherine waited for Lady Beckwith to object. Perhaps a paid companion was not expected to ride. "Do I have your permission, my lady?"

"Of course you do. I've not ridden for years and Francis enjoys a canter about the grounds. Write to your mother and have her send your habit."

"May I also have her put in my sketching materials? My fingers have been itching to draw your beautiful home and gardens."

"My dear child, I have everything you require here. Open the door to the right of the desk, you'll find everything you require in there."

Catherine discovered a treasure trove of sketching materials along with an easel and a folding chair.

"You are wonderfully kind. When I am not reading to Lord Beckwith or riding with Mr. Francis, I shall sketch."

Happier than she'd been since she arrived, Catherine knew exactly what she would draw first, a view of the house from part way down the drive.

Smiling to herself, she bid her companions good night and hurried upstairs. She'd write to her mother at once. Although her riding costume was no longer fashionable, there'd be no one, other than the Honorable Francis, to remark on it, and he was much too kind and polite to comment.

Catherine had not ridden since her mother was forced to lease their country house to strangers and sell their horses. That was two years ago. She hoped the moths had not been at her dark green wool skirt and black jacket. Velvet was all the rage now. Maroon was particularly popular with the gorgeously costumed girls riding in London parks. She'd remind her mother to put in her boots and hat, at least they were not out of fashion.

Catherine slowed her pace when she reached the wide hallway leading to her room. A light shone under his door. Holding her breath, hoping he would not call out, she tiptoed past his room, but her right elbow bumped against the wall, and she dropped the sketching pad.

"Is that you, Miss Hartleigh, making that dreadful noise?"

Catherine sighed. "I am sorry, my lord, I dropped my sketching pad." Surely he would not ask her to read to him. Not this late. It was well after ten o'clock.

"Please come here, I have something to say to you."

She picked up the pad and very slowly opened his door. Light flooded the room from several well-placed lamps. He swung around in the wing chair and motioned her to step closer.

"I wish to speak to you without having to shout across the room."

"You'll not throw anything at me?" Catherine did not trust him for one minute. His moods were too unpredictable, and she had no desire to be so close he might reach out and...and put his arm around her.

He smiled and shook his head. "No more books. Your aim is too good."

The smile lit up his face. Catherine could scarce stop staring at him. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead. His mouth...she had noticed it before...his mouth was attractive. To her artist's eye, it was a generous mouth. His chin...square.

"Well, Miss Hartleigh, when you are through staring, please step towards me."

"Oh, please excuse me, I did not mean to stare. It's just...it's just that I didn't expect..."

"Didn't expect what?"

She could not tell him she thought him exceedingly handsome and blurted out the first thing that came into her head. "I am surprised you have black hair."

"Surprised? Why?"

Catherine backed towards the door and safety. "Because...because you are so bad tempered and throw books at me, I was sure you had red hair. Everyone I know with red hair has a quick temper."

Lord Beckwith threw back his head and burst out laughing. "Miss Hartleigh, I think you and I will get along well together and I promise not to throw books at you nor threaten you with my bad temper."

"Thank you, my lord. May I take my leave? I am rather tired."

His eyes held hers. "I regret treating you in such a boorish fashion earlier. It was not my intent to frighten you."

Remembering his kiss, Catherine strove to remain calm. "Then we shall say no more about it. Do you wish me to read to you in the morning?"

"I think not. Instead, you and I will take a turn about the grounds. Meet me downstairs at nine o'clock."

"But how...but how will you get around?"

"My mother ordered a wheeled chair for me some time ago hoping I would make use of it. I have decided to take the air. You will push me along the paths."

"Perhaps you will allow me to sketch you."

"As a cripple in a chair? No, Miss Hartleigh, you may not sketch me." He turned his back on her. "Go to your room. I am fatigued."

CHAPTER FIVE

Using his crutches and assisted by Pickens, Douglas made his way downstairs. It was the first time he had left his suite in months, and could not believe how weak he felt. His right leg quivered under the strain and his hands and arms, gripping the crutches ached by the time he reached the front door. It had been one hell of a struggle to get that far.

"I'm weak as a robin, Pickens. Where's the damned chair so I can sit down?"

"In the cloak room, milord, I'll fetch it at once." He wheeled the chair over to Douglas.

God he felt awful. Light-headed. Like a girl with the vapors. Perhaps this was not a good idea. He'd have Pickens help him upstairs. The grandfather clock chimed nine o'clock. With luck, he'd be back in his rooms before Miss Hartleigh appeared.

"Good morning, Lord Beckwith," she called out and ran down the stairs to meet him. "I see you have your chair."

Douglas groaned. He was mad to suggest this ridiculous excursion. Miss Hartleigh fairly bounced with good cheer and looked healthy as a trout. Her cheeks glowed and her blue eyes sparkled under the brim of her straw bonnet. She was remarkably pretty. Why had she not found a husband? London did not lack young men eager to find brides.

"Miss Hartleigh, I have changed my mind and do not wish to go out."

"But my lord, it is a glorious day. Spring is really here. You must come out, even for a little while, and smell the air. Let me assist you into the chair."

Helped by a female? Not likely. "I do not require your assistance, Miss Hartleigh. Pickens, hold the chair steady." He tossed the crutches aside and dropped into the padded seat.

"Now, Miss Hartleigh, we shall take a turn outside for a few minutes. Down the drive for a short way and back will be sufficient. Pickens, help Miss Hartleigh take this damned chair down the front steps. She might tip me out."

They started off down the drive. The air, full of the scents of spring and bird song, energized Douglas. He breathed deeply, enjoying the moment. Enjoying the feel of the warm breeze. Enjoying Miss Hartleigh. She pushed the chair slowly and leaned over to speak to him.

"There's a wren building a nest in the hedge over there. I watched her yesterday. If we stay quiet, she might show herself."

In absolute silence, they waited. Douglas rested his head on the back of the chair. Far away, a dog bayed. Likely one of the hounds out coursing the grounds searching for rabbits. In a small stand of trees off to the side, a chaffinch burst into its cheeky song.

"There." Miss Hartleigh whispered into his ear. "Do you see her?"

Douglas nodded, though he'd not seen the wren. Only a quick movement and she was gone. Tendrils of hair from under his companion's bonnet brushed his cheek. Without thinking he raised his hand and threaded his fingers through her silky curls, feathery soft on his skin.

She jerked upright and swung the chair around. "Shall we return to the house, my lord? I do not wish to tire you."

Douglas glanced over his shoulder to observe her. She straightened her bonnet and retied the ribbons under her chin. A pink flush colored her cheeks. His touch had alarmed her. Alarmed him as well. Alarmed him into desiring her. Desire Miss Hartleigh? Douglas cleared his throat. The spring air had addled his brain.

"I am not yet ready to return. Take me towards the stable area. There is a pleasant stretch of lawn nearby and a bench under a beech tree. I shall sit there while you have one of the grooms fetch Misty. It's time I became re-acquainted with her. She's a favorite of mine, raised her from birth. She's full of spirit and hard to handle."

Catherine trundled the heavy chair along the winding path that circled the house. Arriving at the lawn, she blanched at the prospect of wheeling him over to the tree.

"My lord, I doubt if I can push you across the grass to the bench. Shall I run back inside for your crutches? Perhaps you can make your way..."

"No." He snapped. "I shall stay here. Be careful around Misty. Let one of the grooms handle her, she's not easy with strangers."

Catherine hurried to the stables. "Hallo. Is anyone here?" A horse nickered. Catherine searched up and down. Where were the grooms? The stalls were empty except for one. Misty poked her head over the half-door and pricked her ears.

"Well, Misty, what do you think? Lord Beckwith is anxious to see you and the grooms must be out exercising the other horses."

She smoothed her hand over the mare's nose, then rubbed under her chin. Misty nuzzled her head against Catherine's shoulder. "Will you let me take you?"

Nervous about entering the stall without one of the grooms present, Catherine slipped the bolt, opened the door, and stepped inside. The mare flicked her ears, muscles rippled at her shoulders, her neck tensed and she backed away. Catherine paused, waited for the mare to relax her neck, then spoke to her.

"There now. No need to be afraid. I like horses, and I especially like you." Remaining still, she shifted her gaze away from Misty and waited for the mare to make the first move. Misty sidled towards Catherine and snuffled at her. Whatever she smelled seemed to please her.

Confident the mare had accepted her, Catherine unhooked a braided leather lead rope from the side of the stall, clipped it to Misty's bridle, and walked her outside. Jogging along with the frisky mare, Catherine ran up to Lord Beckwith, laughing.

"What the hell do you think you are doing, Miss Hartleigh?" He tried to stand up and fell back in his chair.

"The grooms must be out exercising the other horses so I..." Catherine wilted under the anger blazing in his dark eyes. She halted Misty and whispered. "Behave yourself or he'll blame me if you don't."

"So you decided to risk injury instead of waiting for one of the grooms. You are a fool, Miss Hartleigh."

"And you are bad tempered, Lord Beckwith. I am not a fool. I have been around horses most of my life, and Misty is no more difficult than any other skittish animal. I've visited her almost every day. She and I are friends." Catherine stood her ground. Lord Beckwith would not intimidate her. "Now, do you want me to return her to the stable or will you stop frowning and speak to her?"

He clucked at the mare and she trotted towards him. Seeing them together, Misty nuzzling his neck and Lord Beckwith rubbing his hands over her flank, Catherine forgot her ill-humor. A picture captured her imagination. Tonight she would set up the easel in her room and sketch. She'd show the sun glinting on the mare's sleek chestnut hide, Lord Beckwith in profile, his dark head resting against her flank. She'd not draw him in the chair. The sketch would have him sitting at an angle on a stone wall with the horse beside him.

A groom ran up the path towards them, skidded to a stop, and removed his cap. "My lord, how did Misty come here? I was exercising Kip, came back, and found her missing."

"My companion, Miss Hartleigh, seems to have a way with horses. She brought her to me."

The groom smiled at Catherine. "I mind you, now. You've come by a few times, like as not Misty remembered you talking to her."

"She's a lovely creature. I would dearly love to ride her some day." Catherine bit her tongue and hoped she had not overstepped herself. Lord Beckwith was in a testy mood, and the mare was obviously cherished. He might object to her being ridden by someone other than the grooms or himself.

"Take Misty to the stable, Jim, I am returning to the house."

Lord Beckwith nodded at Catherine. She grasped the handles of the chair, turned it around, and began the slow push back to the house. He remained silent. Her arms trembled from the effort of wheeling the clumsy chair, and she sighed with relief when they reached the front steps of the manor. If these excursions were to become a regular part of her work, she'd require assistance with the chair.

"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I'll send for Pickens and one of the footmen to lift your chair into the house. I fear my arms are not strong enough to move you safely." She started up the steps.

"Come back, Miss Hartleigh. Please sit down." He motioned to a stone bench at the side of the steps.

Grateful for the rest, she did as she was told and waited for him to speak. Discomposed under his intense scrutiny, she lowered her gaze and concentrated on the activity of an ant dragging a dead wasp across a flagstone. She wished he would say something. The ant disappeared into a crack under the steps.

"Do you wish to ride?"

Catherine raised her eyes. He was not exactly smiling, but he was not frowning either. More like he was thinking. "If it is convenient, my lord, and does not encroach on my time with you. Mr. Francis suggested he and I might take a turn about the grounds, and Lady Beckwith agreed. I have written my mother asking her to send my riding costume."

He studied her closely. "What experience have you had with horses?"

"I...my family...we had a home in Dorset with a small stable. I've been riding all my life. My brother and I used to..." Catherine paused.

Lord Beckwith raised his brows. "Your brother?"

"He has gone abroad, my lord. I've not heard from him for..." She swallowed the lump in her throat. Johnny had been away for so long, and she missed him. "We used to take half wild ponies and teach them good manners. When we finished our work, they were easy and gentle, perfect for the neighbors' children to ride."

"Very well. If you are confident you can handle Misty, you may ride her. But take care, once you are in the saddle, she'll try to bend you to her will. She's not a rough pony but a very fine thoroughbred with a temperament to match. Only Parsons, the head groom, exercises her. She was one of my favorite mounts before...before..." His face hardened. "Call Pickens, I am weary of your company."

Stung by his last remark, Catherine chose to ignore it. "But, my lord, why do you not try to ride? You have a good knee on your...on your wounded leg, and there's nothing wrong with your arms and hands. Surely if riding gives you pleasure, you..."

"Miss Hartleigh, you become too familiar. You are my paid companion not my advisor. I do not wish to ride, is that clear? Do not mention the subject again."

Put firmly in her place, Catherine rose to her feet, straightened her back, and walked up the steps. Seething with anger, she paused under the portico and stared down at him.

"Lord Beckwith, I do not enjoy being your companion. God help me, had I known I would have to spend my days with an arrogant, ill-mannered boor, I never would have come. You sit in that gloomy room feeling sorry for yourself because you were wounded in the Crimea.

"Let me tell you, my lord, you are one of the lucky ones. You have wealth, a magnificent home, the comfort of a family, and are a privileged member of society. The wounded soldiers I see begging on the London streets put you to shame. They have nothing. No hope. Nothing. And you have everything to live for. A fiancée who cares for you. A wonderful loving mother. And you have responsibilities to your tenants, to your land, to your..."

He glared at her. "Have you finished, Miss Hartleigh?"

Catherine gasped. She had gone too far. "I am sorry, my lord. Please forgive me." She turned on her heel. "I will send for Pickens. Good morning."

Safe in her room, she paced the floor. Whatever had possessed her to speak like that? She agonized over what she had said. Not given to making cruel remarks, she longed to take back every word. Except...he had been very rude, taking his bad temper out on her because of her innocent remark about him attempting to ride again.

She stopped in her tracks. If he wanted to stay shut up in the house for the rest of his life, what business was it of hers? When he reported her behavior to Lady Beckwith, she'd dismiss Catherine on the spot.

Anxiety tightened her throat. Her mother had taken it into her head to purchase an expensive gown for evening wear instead of settling the account with the coal merchant. Her last letter had shocked Catherine.

"I simply had to have something new. An invitation came from Lady Newberry to attend an evening function and I did feel the need for a little company. Since you left, I have been quite bereft..."

Now, either she had to go down on her knees and apologize to Lord Beckwith or risk dismissal. Dismissal without a reference at that. An apology it had to be. But still angry with him and his bad manners, she changed her mind about painting him with Misty. Instead, she set up her easel, pinned on a thick piece of sketching paper, and began a charcoal drawing of the bad-tempered Lord Beckwith. With a few swift strokes, she had him down perfectly...black hair, glowering dark eyes, a frown on his brow, and his mouth in a tight, disapproving line.

Catherine grinned at the sketch. She loved cartooning. Inspired, she printed a line below his face. "Miss Hartleigh. You are a fool who does not know her place. Kindly speak when you are spoken to."

She then added a small drawing of herself in the lower right hand corner. A fair likeness. She was on her knees, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed. Circling her humble figure, she scrolled. Forgive me, Lord Beckwith. I will remain silent, unless ordered to speak.

Having rid herself of her antagonism to Lord Beckwith by taking it out on the sketch, she picked up a book she'd laid aside earlier and sat outside on the balcony to read. She'd wait awhile before apologizing. Wait until his anger cooled or he might throw something at her.

Shaken to the core, his gut in a knot, Douglas stared blindly into space. Is this what he'd become? An object of pity, scorned by his paid companion, taking out his anger on her, as though she were responsible for his injuries. "Shall I move you into the house, milord?"

"Leave me, Pickens, I'll stay here awhile longer. Leave my crutches on the steps, I'll make my own way into the house."

Alone, Douglas wheeled himself down the drive to the hedge where she...Miss Hartleigh had seen the wren. Her brutally frank words had cut deep. Cut into his heart. Into the dark place where he'd sought to hide from life.

A flickering movement caught his eye. The wren darted into a tiny opening in the hedge. Douglas eased back in his chair and remained quiet, hoping she would reappear. Spring had arrived without him knowing it. Earth smells, budding trees, and bird song invaded his senses.

He'd always loved the spring. Bird-nesting with Dolly. Gathering frog spawn in jars. Digging up worms to bait their fishhooks. Catching trout in the river. Life was perfect then.

And now? Douglas studied his hands. They were strong. He stretched out his right leg. It would strengthen once he started walking. He rolled up his left trouser leg. There was nothing wrong with his thigh and knee. His muscles needed work. Could he ride again? Did he even want to try? What if he was fitted for an artificial limb? Would that help him ride and walk?

Douglas wheeled around and started back to the house. He could either join the human race again or...or what? Stay shut up in his rooms with Miss Hartleigh reading to him until her three months were up. And what if she left before then, tired of his ill humor and insults? He'd miss her. Miss her lively presence. Miss the fire in her blue eyes when she chose to speak her mind.

A footman dashed down from the house to assist Douglas.

"Your crutches, my lord." He steadied the chair and awkward as a babe taking its first steps, Douglas made his way into the house, up the staircase and along to his suite. Muscles aching with fatigue, he staggered into his room and bumped the door shut behind him. He really had to do leg and arm strengthening exercises.

His valet helped him off with his jacket and shirt and laid out a change of clothing. "While I wash and change, go and knock on Miss Hartleigh's door. Tell her to come at once. I wish to speak with her."

"Yes, milord."

Douglas bathed in cool water and dipped his head into the wash basin to wet his hair.

Pickens hurried into the bathroom. "She's not there, milord."

"Not there? She must be there. Help me dress, I shall go with you." She had ripped into him, dared to say things no one else had. Miss Hartleigh did not lack courage, and his sharp words had obviously upset her. Her eyes had sparkled with tears before she turned her back on him and stormed into the house. She deserved an apology.

Dammit, he was forever apologizing to the woman. He'd have handled a man better...would have been rid of him double quick. But Miss Hartleigh...she was different. He didn't like to think of her crying.

Douglas rested on his crutches while Pickens knocked on her door. "Not a sound, milord. Shall I try later?"

"Knock harder. She's likely having the vapors."

Silence from the other side. "Open the door, Pickens." Concerned she might be weeping into her pillow, Douglas stood in the doorway and gazed into her room. Neat as a pin except for her coat and bonnet on the bed. The orchid was on her beside table. His companion sat on the balcony. Intent on her book, she was unaware of his presence. The sketch on her easel caught his eye.

"Pickens." Douglas whispered. "Take that drawing from the easel and bring it to my room, I wish to study it."

Like a conspirator intent on stealing the crown jewels, Pickens tiptoed across the floor, removed the sketch, and tiptoed back to Douglas.

"What shall I do with it, milord? Miss Hartleigh might not take kindly to me entering her room and stealing her sketch." A worried frown pinched his face.

"You are innocent, Pickens. If she inquires about her drawing, I will confess to stealing it."

Becoming more and more used to the crutches, Douglas followed his valet back across the hall.

"It is not a good likeness, milord, although she does have you down pat when you are out of sorts."

"Quite, Pickens, I shall have to be more pleasant. I'll not be fit to return to society with such a face."

"You're returning to society, milord?" Caught by surprise, his valet raised his brows.

"I think I may."

Douglas settled into a chair, whirled around, and faced the open window. Sunshine streamed in. "Send for my mother, Pickens. She'll be pleased to accompany me to London. I will require you to attend me and bring along young Morton in case I require assistance in and out of trains and carriages. Now hand me that sketch."

"Very good, milord. I'll inform your mother. She'll be pleased. Very pleased indeed." Pickens paused at the door. "Would you care for a brandy, milord? I purloined a bottle from the cellar."

Douglas shook his head. "Later, perhaps, before I retire for the night. It will help me sleep."

Miss Hartleigh's sketch amused him. She had an artistic flair, right enough, and a sense of humor. He'd have her read to him after luncheon. He was tired from the effort of walking with crutches, and she had a restful voice. Perhaps he'd drop off to sleep.

His nights were wakeful. The carnage in Crimea, the dead littering the bloody battlefield, so many young lives lost to no good purpose, gave him no peace. Although he'd not been involved in planning the charge against the Russian guns, he had been part of the officer corps in the Light Brigade who led so many to their deaths.

Douglas rubbed his temples. God in heaven would it never leave him? He'd not mounted a horse since returning home. Something held him back. Not just his amputated leg. Something else. A darkness had clouded his soul. Until today.

Until today.

Being out in the grounds with Miss Hartleigh had given his spirits a lift. The spring air, the wren building her nest, having Misty nuzzle into him, acted like a tonic.

His mother had done well to employ a female companion, but her time with him was running out. In less than a fortnight, her first month would be up and she might leave. She'd been persuaded to stay for one month, at least. After that she was free to return to London if he proved too unbearable. Short of keeping her a prisoner, he could not force her to work out the original three-month contract.

Douglas smiled. He'd done his best to be rid of her. Now he had to persuade her of his change of heart. She'd enjoy spending spring and early summer in the country. They might even ride together. But before that, he had to visit London, speak to a surgeon about an artificial limb, make peace with Madeline, and, for her sake, force himself to attend at least one social event.

Madeline. Days went by and he never thought of her. Perhaps their hasty betrothal had been a mistake. He could not imagine a future with her, fathering their children, being a dutiful husband.

What had changed him? The war. God knows it had aged him. Made him unfit company for everyone except close family.

And where did Miss Hartleigh fit into his life? He studied the drawing again. There he was a miserable brute of a man and Miss Hartleigh, a poor little humble creature.

Humble she was not. He'd not quite taken the measure of her yet, but humble did not describe his companion. She had a sharp tongue and a pen to match. Spending days with her on his return from London would give them time to become better acquainted.

But at the end of one month, if he could not persuade her to stay on, she'd return to London, and he'd not see her again.

A strange heaviness settled on his heart.

CHAPTER SIX

Catherine closed her book, stood, and stretched her arms above her head to ease the ache in her shoulders. She sincerely hoped Lord Beckwith would take pity on her and have one of the young male servants push the wheeled chair if he decided to take another turn outside.

Then again he might not want her company since he did not seem to care how he spoke to her nor how his sharp words cut her. But he did say she could ride Misty, unless he changed his mind after her tirade on the front steps. She'd write him a note apologizing for her behavior. Go down on her knees and beg for mercy. If he insisted.

Not many more days and her first month would be up. Or would it? She had lost track of time. Was she expected to make up for the days she'd been ill? It would take all her courage to put up with Lord Beckwith if he insisted she work the full three months for which she had been paid. Perhaps he enjoyed tormenting her.

The clock ticked quietly on the mantel in her room. Luncheon would be served within the half-hour. She'd been out with Lord Beckwith longer than she realized and glad she was to be rid of him. Her coat and bonnet were on the bed where she'd tossed them when she came in. She hung them up and...

Something was wrong. Something was missing. Where was her sketch?

She had left it pinned to the easel, and it was not there! It had to be there. It had to be. Had she slipped it into the back of the sketching pad? She flicked through every page. Not there.

Catherine scurried around the room, opening drawers, peering under the bed until she had searched every nook and cranny. She had to find it! No one must see it. Why had she made him look like the devil himself or close to the devil, although she had never seen such a creature? Catherine plunked down on the bed. Someone must have entered her room when she was on the balcony and taken the sketch. But why?

One of the servants? Anna would never do such a thing, but perhaps she had come in to put away laundered clothing and the cartoon had offended her. If Lady Beckwith saw the stupid drawing, she'd be angry. She adored her son and would not take kindly to Catherine mocking him.

Dismissed from her employment, she would have to return at least two month's wages, and she did not have the money. No apology, however abject, would stem Lady Beckwith's wrath. Even the Honorable Francis, kindly soul that he was, might fail to understand her sketch was not meant for public viewing nor did she mean to ridicule Lord Beckwith. It was just...just a bit of foolishness. She meant no harm.

Misery dogging her footsteps, Catherine trailed downstairs to the dining room. Lady Beckwith met her at the door. Now the blow would fall.

"I have wonderful news. Douglas and I are traveling to London tomorrow. Isn't that splendid? You have done wonders for him. I understand you had him out of doors this morning. Why he is almost like his old self." Gesturing with her diamond-ringed hands, Lady Beckwith fairly glowed with happiness.

"Douglas and Dolly were always such fun. I feel quite invigorated and will purchase some new gowns in London. When Douglas is perfectly well, we shall have parties here like we used to."

Giddy, her head in a whirl, Catherine steadied herself against the side of the door. She'd expected to be dismissed or severely reprimanded. What was Lady Beckwith saying?

"He is going to London? With Dolly?"

"No, Miss Hartleigh, not with Dolly. Douglas has decided to visit a physician and inquire about an artificial limb."

"I am pleased, my lady." Still confused at hearing the unexpected news and curious about Dolly, Catherine risked asking about her. Did Lord Beckwith have a mistress as well as a fiancée? Did she live in the neighborhood? Why had no one mentioned her? "Is Dolly a close relative?"

"Dear me, have I not mentioned him. Dolly is my younger son. He is serving in India with his regiment. I've just received a letter from him saying he's on his way home on leave. You'll like Dolly. He's an awful tease. When he was a lad, he used to gather up toads and let them loose in the kitchen. Fearing to step on them, the maids jumped up on chairs, shrieking. I finally put a stop to his antics when he brought grass snakes into the dining room and the butler fainted dead away. Is that not true, Blewett?"

The butler turned away from supervising a footman placing a soup tureen on the sideboard. "I thought my end had come when they slithered around under my feet. Will you be seated then?"

Catherine and Lady Beckwith took their places. Francis hurried in to join them. "What's this I hear, Marie Claire? Is Douglas really going to London? Pickens informed me he was out with Miss Hartleigh but I found it hard to believe. Why Douglas has not stepped foot outside his suite since he returned home three months ago. Do you wish me to accompany you?"

"Not at all, Francis. You stay here and amuse Miss Hartleigh, until we return. She has done wonders for Douglas. He actually did have a turn around the garden with her this morning."

Sick at heart about the missing sketch, Catherine had another worry. With Lord Beckwith away, where did she stand in regard to her paid duties. "My lady, if you and Lord Beckwith will be away for several weeks, I must return some of the money you have paid me. You are not obliged to pay me when I am not working."

"Nonsense, child. You stay on and take time for yourself. You've earned every penny. We should not be more than a fortnight in London. Dolly is expected within the next month or so, depending on whether the clipper he boards is blessed with favorable winds. I certainly don't want to miss his arrival."

She leaned across the table and patted Catherine's hand. "You and Francis can ride out and about the grounds. Enjoy this lovely spring weather once you have your costume."

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. Her wretched sketch had not surfaced. One of the servants must have taken it and she had to find and destroy it. Lady Beckwith deserved better from her than a scurrilous cartoon insulting her son. She excused herself after luncheon and hurried along the hallway back to her room.

"Miss Hartleigh."

Pretending not to hear, she tiptoed to her door and opened it. She had to find the sketch.

"Miss Hartleigh! Please come here. I wish you to read to me." Lord Beckwith's commanding voice boomed from his suite.

Catherine sighed. She peeked inside her room, hoping by some miracle the sketch was back on the easel. It wasn't. Fearing the thief might return and take something else she locked the door, and dropped the key in her pocket.

Still cautious, not at all sure he might not throw something at her, especially after this morning, she opened his door.

Slowly.

An inch at a time.

He sat facing her. His grim expression did not bode well. Did he regret his promise allowing her to ride Misty? His moods changed so quickly from sun to cloud to full-blown storm, all without warning. She remained alert

"Well, come in. Don't lurk over there, I am not going to hurl a book at you, although you deserve it."

Leaving the door open in case she had to beat a hasty retreat, Catherine approached him.

"Oh no!" She could not believe her eyes. There was her sketch hanging from the mantel, anchored in place by two brass candlesticks.

"Where did you get that? It's mine. Someone stole it!" She rushed to retrieve it. Lord Beckwith reached across with one of his crutches and cut her off.

"Stay where you are, Miss Hartleigh. I wish to discuss art with you."

Catherine stamped her foot. She hadn't stamped her foot since she was three years old, but if she didn't stamp her foot and relieve her feelings, she might seize his crutch and whack him with it.

"You stole my sketch! How dare you enter my room and take something that belongs to me. I demand its return. You have no right to treat me like this." She ducked around him and grabbed the sketch. The brass candlesticks clattered to the stone hearth. The base broke off one and clinked to a halt by the curb.

Catherine's hand flew to her lips. "I'm sorry. I'll pay to have it repaired..." She tried to choke back tears, but a few drops escaped and trickled down her cheeks.

"For God's sake, don't cry. 'Tis my fault. I should not be teasing you. Come, dry your eyes, here's a handkerchief. Would you like a brandy? There's a decanter and glasses on the table by my desk. Pour me one as well"

She sniffled into the linen. "I don't like brandy."

"Have some water, there's a carafe beside the decanter."

"I don't want water either." She ripped a corner of the sketch.

"Please don't tear it up."

She glanced at him. His voice was gentle and the smile banished the suffering that usually marked his face. "I am very sorry, my lord. I never meant anyone to see the sketch. It is a very bad likeness."

"Not at all. My valet says it an excellent likeness when I am out of sorts. May I keep it?"

"Keep it? Oh no, my lord, I do not want anyone else to see it. I should not have done it."

Why should she apologize, he was in he wrong. Not her. Furious at him, she threw his handkerchief on the table and scowled.

"You should not have stolen it! That was a mean-spirited thing to do. And what were you doing in my room? Surely I have a right to privacy."

"Will you please sit down, Miss Hartleigh? Wait, fetch me a small brandy, sparring with you has dried my throat."

Still seething, Catherine poured a measure for him, a glass of water for herself, handed him the brandy, and took a seat near the window. She rolled up the offending sketch and curled her fingers around it. She supposed she ought to apologize for the dreadful things she had said to him earlier, but he had to ask her pardon first for stealing the sketch!

Lord Beckwith sipped the brandy and gazed at her over the rim of the glass. "I had Pickens knock at your door. Twice. When there was no answer, I feared you were upset...upset because I spoke harshly to you and thought you might be crying. I wanted to make amends. I ordered Pickens to open the door, and there was the sketch in plain view."

He put down the glass. "I had no right to enter your room, and I do apologize, but I could not resist the sketch. It is very clever. I really would like to keep it, to remind me not to glower so often."

"But if your mother sees how I pictured you, she will be offended."

"Then I shall keep it in my bedchamber. Now, please let me have it and do sign your name on the bottom. There's ink and a pen on my desk."

Not sure whether this was a polite request or a direct order, Catherine decided it was an order and obeyed. She signed her name and the date, rolled up the sketch, and handed it to him. She sat down on an ottoman close to his chair.

"I am very sorry I was so rude to you when we returned from our walk this morning. I had no right to speak like that."

"You had every right. I was rude and deserved every word. Say no more about it."

A burden lifted from her shoulders, Catherine brightened. "Lady Beckwith informed me of your plans to visit London for a fortnight. I hope you enjoy your stay."

"Thank you. What about you, Miss Hartleigh? Mother suggested you remain here until we return. How will you occupy yourself without having to attend a cranky invalid?"

Catherine laughed. "You're not an invalid, Lord Beckwith, just cranky and not all the time. I think I would have been bored reading to a languishing lady. When I was engaged to come here, I truly did believe I would be attending a lady not a..."

He interrupted her. "...not a rude male who threw books at you and made you unhappy." He leaned forward and clasped her hand. "Thank you for putting up with me."

His touch sent tingles coursing across her palm. Her hand rested within his for several seconds before she withdrew it. Struggling to maintain a semblance of composure when her heart, for some reason, was doing cartwheels in her chest, Catherine rose to her feet and walked to the window. His sitting room overlooked the long avenue of trees lining the drive. Not yet in leaf, they soaked up the warm spring sun.

"Do you wish me to read to you, Lord Beckwith?" She turned to face him. He was leaning back in his chair, studying her.

"Please. Your voice is very restful, and my eyes still tire easily. I might nod off for an hour or two. I do not sleep well during the night."

"What shall it be, my lord? The Life of Johnson? We barely started on it. It is on the table beside your chair."

He picked it up. "Excellent. That will surely do the trick." He finished the brandy. "What is your Christian name? I am tired of calling you Miss Hartleigh."

"Catherine, my lord."

A roguish smile touched his lips. "Catherine suits you, but I shall call you, Kate. You are definitely a Kate. Not exactly a shrewish Kate but a Kate with definite views and a hasty temper."

"I should hope I am not like Shakespeare's Kate!" A flush heated her cheeks. "What is more I do not spell my name with a K. I am Catherine with a C. No one has ever called me, Kate."

"Then I shall be the first. You are Kate, my lady companion."

"Lord Beckwith, I believe you are teasing me." She tried not to smile but to no avail. The smile would not stop.

"I would not dream of teasing Kate. She might throw something at me." He set aside The Life of Johnson. "Let us try something different. There is a volume of Shakespeare on my bookshelf, and I should like you to read from The Taming of The Shrew. I fancy learning more about the shrewish Kate."

"My lord, I think the Life of Johnson would help you sleep. I tend to act out the parts when I read from a play. Since my acting is very bad, it would spoil your temper." She suppressed a giggle.

"You should smile more often, Kate. It suits you. You have a rather delightful dimple at the side of your mouth."

Catherine blushed. Her cheeks were surely crimson. She was not prepared for Lord Beckwith's compliment about her appearance. It was just as well he was going off to London for a spell giving her an opportunity to recover her equilibrium. His changeable temper was unsettling. His compliment was particularly unsettling.

She found the Shakespeare and seated herself on the window-seat, a safe distance from Lord Beckwith. Far enough so he could not hold her hand again. "Shall I begin reading now, my lord?

"Yes and you are to stop calling me, Lord Beckwith or my lord. My name is Douglas. If you call me, Lord Beckwith or my lord again, I might be tempted to throw something at you."

Catherine bent her head over the book sure her face was flaming red, and feared her voice would come out a breathless croak. Doubtless he was in high spirits at the thought of going to London. She would humor him. On his return, their relationship would return to what it had been at the beginning.

She cleared her throat. Twice. "Close your eyes, Douglas. I shall begin."

"Very good, Kate. Do your best."

Within minutes, his slow, steady breathing told her he was asleep. Catherine read on for several minutes then set the book aside. Free to gaze at him, she studied this man who had made her life so miserable, she wanted to run away. In repose, his face lost all trace of suffering. His mouth curved in a slight smile. Was he dreaming about London? About his fiancée? His head drooped forward. Catherine picked up a small pillow and tucked it behind his head. Unable to help herself, she brushed back strands of black hair fallen across his brow. He stirred, and Catherine held her breath, praying he had not felt her touching him. She would die of embarrassment.

When he did not waken, she returned to the window-seat, read aloud awhile longer, but her fingers itched for her sketching pad. Perhaps there was paper in his desk. Tiptoeing across the room, she opened one drawer, then another until she found what she wanted and returned to her seat with paper, a firm blotting pad, pen and a bottle of ink.

Catherine thought to draw him first in profile. She had not paid too much attention to his nose. His eyes and mouth had captured her artist's eye. He had a splendid nose. Not perfect. It had a slight bump on the bridge, but it suited his face. She drew him with his head tilted slightly back, chin raised, and just enough of his well-muscled neck to balance the sketch.

Satisfied with his profile, she stood in front of him to plan her next move...a frontal likeness. There'd not be a trace of bad temper in this sketch. Seated on the ottoman, she drew a quick outline, and knew, at once, what she was doing was wrong. His profile was one thing. Drawing him asleep did not feel right. It was too much like invading his privacy without asking permission.

What she'd really enjoy would be drawing him with his eyes open. He'd be looking at her in that particular way he had one eyebrow quirked in an inquiring arch, and a smile on his lips. But how could she do that without feeling all warm and quivery inside? Why her fingers would not be able to hold her pen steady...no likeness then.

Catherine studied his hands resting on the arms of the chair. He had strong, square, capable hands. Hands that held hers mere minutes ago taking her breath away. It would be safe to sketch them.

Lord Beckwith...She could not bring herself to think of him as Douglas. Her sketches complete, she signed them, "Kate", folded them and slid them into her pocket as a keepsake for the future when she'd be gone from Beckwith Manor, and he'd have long forgotten his lady companion.

But why had he taken it into his mind to call her Kate? She did not think of herself as a Kate. Not yet. She would have to become used to it. Returning the blotting pad, pen and ink to his desk, Catherine crossed back to the window, and settled on the seat. Back resting on the wall, she drew her knees up to her chin, prepared to stay until he wakened. She supposed that is what companions did. Stayed until they were told to leave. He might ask her to continue reading.

Until this past hour, her times with Lord Beckwith had been fraught with danger. Not physical danger exactly, unless she counted their first meeting when he very nearly hit her with a book. It was the cruel things he had said that hurt. She was better able to cope with a thrown book than painful assaults on her character.

Drowsing in the late afternoon sun beaming through the window, Catherine wondered about her future after she left the manor. After dealing with Lord Beckwith's hostility, she felt able to cope with almost anything except another difficult man. There'd not be another Lord Beckwith in her life. She had learned her lesson. One invalid like him was quite enough. Advertising her services in The Times might be useful, stating unequivocally her preferences. Ladies only need apply.

He shifted in his chair, and for seconds his eyes blinked open. Gazing around the room, he caught sight of Catherine, smiled, closed his eyes, and settled back. Relaxed in sleep, all the tension she had observed in his body seemed to dwindle away. Whenever he smiled at her, which had not been often, the taut lines around his mouth disappeared. Perhaps the visit to London, and the cheerful presence of his fiancée would finally drive away the sadness still lurking behind his dark eyes.

Catherine sighed. How peaceful, quiet and dull it will be without him. He'd kept her edgy, and off balance every minute she had spent with him.

Until now.

But when he awoke, he might revert to his miserable, bad tempered self. Catherine grinned. There was never a dull moment around Lord Beckwith.

~~~

The hours Douglas had spent with Kate had passed quickly, and he was sorry when the day ended. It was close to midnight when Douglas settled down in bed, pillows propped behind his back. The lamp on the nearby table burned low. He had slept for two hours in the afternoon while Kate read to him. Two blessed hours without a disturbing dream. He'd surfaced every now and then, heard her voice, and drifted back to sleep. When he wakened, she had set the book aside, and sat sideways on the window seat, her knees drawn up to her chin, her face turned away from him. Sunlight glinted through her hair, turning it to spun gold. Tendrils had escaped from the dark blue ribbon holding them in place, and drifted in tantalizing curls over her ears. Unaware of him, she had seemed quietly content, waiting for him to waken.

He hated the nights. Hated the horrors waiting for him when he closed his eyes. The nightmares that plagued him had ceased this past week. If Kate were with him...

Damnation, he was like a child in the nursery, wanting someone to read him to sleep and stay with him during the night. To chase away the monsters.

Douglas smiled, remembering the monsters of his childhood. When he and Dolly were young lads, they had scared themselves witless with ghost stories. Monster stories. Especially about monsters hiding in the wardrobe or climbing up the outside drain pipes into their room.

But there were no monsters out there. Now they were in his mind, locked up until he fell asleep at night when they stole out to haunt him. He'd be shouting orders to his troopers, spurting blood burning his eyes, his horse screaming in agony, and men all around him, falling like flies, trailing their guts.

He shuddered. Little wonder his temper was unpredictable, lashing out at Kate as though she was responsible for his sleepless nights. Settling back on the pillows, he thought about her, about why she sought employment as a paid companion. She did not have the look of a companion, and her accent labeled her as someone from a background similar to his. A woman as attractive as Miss Kate Hartleigh should have suitors clamoring for her attention.

Relaxed, eyes closed, he pictured her as she walked towards him, leading Misty. She'd been laughing then, and the mare, dancing at the end of the lead, seemed to be laughing with her...

Douglas wakened, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. A cock crowed on the estate farm. Either he was not seeing straight or it was half past seven o'clock in the morning, and he'd slept through the night. He reached for the bell rope to summon Pickens.

The valet hurried into the bedchamber. "Yes, milord."

"Pickens, what time is it?"

Pickens stepped over to the mantel and peered at the clock. "A minute or two past the half hour, milord. It is half past the hour of seven."

"Is it, by God. I've not slept like that for months." Douglas threw aside the covers. Naked to the waist, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, slipped a silk robe over his shoulders, and reached for his crutches.

"You look rested, milord. Was your night undisturbed? I did not hear you call out."

"I read until late, and must have fallen asleep." He made his way to the window. The last thing he remembered was picturing Kate with Misty. The image he had conjured up seemed so real he half expected to see his companion riding the mare down the drive.

"You'll be off to London this morning, milord. Lady Beckwith informed me, you expect to be in town for a fortnight. A bit of a rush but I've your trunk packed and ready to go."

Douglas frowned. London? Why was he going to London? Yesterday it had seemed a good idea, a pleasant diversion, now...now he wished to enjoy Kate's company a little longer. He'd postpone the journey until after she had left his employ. Having made that decision, he propped his crutches under his arms, and made his way to the bathroom adjoining his suite.

Taking his time, he stropped his razor, lathered his face, and whistling through his teeth went about the tricky business of shaving. Tricky because he had to steady himself against the wash basin, and balance on one leg. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror over the basin. He felt good. It was good to be alive.

"Douglas, are you decent? May I speak with you? His mother's voice called him from his meandering thoughts. Finished shaving, he toweled his face, slipped into his robe, and joined her in his sitting room. Pickens had laid out a tray with a pot of coffee, and a rack of toast on a side table. Douglas poured coffee for himself and his mother.

"We're to catch the eleven o'clock train. Pickens has taken your trunk down to the carriage. Will you be ready to leave within the hour? You don't want to be jostled so we'll have Henry drive slowly to Winchfield."

His mother radiated happiness. She was looking forward to seeing her friends, and doing some shopping. Douglas did not have the heart to disappoint her, and it was time to think of Madeline. He'd neglected her far too long.

"I shall ready in plenty of time. Pickens. Come and assist me into my traveling clothes." His mother kissed his cheek, and swished out of the room.

Douglas had one last thing to do before leaving. "Pickens, knock on Miss Hartleigh's door, and ask her to come here."

Within minutes, he heard her crossing the hall. Dressed in blue, Kate stepped into his room. What had she done to her hair? Instead of her usual attractive curls, she'd twisted her hair into a series of tight braids, and looped them into a knot at her nape.

"You sent for me, my lord?"

Douglas shook his head. "Did I not ask you to call me, Douglas? You are definitely a Kate. A difficult Kate."

She blushed. "You did, my lord, but how can I call you, Douglas? I am your paid companion."

Suppressing a smile, he raised his brows. "What a contrary young lady you are. A perfect companion does what she is told, and I asked you to call me, Douglas. No more Lord Beckwith or my lord."

She nodded. "Is there anything else...Douglas?"

"Yes. Why have you braided your hair?" He hadn't asked to see her to discuss her hair, but he did not like those damned braids.

"Why to keep it neat."

"But neat does not suit you. I am not used to this neat Kate. When I'm in London I don't want to remember a neat Kate, I want to remember an untidy Kate, the way she was when I first saw her."

Her smile dazzled him. "Then I shall return to my room and comb out my braids. I'd not want you suffering on my account."

"There's no time, I have to leave in a few minutes. Loosen them here. I'll help you."

"But..." Her fingers flew to her hair, working to free her curls.

Douglas crossed the room, and stood behind her. Crutches propped under his arms he loosened the braid at her nape. A mass of crinkled curls tumbled into his hands, shimmered down over her shoulders, leaving hints of flowery scent. Fists clenched, he stopped himself from lifting her hair and kissing her nape.

What was he thinking, making free with her hair, an intimacy reserved for lovers? Kate was not his plaything, someone to toy with. Taking a deep breath, he strove for calm. To step back from the brink he'd nearly fallen into he cleared his throat.

"There. Let me see how you look." She turned to face him. "Much better."

"But...but...Douglas." Her cheeks pink, eyes wide, she choked on his name. "I cannot go about with my hair flying about."

"I prefer the way you have been doing it. Braids make you look severe...like a companion." Determined to make light of the incident so as not to embarrass her, Douglas chuckled.

"Kate, your face is a study. I should not tease you, but I really do not like your braids. Now, tell me, what can I bring you from London? I'm off in a few minutes."

She slid the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. "Nothing, my l... Douglas, I do not require anything."

He rested his hand on her arm. "I did not ask what you required. Is there any one thing you might like? Please me, Kate. Let me do this for you."

"Very well, if it will please you, I would like a book on art. I've had little training, and would enjoy studying the works of the great masters, especially those showing how they approach their work. If that is not available, perhaps some oils and a small canvas. I have never painted with oils."

"Then you shall have everything." He held her hand. "Good-bye, Kate. Will you come down and see me off?"

"Of course, my...Douglas. Will you require my assistance on the stairs?"

"Thank you. I shall lean on your arm and if I tumble, we shall fall together." Kate favored him with a smile.

"I'll be with you in a minute, I must find a ribbon to tie back my hair, then your companion will see you safely down the stairs."

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the carriage rolled away from the front of the house, Douglas leaned out to wave at his uncle and Kate, standing on the front steps.

His companion had been at the manor for such a short time, and had spent a mere few hours with him. She'd put up with his ill humor, and the books he'd thrown at her. He smiled to himself. Her sketch was rolled up in his trunk. Once settled in his London home he'd have it framed.

Relaxed on the padded cushions, Douglas half listened to his mother, and her plans for their stay in London. One task he intended to undertake was to make inquiries about Miss Catherine Hartleigh. Why had she answered the advertisement in The Times? Kate was the most unlikely companion he could imagine. He'd fully expected a wispy spinster, and Kate had arrived instead.

His lady companion.

Why was she not wed?

He would make discreet inquiries and might even go so far as to call on her mother.

~~~

Still tingling from his touch, and the warmth of his hands loosening her hair, Catherine watched until the carriage reached the gates, turned left on the road to Winchfield, and disappeared from view. Needing to be alone, she smiled at Mr. Francis. "I'll walk over to the stable, and see Misty. I want her to become used to me before I attempt to ride her. Doug...Lord Beckwith tells me she is very willful and can be difficult."

"Indeed, I've seen her acting up. Very nearly threw one of the grooms when he tried to ride her. You take care. Don't want you injured. I'd have no one to play dominoes with. Can't play myself, I might cheat."

His friendly smile lightened Catherine's mood. "We shall have a competition after dinner this evening. Best three out of five and I'm sure to win."

Already she missed Lord Beckwith. She could not think of him as Douglas. Doubts about her behavior during their last meeting troubled her. Why had she permitted him to undo her braids?

Too true to herself to be dishonest, Catherine knew why. The intimacy of his touch had sent delicious shivery sensations up her back, and she had not the strength to stop him. But allowing him to become so familiar might encourage him to take further liberties. Was he just teasing as her brother used to?

Perhaps. But Lord Beckwith's kind of intimate teasing must stop. She did not feel the least bit sisterly towards his lordship. Not sure what she felt, Catherine dragged her thoughts back from Lord Beckwith, ran down the front steps, and looked up at the sky. It was clear blue with a few puffy white clouds drifting up from the west. The sun warmed her, although a lonely chill settled in her heart.

She had come to love this place, and enjoyed being with the family. Enjoyed being with him, even though, like today, she sensed she had become more his friend than his companion. Catherine dreaded returning to London with its thick fogs and smoky air. Cholera was rife in parts of the city, and she worried about her mother. Perhaps she'd agree to sell the town house, it badly needed repairs, and was hard to keep up. Water seeped into the lower kitchen area when it rained heavily. With the proceeds, they could buy a small cottage in the countryside.

Catherine frowned, and slowed her walk to the stables. Her mother had inherited their country house from her father, lived there as a child, and intended giving it to Johnny when he returned from abroad. Her mother seldom raised her voice, but raised it whenever Catherine suggested selling the house.

"He must have a home to offer his wife. You will marry, of course, so I need not concern myself with your future."

Since no offers of marriage had come her way, and her brother had not returned home, it seemed foolish to keep the house.

Catherine sighed. When her three months were up, she would try to find employment in the countryside. Lady Beckwith would give her an excellent recommendation, had said as much when Catherine asked about her duties while Lord Beckwith was away.

"Good morning, Miss." One of the young grooms, mounted on a big gray, doffed his hat. His frankly admiring glance swept Catherine from head to toe. "Will you be riding this morning? I'd be pleased to accompany you."

Catherine wished she had worn her bonnet, the brim would hide her blushes. "Thank you, I'll not be riding to-day. I've come to visit Misty. Lord Beckwith has given me permission to ride her."

"Be careful with that one, Miss. Don't go into her stall alone. Like to lash out at you, she is. You'll find Misty out in the meadow behind the stable with the other horses." He replaced his cap. "Name's Tom Jepson. Be pleased to escort you."

"Thank you, Tom. I am Miss Hartleigh. Misty and I are well acquainted, and a member of the family has offered to ride with me."

He clattered out of the yard, turned and waved, smiling broadly. Catherine waved back, and returned the smile. She'd enjoy riding out with him if Francis were indisposed. He seemed a pleasant, and likely knew the country roads very well.

It had been months and months since she had been in the company of a young man. Her time with Lord Beckwith did not count. That was different. Being his companion established a certain kind of relationship. But when he touched her hair...

No, she'd not think of that. It was just a bit of nonsense on his part.

Catherine strolled around the stable, and followed the track to the meadow. Six horses grazed on the early spring grass. She spotted Misty and whistled. All the horses tossed their heads and trotted towards the fence. Catherine hung over the top, waiting for them. They were so beautiful, she determined to ride every one of them. Necks outstretched, they jostled each other to reach her.

"I wish I had some sugar lumps for you." She spoke softly and stroked each velvety nose. Misty nipped the flank of one of the horses, and pushed it out of the way. Catherine burst out laughing when the mare stuck her head right over the fence and whinnied.

"Aren't you a bossy little boots then? Want some attention, is that it?" As if on cue, Misty nodded. Catherine rubbed her hands under the mare's neck and, stepping up on a higher rail, stroked the tawny hide. "You are a pretty little lady, I think we shall do very well together."

A pair of dark brown, Belgian draft horses cantered up to the fence, and Misty jerked back, giving way to them. Leaning too far over the rail, Catherine lost her balance. In a flurry of skirts, she tumbled awkwardly into the animals. Tangled in her clothing, Catherine struggled to her feet, frantically trying to dodge the great feathery iron shod hooves of the Belgians pounding on the turf.

Clumps of grass flew up under the snorting, blowing animals milling around Catherine. Bumped sideways, she lost her balance, and crashed to the ground. On her hands and knees, she clawed towards safety. In the confusion, and noise, she saw Misty, her nostrils flaring, her lip rolled back and threatening to bite. She shifted the horses away from the fence.

Her hands scratched, and bleeding, Catherine staggered up, reached the fence, and threw herself up and over. Safe on the other side, her heart pounding, arms trembling with fatigue, she leaned her head against the rails. If Misty hadn't...she did not want to think what might have happened if Misty hadn't shielded her. The horses slowly drifted away from the fence. The Belgians tossed their heads, nickered, and trotted off down the meadow.

Her dress stained with grass and dirt, her hair in a tangle, Catherine cast around for the blue ribbon she'd fastened around her curls. On the other side of the fence, her precious silk ribbon was in shreds. Suddenly her legs quivered, her knees gave way, and she sank to the ground. Unable to stop shaking, she wrapped her arms around her chest to stop the fear chasing up and down her spine. She could have been killed or badly injured.

"Miss? Miss, are you hurt?"

The male voice pulled Catherine's shattered wits together. Tom Jepson slithered from his horse, threw the reins over a fence post, and knelt beside her.

"What is it, Miss?"

Striving for calm, she managed to smile. "Would you assist me to my feet?" She winced when he grasped her hands, and helped her up. Her legs trembled. Sunshine beat down on her shoulders, warming away the fears still gripping her. The groom continued to hold her hands. Very gently, she withdrew them.

"Did you have a fainting spell, Miss? You looked right strange when I saw you."

"I had a fall, Tom. I was up on the fence talking to Misty, and somehow tipped over, right under the feet of a pair of draft horses." She gulped. "They weren't pleased."

"You fell under the Belgians? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, how did you not get yourself killed? They're a new team, not well broke to the plow. Skittish, the plowman tells me."

Catherine stared at her sore hands. "'Twas my fault, I frightened them."

The groom grasped her elbow. "You've had a bad scare, Miss. Come, I'll walk you to the stable. You can rest there."

"Thank you, Tom, I am quite fine now. I shall walk back to the house through the rose garden." He released her arm.

"And you'll not be putting yourself in danger again, will you, Miss?" He studied her, his dark blue eyes and slight frown reflected his concern.

Catherine dusted off her skirt. With her hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, she was not properly turned out and was embarrassed to be found so disheveled.

"I promise to take care. Good morning, Tom, you have been very kind."

"Good morning, Miss. When you are ready to take Misty out, I'll be pleased to escort you."

She nodded and hurried away. Was it her imagination or was Tom flirting with her? His last remark had a certain tone, not rude nor overly familiar, but there was definitely something. Surely he did not think himself in her class.

Catherine sat on a bench in the rose garden, ashamed of herself for thinking the handsome young groom was beneath her. She was, after all, employed by Lord Beckwith the same as Tom. Was a paid companion in a different class from a groom?

This was a new dilemma to confront in the future. She was the niece of an earl, her mother a titled lady, but that counted for little when it came to earning a living.

She was plain Miss Catherine Hartleigh, twenty years old, soon to be twenty-one, with no fortune, not even a small one, no marriage prospects and she had to earn a living. Her mother had barely enough to dwell in reasonable comfort and pay the wages of her two loyal servants.

Catherine strolled back to the house. But there was a difference between her and the groom, a difference bred in the bone. Her uncle was the present Earl of Sandlake, her oldest male cousin, Roger, Lord Easton.

When she and Johnny were young, they'd visited their titled relations with their mother. Because her father was in business, he did not fit comfortably into their circle and avoided family get-togethers.

He couldn't abide the impecunious earl's patronizing attitude and him without the means to keep up the repairs on his crumbling manor.

Catherine frowned, recalling how the invitations to Sandlake Park ceased upon her father's death. The earl, hard pressed for money, was ready enough to make them welcome when her family had wealth and wanted her as Roger's bride. At least one good thing had come from being poor she did not have to think about Roger as a future husband. He was her least favorite cousin.

In her room, she examined the damage to her clothing. Nothing torn and that was a blessing. A good brushing would remove most of the dirt.

There was a knock at the door. "Miss Hartleigh?"

"Yes, Anna, come in."

"I've something for you Miss, just arrived by the morning post. Came from London, it did."

Catherine recognized her mother's printing on the large, cloth-wrapped package and Bessie's handiwork in the stitching holding it together. "Put it on the bed, Anna. My mother has sent my riding costume."

The maid produced a small pair of scissors from her apron pocket. "I've just the thing to snip those threads, Miss. My mother gave me these when I first went into service. She always said, you never know when a pair of scissors will come in handy, even made the leather case to protect them."

In seconds, she removed the covering and smoothed out the cloth. "If you've no use for this, Miss, I'll take it below. It's sure to come in handy for something."

"Of course you may have it. Now help me look over my costume. It's been stored away in my mother's house in London and I fear the moths might have fed on it."

Inch by inch, they went over the dark green wool split skirt and black jacket. Catherine had her skirt made so she could ride astride when her family lived in the country. Much better for racing against Johnny than sitting, like a proper young lady, on a side saddle.

"Not a thing wrong with them, Miss. I'll just put them out on the line for a good airing and shake the creases out of them. You'll want your boots polished. Pip, our kitchen boy, will give them a shine, like a mirror they'll be when he's through."

Anna bundled up the mailing cloth, the costume and boots. "The sun's bright and the air warm, won't take long to air your clothing. Likely needs a good pressing, though. Been folded up a long while by the looks of it. I'll have it ready for you first thing in the morning."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Giddy with excitement, Catherine could hardly eat her breakfast. "Where shall we ride to-day, Honorable Francis?" Before he had a chance to reply, a dreadful thought dampened her spirits. "Oh, I quite forgot to ask if you have a lady's saddle. I just assumed..." She could not ride astride here. It might shock Francis.

He twinkled at her across the table. "You assumed right, Catherine. Of course, we have a saddle for you. Lady Beckwith left word for you to use hers."

"She is wonderfully kind, as you all are." She nibbled at some toast.

"Even Douglas?"

"Even Lord Beckwith. He no longer throws books at me. In fact, seems quite reconciled to have me continue as his companion until my three months are up."

A flush heated her cheeks. What had he done with that wretched drawing he insisted on keeping? She would sketch him again, the way she'd originally planned. He'd be sitting on the wall stroking Misty.

She finished the toast, drained her teacup and hurried upstairs to change. Her mother had forgotten to put in the hat to match her costume. Dressed, her hair caught back with a black ribbon, Catherine dragged on her boots, glanced in the wardrobe mirror and decided she looked quite fine. Not fashionable, but decently clad for a lady companion.

Francis met Catherine at the bottom of the staircase. "My goodness, you are very smart. I am delighted to be riding out with you. It's not often I have an opportunity to escort such a beautiful young lady."

Catherine beamed at him. "Thank you. I am honored to have you as my escort."

He bowed over her hand. "I've sent word to the stable to have Misty saddled for you and Barney for me. He's not one for fast gallops and taking fences. Suits me perfectly."

Catherine longed to take to her heels and run to the stable, instead she walked in stately fashion with Francis. He stopped to chat with one of the gardeners about whether or not to take out the old raspberry canes this year and try a new variety. Risking a rebuff, Catherine could no longer contain herself.

"May I go ahead to the stable? I'm anxious to see Misty."

"Off you go. Shan't be long."

She flew down the path and arrived at the stable, breathless. Francis's horse was already outside, saddled and ready. Frowning, she hurried inside and found Tom Jepson in Misty's stall. The mare fidgeted, tossed her head and backed away when he tried to saddle her.

"Good morning, Tom." Catherine joined him in the hay strewn, sweet smelling stall.

"Good morning, Miss Hartleigh. Misty's been playing games with me this past few minutes. Parsons, the head groom, usually handles her but he sent word he's feeling poorly and won't be in.

She's right headstrong, this one. Perhaps you should take out another horse, Boxer will give you a good run."

"Let me try talking to her." Keenly aware of the mare's eyes watching her every move, Catherine avoided looking directly at her and spoke in a soft, firm voice.

"Hello, Misty, I want to ride you, it's a lovely day to be out." She took the saddle from Tom.

The mare pricked her ears and nickered. Catherine waited another few seconds, then decided to force the issue. She walked briskly across the stall and threw the saddle over Misty's back. Momentarily startled, the mare swung her head around to look at Catherine, seemed to make up her mind and stood quietly for the girths to be buckled and tightened.

Tom chuckled. "You have a way with you, Miss. Never seen the like. Misty's a right terror when she puts her mind to it."

Catherine led Misty out to the mounting block. Francis was already in the saddle and Tom assisted her to mount. The minute Catherine settled herself, Misty danced sideways, reared up and charged ahead.

"Oh no, little lady, we'll not have that!" Catherine gripped the reins and pulled back sharply. She'd cut her teeth on half-broken ponies and was not about to let Misty run away with her. The mare skidded to a halt, then charged off again.

Laughing like a fool, Catherine enjoyed the battle of wills. After the fourth try, Misty stood quietly.

"Much better. Much better. Now we shall wait for Mr. Francis and then have a pleasant ride around the park."

"Bless me, Catherine, you've had a wild ride, a wonder she didn't unseat you."

They trotted along, side by side. Misty now and again nipped at Barney but mostly behaved. When they reached a long stretch of road leading towards a dense forest, Catherine turned to Francis.

"I'll let her run to the edge of the forest. She's itching to be let loose."

"Go ahead. Don't venture into the wood, the track is poor and if you take a wrong turn, you'll end up by the river. There are gypsies camping on the far side. Our gamekeeper has to keep a close watch on them lest they cross over and snare our pheasants."

Catherine snapped the reins and dug her heel into Misty's flank. "Come on then, show me how you can run."

She let Misty have her head. Flying down the road, her skirt whipping around her legs, the wind tossing her curls, Catherine whooped out loud. "We're a fine pair, Misty. We're a fine pair." Heart pumping with excitement, she slowed the mare when they reached the forest, then swung her around to return. Francis cantered towards them.

"You sit a horse well, Catherine. Takes a bit of doing to handle Misty."

"She's a lovely animal. I shall exercise her every day until Lord Beckwith returns. Now we shall be very sedate while you show me the park."

Catherine held Misty to a gentle trot while Francis pointed out various features of the land. It stretched for miles. Rolling hillocks sloped to a small lake where four white swans glided past.

"Years ago Douglas persuaded his father to have an artificial lake put in here. Probably thought to swim in it but it turned out to be too shallow. Proper daredevil he was as a lad. Never knew what he'd do next. When he was sixteen, and the river in full flood, some fool cousin dared him to swim across. He jumped in, fully clothed, and ended up a half mile down stream but he made it to the other side."

"He's not likely to try a stunt like that again." Catherine tried to imagine a young Douglas. A handsome, laughing youth without a care in the world. Her heart ached for the war-ravaged man he'd become.

Francis broke into her thoughts. "The lake is fed from a spring and empties into the stream over there to the right and eventually into the river bordering our land. Douglas stocks it with trout but I fear the poachers take most of them. Net them, they do, in the middle of the night."

They rested their horses under a stand of trees. "Thank you for this." Catherine leaned over and touched Francis' hand. "I shall miss the countryside when I return to London. I shall miss all of you."

"Then you must come and visit. Now that Douglas is on the mend, the house will be lively, the way it used to be before that dratted war in Crimea. A fine soldier, he was. An officer in the 17th Lancers, he went off to war with them."

Hearing stories about Douglas pleased Catherine, and made him easier for her to understand. In a brisk trot, they returned to the stables. Tom greeted them.

"Almost came out to look for you. An urgent message sent from the house. You're to return immediately."

Fearing it was bad news from home, her mother ill or Johnny had died abroad, Catherine's stomach knotted. She dismounted quickly, stroked Misty's nose, and waited impatiently for Francis.

"You hurry along, Catherine, your young legs are faster than mine. Can't imagine what the fuss is about." Francis eased himself from the saddle.

Raising her skirt to her boot tops, Catherine sped along the gravel paths, rounded the corner by the house and dashed up the steps. In the open doorway, she stopped in her tracks. Square in the center of the hall were traveling cases, a steamer trunk and two hatboxes. Laughter, a man's laughter, echoed from somewhere in the back of the house.

"They're in London? Well, I'm damned. Never mind it's good to be home. Give me a hand with my things, Blewett."

A door at the far end of the hall flew open. A man, magnificently turned out in a regimental uniform, cap under his arm, strode towards Catherine, his boots rapping smartly on the marble floor. Seeing her, he halted and bowed.

"I don't think we've met. I'm Captain Randall Delacroix, Douglas's little brother. I usually answer to Dolly." He smiled. "Are you coming or going or do you like standing in doorways?"

Catherine's glance wavered. This was Dolly, come home on leave earlier than expected. A less dolly-like man, she could not imagine. He was tall, over six feet, broad in the chest and shoulders. Tanned from soldiering in India, he was devastatingly handsome so like his brother, they could be twins. Same dark hair and eyes but no shadowy pain marked his merry countenance, and Lord Beckwith was not quite so large a person.

Taking command of her bemused wits, Catherine crossed the hall and held out her hand. "I'm Catherine Hartleigh, Lord Beckwith's companion."

His hand engulfed hers and he raised his brows. "You are my brother's companion? What a sly fellow he is. Never wrote me a word about having a beautiful lady companion."

Catherine's cheeks burned. What was he thinking? That she was in a close relationship with Lord Beckwith. She swallowed hard and withdrew her hand.

"I am employed to assist...to read..." Words stumbled around her tongue. What was she trying to say? "Your mother, Lady Beckwith, engaged me companion to your brother while he recovered from the war. I read to him."

In a flurry of excitement, Francis rushed into the house. "Dolly, what a wonderful surprise. Didn't expect you for weeks. You're looking mighty fit, India must agree with you."

Blewett and one of the footman gathered up luggage. Mrs. Paige, the housekeeper, accompanied by two maids, hurried up the stairs. Francis pumped Dolly's hand, and in the welcoming turmoil, Catherine slipped outside and sat on the stone bench by the front steps. Not wanting to intrude on Francis's pleasure at seeing Randall Delacroix, she decided to wait until everyone cleared the entrance hall before returning to her room.

So this was Dolly, she mused. Two years younger than his brother, they were much alike. She'd not paid close attention to size in relation to Lord Beckwith. He tended to stoop over his crutches. Mostly, she liked to study his face, especially when he smiled at her.

"Excuse me, Miss." A young footman stood at the open front door. "Are you coming in? Mrs. Paige can't abide flies in the house and I'll close it if you're staying outside."

Catherine jumped to her feet. "I'm coming." She hurried across the hall, up the stairs, and paused at the top, listening for Captain Delacroix's voice.

A burst of his rollicking laughter spilled down the hallway from straight-ahead. Not praise be where she wanted to go. Meeting Lord Beckwith's soldier brother had all but taken her breath away. She really had to become used to meeting young men and being at ease with them. She'd almost forgotten how to make light-hearted conversation.

Speaking with Lord Beckwith was different. It was easier to be with him now since she was no longer forced to converse or think up interesting topics. In fact, he'd asked her to read The Taming of The Shrew, and her voice had sent him to sleep! His suffering in the Crimea had aged him. but sleep softened the lines on his face. When he threw books at her or was angry and rude, she knew exactly how to react. But yesterday, when he touched her hair...a fire had blazed down her spine, leaving her weak.

Would he want her to be different now? Less like a companion, and more like an interesting friend with a store of chitchat? She didn't want to think about it.

Catherine reached her wing of the house and glanced at the closed door opposite hers. He had done everything in his power to send her away. Now he insisted she stay the full three months. Entering her room, she closed the door, and leaned back against it.

Perhaps Douglas...there she'd thought his name...would not return from London until close to the time she was to leave Beckwith Manor. Perhaps his marriage to Lady Madeline was already being arranged and he'd want to spend weeks with her, not just a fortnight.

Catherine sighed, sat on a chair and pulled off her boots. Living in a kind of limbo, her employer away, she was more like a guest in the house than a paid companion. The sudden appearance of Captain Delacroix had thrown her into a different set of circumstances. Unless he decided to go up to London, and join his mother and brother, Catherine would likely be spending hours in his company.

She hung up her riding costume, bathed and changed into her azure blue dress. For to-day, at least, she would stay out of sight as much as possible and give Francis and Randall Delacroix time together. How easy it was to think of the Honorable Francis as Francis and Randall as Dolly. But...she would not be so familiar when they were all together. Francis had cajoled her into calling him, The Honorable. It amused him. As for Randall?

She had to remember her place in the household. Mr. Randall or better still, Captain Delacroix, should not be called Dolly. Catherine brushed and tidied her hair. Glancing at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, she realized it was close to lunch time, and tugged on the bell rope. Within minutes Anna knocked on the door and entered.

"I'll take all my meals in my room today. Lord Beckwith's brother has arrived home unexpectedly, and may want to spend time alone with Mr. Francis."

Anna nodded. "As you wish, Miss Hartleigh."

When Anna left, Catherine wandered out on the small balcony. Plans for the late afternoon took shape in her mind. She'd set up her easel over by the wall where she'd planned to sketch Douglas...

Why did thinking his name agitate her? She must think of him as Lord Beckwith. Perhaps sketching him with Misty was not a clever idea.

"Hallo!"

Startled from her musings, Catherine looked down. Randall waved at her. Out of uniform, casually dressed in white shirt, navy jacket and gray trousers, he was handsome as ever.

"Come down from your tower, fair lady, and walk with me. I crave your company. Uncle Francis is resting before luncheon."

Unable to think of a ready excuse without sounding like a silly chit who didn't know her own mind, Catherine could hardly refuse. "I'll be down directly."

She paused in front of the wardrobe mirror, undecided whether to put on her straw bonnet or her dark blue velvet beret. It had seen better days, and was out of fashion. She decided on her new bonnet to be somewhat formal. Usually she went bareheaded on her walks about the grounds.

He waited for her on the front steps, and bowed over her hand. "How splendid you look, Miss Hartleigh, the blue of your dress makes your eyes quite brilliant."

With a supreme effort, Catherine controlled her jumpy nerves. She had lost the art of receiving compliments gracefully, especially from a man seemingly bent on flirting with her. "Thank you, Captain. Now shall we walk?" She hastened down the broad marble steps to the drive.

"Miss Hartleigh, stop a moment, you are like a bird taking flight. I shall not be able to keep up with you if you insist on running instead of walking."

Catherine allowed him to cup his hand around her elbow, and steer her towards the formal gardens. "Are you fond of roses, Captain? They are just beginning to leaf." Did her voice quiver?

"Miss Hartleigh, do you think you might call me, Dolly? I will likely not answer if you refer to me as Captain. Dolly is for family and friends, and I want to count you a friend."

"I am not sure how to answer, Captain. You see, I am here at Beckwith Manor as paid companion to your brother." She withdrew her elbow from his warm hand, and moved a few paces away from him. "Although I have been well received by your mother, uncle and brother, I do not consider myself their friend, not in the sense you mean. Do you understand?"

"Miss Hartleigh, you are mistaken. Uncle Francis has done nothing but wax eloquently about you. He thinks you are quite wonderful the way you've helped Douglas and he told me that mother is very fond of you. From the twinkle in uncle's eye when he spoke about you, he'd be flirting with you if he were thirty years younger."

Blushes rising fast and furious, burned their way up Catherine's throat and heated her face. She turned away hoping the brim of her bonnet hid her rosy cheeks. Thoughts in a jumble, she struggled to say the right words...but what were the right words?

That she had been raised in a wealthy home, presented to society by her Great Aunt Dorothy, that her mother is Lady Jane Hartleigh, related to an earl, that her father had gambled away his fortune before he died...why that made her sound like a poor, unlucky creature whom fate had treated badly.

Catherine swallowed her embarrassment. She had much to be thankful for. Her good health, a happy disposition and a mother who loved her dearly. The world had much to offer a resourceful young lady. She had proven that by applying for the position as companion to Lord Beckwith, and staying the course when he had been determined to rid himself of her.

"But don't you see? They are being kind. I have been able to fulfill my duties very satisfactorily. I shall be gone from your home within two months, returning to my mother in London, and then must search for another position. I have to earn my living."

He grasped her hands. "Forgive me, I have distressed you. Douglas always said I have the manners of a bull in a china shop. Captain Delacroix it shall be, Miss Hartleigh, until you choose otherwise." With a smile, he released her.

"Delacroix?" Catherine asked. Odd, she had never asked Francis about the family background.

"Our family name is French from a century or so ago. Mother met father in France when he was visiting a chateau that once belonged to our family, the Delacroix. Our family came from France some hundred years ago. He thought to purchase it, but the price asked was too high, and it was in poor condition. However, he returned to England with our beautiful Mama."

Relieved, liking him more and more for his ability to understand her dilemma, Catherine relaxed and smiled up at him. "I think we should return to the house, I thought I heard the bell ring for luncheon."

Dolly walked her back to the house. Miss Hartleigh's beauty had knocked him back on his heels. If Douglas had not fallen in love with her, then he must be quite mad. He'd been in her company mere minutes, and already he was bewitched. There was more to the mysterious Miss Hartleigh than met the eye. In one of his letters, Francis had mentioned Madeline and Douglas, and their on-again, off-again betrothal while he recovered from the ghastly war in Crimea.

But this companion business was very strange. Douglas was too proud to admit needing anyone, especially a female, and certainly not someone as attractive as Miss Hartleigh. Dolly thought it might be worth the pain to come home a wounded hero, and have someone like her to relieve his suffering.

"When did you come here, Miss Hartleigh?" She raised her eyes to his and Dolly near drowned in her lingering glance. She was a perfect English rose. Fair skin. Golden hair. Lips pink and full, hinting of laughter. A pretty nose and a slim, elegant figure.

"On March first but I did not begin my duties immediately. I caught a chill and was confined to bed for several days. When I recovered I..."

She smiled, showing even white teeth. "Lord Beckwith did not welcome me. It was your mother's idea to engage a companion."

Dolly hooted. "Mother regaled me in her letters about the two gentlemen companions Douglas terrified into leaving. How did you fare with his ill-humor?"

"I am not easily frightened, Captain, but there were times when I wondered what I was doing here. Your mother persuaded me to stay on for at least a month. She, and your Uncle Francis have been very kind, and they made up for the problems I was having with your brother."

"How did you bring him round? He's been a recluse since coming home." Dolly wondered if she'd bedded him, then dismissed the thought. Unless he was badly mistaken, Miss Hartleigh was an innocent.

"He finally tired of trying to scare me off, and allowed me to enter his sitting room. Many a time I upset him with injudicious remarks but by and by, he forgave me. He is much improved."

Dolly escorted her into the house. Aye and he'd be much improved if the glorious Miss Hartleigh were his companion. With Douglas away in London, she'd be free to spend time with him.

CHAPTER NINE

For a week after Dolly's arrival Catherine days whirled by in a buzz of activity. Finding time to herself was all but impossible. When she set up her easel to sketch, he lounged beside her. They rode daily. Misty had taken Catherine to her heart, and nickered at the sound of her footsteps on the stone floor of the stable. When neighbors heard of Dolly's arrival home from India, invitations to luncheons, dinners and parties arrived by every post.

"Come with me, Catherine, you'll enjoy yourself. A change from having Francis and me as your only company."

She declined. Explaining her circumstances to strangers was quite beyond her. The Beckwith family had treated her so well, at times she almost forgot her status in the household.

As for Dolly...yes, she now called him Dolly. Big and friendly, he put himself out to amuse her. But she would not call upon the neighbors. He went alone, and returned with stories about this one and that, sending her into rib-hurting laughter.

A letter came from Lady Beckwith asking Dolly to go up to London. "She's in a dilemma." He told Catherine. "Seems relations are strained between Douglas and Madeline. They've as good as broken off their engagement. Mother wants to see me, and thinks she should stay with Douglas, not leave him in town on his own. He's being fitted with some kind of artificial limb and if all goes well, should be able to ride again."

Catherine knew she should not feel a thing. It was nothing to her if Lord Beckwith and Lady Madeline did not wed, but a little part of her was pleased. She had not liked the tone of Lady Madeline's voice when she'd scolded him about leaving her without an escort. Why she had not even offered to stay, and read to him? He would have recovered much sooner if she had. The woman was not worthy to be his wife.

Dolly interrupted her musings. "I shall travel up to London tomorrow. If Douglas and Madeline have parted company, he may need me to cheer him up, but I would much rather stay here with you. I shall miss you."

She tried to make light of his remark about missing her. "You will find much to amuse you in London. The season is still in full swing."

"Say you will miss me." He pleaded, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Very well, I shall miss you. You are a very entertaining companion." Catherine bit back a smile.

Dolly slapped his hand on his forehead. "Is that all?"

She burst out laughing. "Stop teasing me. You are as bad as your brother."

"Oh, so Douglas teases you, does he? I shall speak to him, and tell him to mind his manners." He bowed over her hand. "I must leave you, fair lady, and see to my packing."

In the morning, Dolly insisted she ride beside the open carriage taking him to the station. At Winchfield, serious for once, he cautioned her.

"Have one of the grooms go with you when you ride. I don't want you taking a fence, and falling with no one close by to assist you."

Warmed by his concern, Catherine dismounted and rested a gloved hand on his arm. "I will not attempt any fences while you are away. Enjoy your stay in London."

Dolly lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers. "Goodbye, Catherine."

Flustered, her cheeks afire, she led Misty to the station mounting block. Safe in the saddle, Catherine swung Misty around to head back to the manor. "Goodbye, Dolly, give my regards to your mother and brother."

Before he could say another word, she waved, and left him behind. On the return journey, her disordered thoughts kept her on edge. She wished Dolly had not kissed her. What kind of kiss was it? A friendly kiss? A brotherly kiss? Or something else? She refused to dwell on the 'something else'. Dolly was just being Dolly. Exuberant. Outgoing. Charming. He probably kissed every girl who crossed his path.

On Catherine's return to the manor, a letter awaited her. A letter from Lord Beckwith.

Dear Kate: I hope you are well. We called upon your mother to assure her you were thriving in the country. Lady Jane asked us to stay for tea but we had a previous engagement and had to decline. I have purchased some books for you and will bring them on my return home. Also several canvases, oils, brushes and a palette. You forgot to ask for brushes and a palette and cannot paint without them.

We are looking forward to seeing Dolly. He's a fine fellow, is he not?

If you have time, drop me a line and tell me what you've been doing in my absence. We expect to be in London another week.

Douglas

Her heartbeat quickening, Catherine read the letter, folded it, unfolded it, spread it out on the escritoire in her room and read every word a second time.

Kate.

He addressed her as Kate.

Not Catherine or Miss Hartleigh but Kate.

He had insisted she call him Douglas during the last hours she'd spent with him before he departed for London but she simply could not address him as Douglas when she answered his letter.

Like it or not, Lord Beckwith and his mother employed her. He might choose to be informal but she would not be so bold. What is more, when he returned, she'd re-establish their formal relationship. He might continue calling her Kate, that was his right, but she'd not be coerced into referring to him as Douglas.

Catherine drew notepaper from her leather case, picked up her pen and dipped it in the ink bottle. Her hand hovered over the page. She'd never written a letter to a man other than her father when he was abroad.

Dear Lord Beckwith. How kind of you to write to me. Thank you for calling on my mother, she was very uneasy about me taking up the position as your companion. Lady Beckwith would put her mind at rest.

I have enjoyed meeting your brother. We have ridden over much of the countryside together. Misty has behaved perfectly. She recognizes my footsteps the minute I enter the stable and nickers in a special way.

It was very thoughtful of him to not only purchase books but art supplies as well. His request that she write to him surprised her. Surprised and dismayed her, for she missed him. Missed their times together. Even missed those first days when he'd thrown books at her, and made her sit outside his door to read aloud to him. Her life with Lord Beckwith had been eventful. His laughter when he insisted on keeping her dreadful sketch, and his insistence on calling her Kate had shed a new light on their relationship. The amusement in his eyes all but wiped out the dark shadows lurking there.

Catherine sighed. When he returned home, there would be no need for her to stay on. He'd no longer require her services. With Dolly to amuse him, and trundle the chair, she'd take her leave and return to London.

Dipping her pen in the bottle, she continued.

I have watched the wren building her nest in the hedge. She hides now and is very likely sitting on her eggs. The grass in the park is ablaze with daffodils, their golden heads nodding in the sun. The Honorable Francis is determined to get the better of me at dominoes. We keep a running score and are tied as of two nights ago.

Thank you for the gift of books and your generous purchase of art supplies. I look forward to receiving them on your return home.

Sincerely, Catherine Hartleigh

She hoped he would not find her letter too boring. Truth to tell, she did not know quite what to say without sounding too familiar. Be that as it may, the letter was written, and would have to do.

Smiling to herself, she decided to fill the space at the bottom of the page with small sketches. Using her India ink and sketching pen, she drew the wren perched on the hedge, Misty with her head poking over the stall door, and a clump of daffodils nodding under a huge beech tree. Satisfied that her drawings would amuse him if her letter did not, she addressed an envelope, folded the page inside and sealed it. Blewett would see to mailing it.

With the ever cheerful Dolly gone, and Francis laid up with a touch of gout, Catherine changed into her riding costume and sallied out with Misty. She'd promised Dolly not to take fences, and went on a long meandering exploration of the grounds.

Not wanting to return to the house on such a glorious day, she headed down the estate road to the forest bordering the Beckwith land. Francis had cautioned her about venturing into its depths, but curiosity about the gypsies camped by the river tempted her.

What harm might she come to? She was still on the estate. Even the most hardened poacher would not dare accost her.

Catherine urged Misty along a track beneath the heavy canopy of trees. Deep in the silent woods, apprehension about this adventure prickled the hair on the back of her neck. Without warning, a boy darted out of the shadows almost under Misty's feet. Startled, the mare reared back, and shied sideways nearly throwing Catherine. The lad took to his heels and fled down the path.

"Steady, Misty. Steady." Catherine rubbed her hand along the tawny neck, and spoke softly. The mare's ears twitched back, listening. "I think we'll follow that lad. Unless I'm mistaken, he had a pheasant over his shoulder."

Misty trod warily on the track, quivering nervously at every sound. Catherine coaxed her along through the trees. Sure the boy belonged to the gypsy camp, she set out to find him, and rounding a bend, emerged into bright sunshine by the riverbank. Her quarry glanced over his shoulder and, fleet as a young deer, raced across a narrow footbridge spanning the river, a pheasant bouncing on his back. He scrambled up the bank on the far side, and disappeared into the midst of the caravans. There was no one in sight. The camp seemed deserted.

Catherine nudged Misty into the water, and splashed across the river. A large dog, dozing in the sun, rose to its feet, stretched and trotted off. Familiar with gypsy ways from her childhood adventures with Riena, Catherine halted Misty, and waited. The lookout dog would alert one of the men, and a decision would be made as to how to deal with the Gadji, the white person.

A tall man, his black hair bound in a red cloth, suddenly appeared on Catherine's right. "Good-day to you, lady. What brings you to our camp? Do you wish your fortune told?" He smiled, teeth gleaming white in his swarthy face.

Catherine smiled back, enjoying the moment. She'd not be harmed here. "Good-day to you. One of your lads has taken a pheasant belonging to Lord Beckwith."

"Indeed, lady, I'll call the boys, and you must tell me which one took the pheasant and he will be punished."

He shouted something in Romany. From behind the caravans, a swarm of boys lined up in front of Catherine. Misty snorted, and stepped back a pace. Not for a minute did Catherine expect to identify the boy. He would be well out of sight.

"I did not have a good look at him, only his back when he ran away." She was being tested and didn't mind. If she pushed hard enough, the missing pheasant would appear and some payment offered but having her fortune told in return seemed like a better idea. She frowned to give the appearance of coming to a momentous decision.

"I regret I cannot identify the boy but the pheasant is here in your camp, that I do know. Warn your people against stealing Lord Beckwith's pheasants lest he send the constables, and drive you away." She tapped her fingers on her knee. "I will have my fortune told, and not mention the pheasant to Lord Beckwith."

"Good lady, let me help you down." Like a knight of old, he assisted Catherine to dismount. As if by magic, women, girls and young children emerged from in and around the caravans. Catherine loved their colorful clothes, and the brightly painted caravans. She grasped Misty's bridle to steady her, and gazed at the little crowd. One of the young women stepped forward.

"Catherine?"

"Riena, do you know this lady?" The man asked.

Scarcely able to believe her eyes, Catherine's blinked to make sure she wasn't dreaming. "Riena, it is me, your old friend, Catherine Hartleigh."

Riena glanced at the man. "Aye, Gaudio, I knew her well when we were children. Do you still have the amulet my father gave you, Catherine? 'Tis the same as mine, show it to him."

Winding her fingers around the leather thong, Catherine drew the amulet from under her bodice. "I always have it with me. Your father warned me not to lose it."

The man beamed at Catherine. "Then you will stay and share a meal with us."

Delighted at the welcome, Catherine nodded. "Thank you, that will please me." He turned to the women, snapped an order in Romany, and the camp erupted into activity.

Riena tugged at Catherine's arm. "Come, let me tell your fortune. I have my grandmother's crystal. She willed it to me on her deathbed."

Holding fast to Misty's bridle, Catherine followed her friend to a nearby caravan. "Hitch your horse to this ring, she'll come to no harm here." Riena shooed away some curious children.

Catherine climbed the wooden steps into the caravan. At the rear was a bed covered with a blanket woven in red, gold and purple patterns. Draping the windows were snowy white gauzy curtains with red and gold tassels dangling along the edges. In the center of the caravan was a small table and two wooden chairs, the chair backs etched in red, gold and purple patterns similar to the bed cover.

"How pretty this is, Riena, I should like to paint it."

"Aye, you were always wanting to paint. Do you mind the picture you drew of me? I still have it." She signaled Catherine over to a chair. "Sit you down."

Riena covered the table with a black velvet cloth, and placed a polished wood stand on it. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out an elaborately carved box, unlocked it and lifted out a crystal globe. She placed it on the stand, and sat down opposite Catherine.

Hands spread over the crystal, Riena closed her eyes. Stillness stole into the caravan. Catherine held her breath. Waiting.

Riena opened her eyes, and smoothed her fingertips over the crystal. Head bent, she gazed into the globe uttering a few words in Romany. Catherine lost track of time.

As though returning from some faraway place, Riena spoke, her voice strangely altered. "You have been sorely troubled in the past. A death in the family darkened your life. I see the way ahead, and your future is bright. Happiness is coming to you if you choose wisely. A man loves you. He is proud, and will not seek you out if you turn your back on him. Take care Catherine, do not let others make decisions for you. Follow your heart. That is where your happiness lies."

Riena bent her head, and remained silent. Catherine peered into the globe, but could see nothing in its crystal depths. Dust motes drifted in a shaft of sunlight. Sounds filtered in from outside the caravan. Riena reached across the table, and clasped Catherine's hands.

"Tell me about your family. 'Twas your father who died, was it not? Although I never saw him in life, an older man, his face edged in black, appeared in the crystal. And what of Johnny and your mother?"

Her friend's concern warmed Catherine's heart, and she recounted recent Hartleigh history. "And how have you fared, Riena?" She asked.

"Do not speak of what I tell you." She whispered. "Within weeks I am leaving the tribe. My husband is old. Too old for me. My parents arranged our marriage, and I do not love him. He blames me for not giving him children. Too lazy to work, he sends me out, and beats me when I do not bring home enough money."

"But where will you go?" Catherine kept her voice low. It was against Romany custom to leave the tribe.

"Away to the colonies. At the last hop picking, I heard about the bride ships going to Canada. To a town called Victoria. I've saved enough money for my passage."

"You'll not marry while your husband lives."

Riena shook her head. "Nay, I go to seek my fortune." Suddenly a smile danced across her lips. "I shall set up a shop in Victoria, selling trinkets and ribbons, and use my crystal to cast the future for all who are willing to pay."

"I wish I could go with you, it sounds like a grand adventure." Catherine gazed at her friend's darkly beautiful face. "You are very brave."

"Brave and foolish, perhaps, but I cannot waste my youth with a cruel old man. Your future lies here in England, Catherine, that is clear."

"Where is your husband?" Catherine asked.

"Away with most of the men to claim some common ground for us near the hop fields. We go from here tomorrow."

A burst of fiddle music and the jingle of tambourines sounded outside. Riena packed away her crystal. "The people want to celebrate so you must be properly dressed." Smiling, she pushed aside a red velvet drape covering part of the caravan wall, revealing a series of shelves stacked with clothing.

"Here, I want you to have this." She handed Catherine a fringed silk shawl patterned in purple, gold and red.

"I cannot accept it, Riena. This shawl must have cost several pounds."

"Please, Catherine, I want you to have it. Now let me show you how to tie it loosely around your waist, and swing it around your hips then you'll look like a proper gypsy girl!"

Unable to resist, feeling deliciously wicked, Catherine swished back and forth in the caravan. One hand on her silk-covered hip, she snapped her fingers, and tapped her toes to the music.

The dancing, and the meal that followed, lasted well into the afternoon. The bird roasted on a spit looked suspiciously like a pheasant, but Catherine held her tongue. Without following the boy with the pheasant, she would not have met Riena again.

Finally Catherine hugged her friend. "I must return to the manor or they will think I have come to harm."

The tall man assisted her into the saddle, a mischievous smile on his lips. "There'll be no more pheasants taken from your land, and the boy will be punished."

"Please, let him be, I have enjoyed my time with you. That is payment enough for one pheasant."

Sad at leaving Riena, never likely to see her again, Catherine wrapped the shawl over her shoulders, waved good-bye, splashed across the river, and disappeared into the trees.

Tracking back, she mulled over the future Riena had predicted. Her commonsense denied the possibility of a man loving her. Out of society, away from parties and balls, she had no opportunity to meet such a person.

As she emerged from the forest, she was surprised to see Tom Jepson riding towards her at full tilt. Reining in the horse, he touched his cap.

"Where have you been, Miss Hartleigh? The house is in an uproar. Mr. Francis ordered the horses saddled, and sent the grooms out looking for you."

"I am dreadfully sorry, Tom. I've been visiting the gypsy camp, and forgot the time."

"The gypsy camp, Miss? Whatever were you doing there? Did no one tell you not to venture into the forest? It's no place for a young lady. I've been that worried, fearing something had happened to you."

Catherine bit her tongue. The groom had no right to speak to her like that. He was being overly familiar, and she did not have to explain herself to him. Tom had been around the stables whenever she rode out. Even when Dolly escorted her, Tom made her aware of his presence.

He swung his horse around to squire Catherine back to the house. "It was thoughtless of me to cause you all so much worry. I followed a young lad who had poached a pheasant. He led me to the gypsy camp and I...I had my fortune told and purchased a shawl." She'd not speak of Riena.

Tom turned to her, smiling into her eyes. "And what was your fortune, Miss?"

Catherine gripped her hands tight on the reins. No, it couldn't be! Was Tom the man Riena said loved her? Impossible. She said to follow her heart, and her heart was not inclined to favor the groom. Why had Riena not been more specific? Was she to go around testing her heart against every man she encountered? She opted to treat the fortune telling as a joke.

"It was a lot of nonsense. I've forgotten it already."

When Tom assisted her to dismount, he clasped her around the waist, and held her a trifle longer than Catherine thought necessary. She moved aside to let him take Misty.

"Thank you for coming to search for me. I'll not be visiting the gypsies again. They are clearing off tomorrow."

"Then I insist you not go riding off without telling me."

Catherine did not like being told off by the groom. He had really gone too far. "I shall inform Mr. Francis or another member of the household when I ride. Do not concern yourself with me." Stiffly proud, she straightened her back, said good-bye to Misty, and marched away from the stable.

Immediately, she regretted her hasty words. Poor Tom, he was being so kind, and she was behaving like an insufferable grand lady. Catherine turned back.

"I'm sorry, Tom, I did not mean to be rude. I've upset everyone today. Thank you for looking out for me."

"No matter, Miss, you are unharmed and that is all that counts."

Catherine shook his hand. "I will be more careful from now on."

On her return to the house, she asked Blewett to inform the staff she was safe.

"Mr. Francis is in the study, Miss. He would have been off looking for you but for the gout."

Francis glowered at her. "Where have you been? I've been at my wit's end worrying about you. Why if anything happened to you, Douglas would very likely shut himself up again. You are not to frighten me like this, Catherine. My old heart has been only ticking at half speed since you did not return for luncheon."

She drew up a chair close to his. "I am very, very sorry. Let me tell you what happened."

By the end of her tale, Francis had cheered up. "So you had your fortune told. What did your friend see in her crystal ball?"

Catherine smiled. "I'm not about to tell you. It's a lot of nonsense." She did not want Francis teasing her about a lover.

"Ha! You are blushing. Did she warn you against an old gentleman with white hair who thinks you are a dear girl, and who wishes he were thirty years younger?"

Feeling silly and giggly, Catherine stood. "What a rogue, you are? Flattery will not make me lower my guard this evening when we play dominoes." She dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I must change before tea, and you must rest. I want your heart ticking in fine fettle when we set up our dominoes."

"A moment, Catherine. I received a letter from Marie Claire by the late post. She is returning home tomorrow to arrange a big party to welcome Dolly back from India."

Francis groaned. "The house will be in a turmoil, guests in residence, meals in the large dining room, not a moment's peace. Everyone talking at once."

Catherine paused at the door. "You and I shall hide out somewhere."

"Oh, very good, Catherine, very good. Now I shall have a nap."

She made her way slowly to her room. The news about the party darkened the day. A party for family and friends would not include a paid companion unless she was expected to stay close to Lord Beckwith, and fetch and carry for him.

Spreading the colorful shawl on the bed, Catherine slithered her hands over the silk. It was so beautiful. She half wished she was a gypsy girl, and could wear it with a red skirt, a white blouse with red and purple zigzag designs at the neck and down the sleeves. And she'd add big gold hoop earrings.

She folded up the shawl, and put it away in one of the wardrobe drawers. On dull, rainy days or when she was out of sorts, she'd take out the shawl and remember.

Remember dancing to the gypsy fiddles.

Remember Riena.

Remember her fortune.

CHAPTER TEN

Catherine danced alone in the midst of a swirling crowd of elegantly clothed men and women. Barefoot, naked to the waist, amulet nestling between her breasts, her gypsy shawl slung seductively over her hips, she raised her arms over her head and whirled around the floor. Lord Beckwith pushed through the crowd towards her, cupped her breasts in his hands and kissed her nipples. "My dear Kate. Come and read to me."

Jerking awake, Catherine sat up in bed. She was very warm. More than warm. She was hot all over. Nipples taut, her breasts straining against the fine cotton fabric of her nightgown, she threw back the covers, jumped out of bed, and rushed out on the balcony to breathe the fresh, early morning air.

She hardly ever dreamed. Whatever made her dream about him? About being naked? It was too awful. Mortified just thinking about it, a guilty flush burning her cheeks, Catherine undid the buttons at the neck of her nightgown, and flapped the material back and forth to cool her flesh. She'd never be able to look Lord Beckwith in the face without thinking of him...of him kissing...

Oh dear, just when her breasts felt more normal, they plumped up again as though they had a mind of their own.

Catherine paced back and forth on the balcony. She had to wipe every last dreadful vestige of that dream from her mind. No, it was not a dream. It was a nightmare. A wonder she did not wake shrieking from fear.

But she was not afraid. Not while she danced. Not even when he kissed her, and asked her to read to him.

Yesterday was all mixed up inside Catherine's head. Riena telling her fortune. The beautiful shawl. Dancing with the gypsies to the joyful music of the fiddles and tambourines stirred something deep within her. Surely she did not want Lord Beckwith to take liberties! Why that was too awful to think about, and she was being a very foolish young lady.

Dreams. Nightmares. All caused by too much excitement or a touch of indigestion. That and the dazzling shawl. Catherine returned inside, and drew the shawl from the wardrobe drawer. She had never owned anything so exotically beautiful.

Her mother had always chosen Catherine's dresses and gowns in the firm belief her daughter had no sense when it came to what was appropriate and inappropriate. Light colors. Nothing bright to call attention to herself.

Catherine grinned into the wardrobe mirror. She'd always loved colorful ribbons, reds, purples, blues and yellows. Liked braiding them into her hair. But her mother had put a stop to that when she was sixteen. Not suitable, she'd said, for a young lady approaching womanhood.

Her dear mother had refused point blank to come with her to choose the companion dresses. In her mother's eyes, Catherine had crossed the line into something akin to selling her birthright, but Lady Jane was not averse to spending some of Catherine's wages.

Holding the shawl against her face, Catherine breathed in a faint, flowery scent as though roses had been woven into the silk. She had no use for the shawl. Not here. Perhaps never. But she'd keep it the rest of her life to remind her of Riena.

Hidden away in the wardrobe drawer, she'd take it out when she felt blue and remember yesterday. But, she reminded herself sternly she'd not be so foolish as to swirl it around her hips, and dance to the gypsy music playing inside her head. And she would most certainly not ever dance naked and barefoot!

Anna tapped on the door and entered. "I've a message from Mr. Francis. He's resting this morning, and is taking breakfast in his room. He asked you to excuse him."

"Thank you. Please convey my regards to Mr. Francis. I will have my breakfast out on the balcony. It is a beautiful day."

Bathed, dressed, and her stomach comfortably full, Catherine decided not to ride. Until Francis could accompany her, she would not saddle Misty. Tom Jepson was determined to ride out with her rather than allow her to ride alone.

She had ridden alone around the countryside near her old home from the time she could sit a horse. Why did men think women were helpless creatures unable to look after themselves? Dolly had cautioned her about taking fences without someone riding with her. Even he must think she did not have the good sense she was born with, and she certainly did not want a groom watching over her like a nursemaid.

Catherine sent word to Francis she was going for a walk, and he was not to fret about her. With her folding stool, sketching pad, pencils and pastel chalks in their box, she strolled down the drive to the gatehouse. Mr. Wilson, the gatekeeper, was up a ladder polishing the Beckwith coat of arms, and stopped what he was doing to touch his cap. He and his wife had been away visiting the day Catherine arrived, and had locked the gates. Whenever she saw him, he always apologized for not being there.

"Mr. Wilson, when you finish polishing, would you mind closing the gates for me? I want to sketch them." Catherine smiled up at him.

"Won't be a minute, Miss. One last rubbing is all they need." Catherine crossed to the far side of the road, fixed her stool and sat down.

Down from the ladder, Mr. Wilson closed the gates. "Give me a shout when you want them open. I'll be in the house. Don't want you locked out again."

Sketchbook on her lap, Catherine chose a pencil and straightedge ruler, and set the box aside on the grass verge. The formidable Beckwith gate faced her. How cold and frightened she had been the day she arrived. That was the picture she had in mind to draw.

The gate, the lowering clouds, the awful feeling of being alone and friendless. Even now in the warmth of the morning sun, Catherine shivered. Remembering.

With a practiced hand, she set to work. As the gate appeared on the paper, she found her mind wandering. Lady Beckwith returned home today. Time to sit down, and discuss her duties, whatever they may be now that Doug...Lord Beckwith had recovered and no longer required her services. What was her status in the household? Without a clearly defined role, Catherine was at a loss to know what to do. How to handle the situation? Was she expected to stay the full three months? If she asked to leave, would that mean returning some of her wages?

"Oh, bother." She exclaimed. "That's what comes from not paying attention." The ruler had slipped, and one lovely straight line was anything but. Delving into the pencil and chalk box, she found a smidgen of soft eraser, and carefully rubbed out the crooked line.

Catherine raised her head at the sound of approaching carriage wheels. She jumped to her feet and dashed across the road. "Mr. Wilson, come quick and open the gates, the Beckwith carriage is here."

Like a shot from a cannon, he hurtled from the house. "Oh my goodness, I knew Lady Beckwith was returning today, but did not expect her until the afternoon."

The liveried coachman pulled up the matched pair of grays. "Come along, man. Come along. See to the gates. We haven't all day."

Suddenly the carriage door flew open. "Catherine! Have you come to welcome us home?" Dolly vaulted into the roadway, and before she could protest, he clasped her around the waist and swung her off her feet. "You are a sight for these tired eyes."

"Dolly, put me down at once, whatever will your mother think?" Half-laughing, half-embarrassed, Catherine tried to free herself. His mother would not be pleased at Catherine for allowing such liberties.

"Good morning, Miss Hartleigh." Lord Beckwith observed her from the open carriage door. Booted feet propped on the seat opposite he frowned slightly and raised his brows. His mother leaned across him, and smiled at Catherine.

"Good morning, my dear. You are looking very well."

Wriggling away from Dolly, her heart thumping against her ribs, Catherine did the only thing she could think of, she curtsied. "Good morning, Lady Beckwith and Lord Beckwith."

He nodded. The briefest of nods. A cool dismissive kind of nod, and looked past her as though she had ceased to exist.

"Are you coming, Dolly, or do you intend escorting Miss Hartleigh up to the house?"

Cut to the quick, angry at his slight, Catherine glared at him. He had not said a kind word to her. Not a single kind word. Nor was there the glimmer of a smile. Had London changed him? Had he reverted back to his old behavior? Lifting her chin, she raised her voice.

"I do not require an escort, Lord Beckwith. I am not finished sketching. and I am not a helpless fool who cannot find her own way to the house!" Turning on her heel, she stalked across the road, sat on the stool, and picked up her sketching pad. To her dismay, Dolly followed her.

"Let me see what you are sketching."

Fond as she was of Dolly, she did not feel up to coping with his cheerful talk, not while she seethed with anger at his churlish brother.

"Do please go along with the others, it will take me awhile to complete my drawing. It is but half finished."

Blithely ignoring her, Dolly studied the sketch. "Very nicely done, but why have you drawn storm clouds in the sky? The sun is bright to-day."

Catherine winced. She'd been rude to Dolly, and he had done nothing to deserve it. "This is how it looked when I arrived. Dark. Gloomy. Rain threatening. And the gates were locked."

"Poor Catherine, what a dreadful beginning. A wonder you did not turn tail and run."

Catherine stared at the carriage bowling up the drive. Often times, she wished she had. Like now. Lord Beckwith seemed bent on hurting her. Why? She had done nothing to deserve his slight, and she had looked forward to seeing him again.

"I do not give up easily, Dolly. Now, if you must stay, then sit on the grass, and stay silent. I have to concentrate or my sketch will never be finished."

He threw himself down on the grass beside her. "Very well. Not a word. I shall enjoy watching you."

Having Dolly lounging beside her disturbed Catherine. Alone with him, when his mother and brother were in London, had been enjoyable. He teased her, and made her laugh. But with everyone home, it was different.

Different. Not the same at all. She'd have to avoid spending time alone with Dolly. He seemed very fond of her, and his mother might think she was setting her cap for her second son.

Her role in the Beckwith family was as paid companion to Lord Beckwith. And that had to be clarified. If his rude behavior was any indication, she'd not be around much longer.

Catherine suddenly recalled how he'd looked in the carriage. His two feet were booted. If that meant he had an artificial limb, she would certainly not be required. What is more, there was no call for her to read to him. His sight had improved before he'd gone to London.

"Drive on." Douglas ordered the coachmen and slammed the carriage door shut.

"Really, Douglas, what is the matter with you? Your face is like a thundercloud. Not feeling stressed from traveling, are you? You'll soon be able to rest." His mother patted his gloved hand. "I certainly am glad to be home.

Douglas shook his head. "I am quite well, but Dolly concerns me. He should not be so free with Miss Hartleigh."

"What nonsense, Dolly means no harm. It's just his way. He thinks the world of Miss Hartleigh, and would do nothing to upset her."

Douglas cursed himself for a jealous fool. If Dolly wanted to enjoy her company, it was no concern of his. And why in God's name had he addressed her as Miss Hartleigh? It had stung her. He'd come to know her so well. She could not hide her feelings. For seconds, her lip had quivered, but not for long, Kate had kept her sharp wit while he'd been away. At the sight of her, golden hair glowing in the sun, a wonderful smile on her lips, why given two good legs, he would have jumped from the carriage to embrace her.

Embrace Kate?

Douglas stepped down at the front of the manor, and assisted his mother. Blewett hurried to escort her into the house.

Still not quite secure on his feet, he leaned heavily on two canes, and walked steadily up the steps. At the top, he turned, and gazed down the drive. Some of the shrubs had leafed during his absence and the trees were budding. It was good to be home.

Embrace Kate?

Douglas made his way through the house to his suite. The stump pained him where it fitted into the artificial limb. Pain he could cope with. Soon the stump would toughen up. He intended to take part in the festivities his mother planned to celebrate Dolly's return home. Planned to dance.

Embrace Kate?

Douglas shed his traveling cloak and hat. What the devil was the matter with him? Kate was his companion, nothing more. Employed to read to him. He owed her a vote of thanks for making him want to live again. Instead, he'd seen Dolly's arms around her and...

...and he did not want Dolly embracing her.

Douglas sat on the window-seat while his valet saw to unpacking his trunk. "What shall I do with this, milord?" Pickens carried a large package from the bedchamber.

"Leave it by my desk. Those are painting supplies for Miss Hartleigh. I'll write a note, and you can deliver them to her room."

He gazed down the drive hoping to see Kate and Dolly walking back to the manor. Douglas wanted her with him. Wanted her to read to him. Wanted to hear what she'd been doing during his absence. London had been dreary. He could not believe how much he had missed Kate. Had found it hard to be cheerful even on the nights he and Madeline attended evening parties in the company of old friends.

Douglas tried to dismiss the thought pushing its way into dangerous territory. His relationship with Kate, his beautiful lady companion, had to be re-assessed. He'd become too fond of her.

Fond? A damned stupid word. It did not begin to describe his feelings for her. He cherished her. Wanted the best for her. If she and Dolly...Douglas slapped his hand on his thigh to emphasize the point!

If Kate and Dolly cared for each other, and wished to marry, he would give them his blessing. A finer match he could not imagine. During his stay in London, Dolly had praised Kate to the skies. He'd never been so intrigued by a girl before.

Little wonder, Douglas thought. Kate had a special charm that drew people to her. Uncle Francis was besotted with her, and his mother thought Kate an absolute gem for what she had done for him.

Done for him? Douglas gave up looking down the empty drive, and walked over to his desk. She had given him back his life. And now he had to let her go. Let her return to London when her time was up. How much longer did she have with him? A month? Five weeks. Not long.

A rueful smile touched his lips. He could send her away immediately, but that would not be fair to Dolly. If Dolly wanted to come to an understanding with Kate about a future together, Douglas would not stand in their way.

He drew notepaper from the drawer, dipped his pen in the ink. What should he say? How to word it? Return to a more formal tone?

Dear Miss Hartleigh. A sharp pain stabbed across his chest. Kate was not Miss Hartleigh. She was Kate! His Kate. Head buried in his hands Douglas faced the truth he'd been denying for days and sleepless nights. He loved her! Before he'd left for London, he'd known it. Had known it every minute of every day spent away from her. Madeline had sensed something wrong.

Dear Madeline. She'd made a poor choice when she promised to marry him. "You are not yourself, Douglas." She'd said. "I feel as though your thoughts are elsewhere. There are times you seem unaware of anything around you. Why, last night at the Gordon's party, you hardly spoke a word. Are you not well? It is not like you to be silent. Others have remarked on it. Especially Lord Minton."

The old man had prodded Douglas to give his account of what happened when the Light Brigade was sent to certain death against the Russian guns. "Cardigan is the hero of the hour. Fine fella. Brave as they come."

Biting his tongue, Douglas excused himself, and made his way outside to the terrace. If he began to describe his feelings for Cardigan and gave a true account of the man, he'd shock Lord Minton. Let him think what he wanted about Cardigan. Away from the chattering crowd, Douglas had stared up at the night sky, wondering what Kate was doing.

Madeline had been right. His thoughts had been somewhere else. Here. At home. With Kate. But was it love he felt for her? Or something else. Gratitude?

She'd put up with books thrown at her, his ill humor, discourtesy, and he'd entered her room, and stolen her sketch.

He'd never been deeply in love, not even with Madeline now he thought about it. Before leaving for the Crimea, not sure if he'd even return, he and Madeline had danced the night away at countless balls, kissed passionately away from the eagle-eye of her chaperone and finally, on the day he departed, declared their love to both families.

War had aged him. Home in England, he was not the same man who had left. Madeline meant almost nothing to him then. Their vow to marry mocked him. He scarce recognized her as the girl he'd promised to wed. Holed up in his room, he'd only wanted to be left alone.

Until Kate walked into his life, and threw a book at him. He ripped up the paper and drew out another sheet. Dear Catherine. Here are the art supplies I promised you. Douglas.

Catherine. That is what he would call her now. Kate? Never. Only in his private thoughts. Kate suggested intimacy, a familiarity that might not sit well with Dolly. But how did she fit into the family now? If Dolly intended to court her it might be better for Kate...for Kate to return to London. Dolly would be free to call on Lady Hartleigh, and ask for her hand.

The ache in Douglas's heart persisted. Why was he casting his thoughts into the future? Dolly had not said a word about marrying Kate. Hinted perhaps.

Then what he had to do was establish a formal relationship with Kate, as it was in the beginning...except for the throwing of books. Catherine it would be. Let her stay on until after the welcome-home party for Dolly.

According to his brother, she enjoyed riding. There was still a role for his companion. She could accompany him, once he had mastered mounting his horse using his right leg instead of his left. He didn't trust his fake foot in the stirrup until he was up, and in the saddle.

Cheered at the thought of spending hours with Kate at his side, Douglas sealed the note, called Pickens and handed it to him. "Leave the package in Miss Hartleigh's room. I believe she is still away sketching."

"Perhaps I should wait until she returns, milord. She may not approve of me entering her room."

Douglas grinned. "Very well. Leave it outside her door. And, Pickens, send word to my mother, I will have luncheon with the family."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Catherine eyed the sun, and packed away her sketching materials. "We'd best return to the manor, Dolly, it is near time for lunch."

"Watching you, I've lost track of time."

Catherine laughed. "You've been fast asleep most of the time, dozing in the sun."

"Not at all, I have practiced the fine art of pretending to sleep. In fact, I observed your every move. You have an elegant way of holding your arm when you sketch. Very charming." He stood. "Let me carry your things."

Catherine folded the stool and handed it to him. "I'll manage the rest."

Smiling, Dolly bowed over her hand. "May I escort you to the house, Miss Hartleigh? My brother seems to think you might lose your way."

Mention of Lord Beckwith set her teeth on edge. She'd not let him spoil the day. She nodded at Dolly, teasing him right back. "Thank you, Captain Delacroix. I believe Lord Beckwith has a low estimation of my intelligence. I can find my way alone, but your company will be most enjoyable."

Dolly clasped her arm, and shortened his stride to match hers. "Douglas has nothing but praise for your intelligence, Catherine. Never saw him so eager to return home. We were to catch the afternoon train, but Douglas insisted we leave first thing this morning. After searching London for your art supplies, he was eager to give them to you."

Catherine stopped in her tracks. "He did not seem pleased to see me. Perhaps he regrets purchasing them."

Dolly shook his head. "Douglas has a lot on his mind. He and Madeline are on tricky ground right now. They are not quite sure whether to wed or not. She's attending our party with her parents. That will give her and Douglas time to sort things out between them."

Catherine swallowed all this information, and forgave him for ignoring her. His lack of courtesy probably resulted from stress. Marriage was not to be embarked on lightly. Like as not, he and Lady Madeline would clear away any problems while she visited Beckwith Manor.

Sighing, Catherine walked on with Dolly. This was such a heavenly place. Being here was like living in an earthly paradise. How could any young lady resist it? Or him?

Francis had sung Lord Beckwith's praises. Educated at Oxford, he had excelled at everything. His studies. Sports.

"Willful, though. No holding him back once he made his mind up to go after something he wanted. A bit of a hell-raiser. Between him and Dolly, they led their parents a merry dance.

Francis never tired of talking about 'the boys.'

But soon she'd have to leave Beckwith Manor behind.

Very soon. Before Dolly's party.

Catherine thanked him for escorting her to the house, and hurried upstairs. A package lay by her door and on the top, an envelope addressed to her. In his handwriting.

Bundled down with sketching materials, the stool hooked over one arm, she pushed into her room, set everything aside, and picked up the package and envelope. Nudging the door shut with her elbow, she sat on the bed and fingered the envelope before opening it.

He'd apologize for being rude. He usually did. That was a part of his character she had come to...to love. No, not love. To appreciate. He always knew when he was in the wrong, and had said or done something hurtful.

She slit the envelope. Dear Catherine. Here are the art supplies I promised you. Douglas.

Taking a deep breath to ease the tightness in her chest, she read the note again. Lips pressed together, she swallowed her disappointment. What had she expected? A friendly greeting? 'Twas obvious she meant nothing to him. His attitude when he saw her at the gate, so remote, so chillingly formal, made that quite clear.

Why then did her heart ache? She had looked forward to seeing him again. To hear him call her, Kate. To spend time with him. Before he set off for London, they'd become friends. So she believed. Even his letter had led her to believe he thought well of her.

But something had changed between them, something she did not understand, and she didn't know what to do. How to be with him? After luncheon, she'd speak to Lady Beckwith, and ask to be relieved of her duties. Catherine ripped the note into tiny pieces. She had no desire to stay, and he seemed to have no interest in having her around.

She bathed her face and hands, changed into the azure blue dress, caught her hair back with a matching ribbon, and set off downstairs. His door was closed. Very likely, he would be having luncheon served in his room.

The butler met her in the entrance hall. "Miss Hartleigh, the family are on the terrace having an aperitif. Please come this way."

Dolly jumped to his feet when he saw her, and Lord Beckwith rose from his chair. Using two canes, he stood and nodded at her, an enigmatic smile on his lips. For endless seconds his dark eyes held hers. Unable to tear her gaze away, Catherine's heartbeat quickened, and the earth shifted under her feet.

Momentarily lost, she finally gathered her wits, and returned his smile. "Thank you for the art supplies, my lord." Her breathless words broke the spell.

"I hope I made the right choices."

"Oh yes, everything is perfect." She'd not opened the package, and prayed he would not ask about the contents.

"Come along, my dear, and sit by me." Suddenly aware of his mother, Catherine joined her on a white wicker love seat, its cushions patterned in swirls of brilliant green, dark blue and yellow.

"Dolly, offer Catherine a sherry." His mother beamed at him.

"Sweet, dry or in between?" He asked, smiling at her over the drinks table.

"Dry, please." She looked around. "Where is Mr. Francis?"

Dolly handed her the sherry. "The gout is plaguing him. He thought it best to stay in his room."

"I am sorry. Your uncle has been very kind to me while you've all been away. He is the dearest man." Glad to have something to do with her hands, Catherine gripped the stem of the glass, and swirled the amber liquid before sipping it.

Only now when the brothers stood side by side did she realize Lord Beckwith was close to the same height as Dolly. She'd not seen them together before. Big, handsome men, both of them. Alike and unalike in many ways. Same black hair and dark eyes but Lord Beckwith's face reflected the trauma he'd suffered. There was something else about him. A warning not to push too hard into his private space.

Why did she expect him to be different? Good-natured like Dolly, for instance. Instead, she walked on eggshells around Lord Beckwith.

Why?

Because...because she did not know from one minute to the next what his mood might be.

Catherine glanced up to find him looking at her. Flustered, warm from the sherry, she turned towards his mother.

"May I speak with you after luncheon, my lady, on a private matter?"

"Of course. But tell me, have you been riding since we've been in London? I must say, Douglas surprised me when he said you were going to ride Misty. She's his special pet. Did she behave?"

"Absolutely, after a few attempts to shake me up, she and I reached an agreement about who was in charge." Only too happy to speak about Misty instead of thinking about her owner, Catherine's enthusiasm for the mare was contagious.

"I'm afraid I disobeyed Mr. Francis and rode her where she did not want to go, into the forest, and over to the gypsy camp. I was chasing after a young lad who'd poached one of your pheasants."

"You visited the gypsies? Were you not afraid?" Lady Beckwith asked.

Not at all, most of those stories about gypsies are untrue. They were most welcoming, but what was especially wonderful, I met up with Riena Stanley, a friend from my childhood."

A gypsy friend?" Dolly drew his chair closer.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Shading his eyes from the mid-day sun, Douglas stopped listening to the conversation, and gave himself over to observing Kate. If he were an artist, he'd paint her sitting on the love seat, in her blue dress, her glorious hair, free of ribbons and pins, falling over her shoulders. She'd slant her eyes at him, a teasing smile on her lips.

And then? And then he'd take her in his arms, and kiss her.

With an effort, he reined in his reckless thoughts. Danger signals flashed red inside his head.

Kate...No. That would not do. He had teased her into being Kate. His shrewish Kate. He wished she had signed her sketch as Kate. It now hung in his bedchamber, a reminder of how he had scowled when they first met.

Kate had to be Catherine or Miss Hartleigh. They'd revert back to the way it was at the beginning. Not quite. A rather formal friendliness is what he had in mind. He might ask her to read to him of an evening.

Douglas sipped his sherry. He relished the idea of lounging in his chair, watching her. Head bent over a book, her lovely voice weaving a spell around him.

Kate.

Blewett stepped out on the terrace. "Luncheon is served."

Lady Beckwith rose to her feet. "Dolly, will you escort Catherine into the dining room?"

"My pleasure, mother." He tucked her arm in his and walked on ahead.

Douglas frowned. He had to stop thinking of her as Kate. His Kate. He'd occupy his thoughts with Madeline, but she was constantly nudged into out-of-the-way corners of his mind by his companion.

He paced slowly behind Dolly and Kate, his mother beside him. The artificial limb rubbed his stump, but he'd not limp, damned if he would. He intended to take part in the dancing at Dolly's party, to waltz at least once with Kate before giving all his attention to Madeline.

Seated opposite Kate at the oval table in the small dining room, he gave up trying to guard his thoughts. Inside his head, she was Kate. Even when she married Dolly, he'd think of her as Kate. Part of his family. He'd be a loving uncle to her children. If he and Madeline had no children, Kate's eldest son would inherit.

His mother's voice dragged him back from the future. "You may serve now, Blewett." One of the footmen served the fish, another, the potatoes and vegetables. The butler poured chilled white wine into crystal glasses.

The familiar ritual pleased Douglas. For months he had shut himself away in his gloomy rooms, chosen to eat alone, and sunk in his own dark thoughts, refused to see friends, until...

...until his companion walked into his life and threw a book at him. He willed her to raise her eyes, and look at him. She lifted the wine glass to her lips.

"It is an excellent wine, is it not, Miss Hartleigh?" Her eyes widened, and he near drowned in their blue depths.

"I am not an expert on wines, Lord Beckwith, but I find it very pleasant." She lowered her gaze, and gave her attention to the food on her plate.

His mother's cheerful voice diverted him from further conversation with Kate.

"Now we're all home, it's time we made plans for the party. It is but a fortnight away, and I've not assembled my guest list. We'll keep the numbers down. A hundred would be about right. Of course, not everyone will stay, but we can easily accommodate sixty. What do you think, Douglas?"

Catherine set down her knife and fork, unable to eat another bite. A hundred guests. Sixty to occupy the bedrooms. They'd require her room. It was past time for her to leave, and return to London.

Aware with every heartbeat of Lord Beckwith sitting opposite, Catherine searched for the right words to ask to be relieved of her duties. To stay on as his companion was out of the question. She'd speak up now while they discussed the party. It might embarrass them to ask her to vacate her room. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned to Lady Beckwith.

"My lady, you and your family have been most kind to me. I have enjoyed my time with you, although once or twice I came close to running away." She smiled brilliantly at Lord Beckwith.

"And we have been very happy to have you with us. Is that not so, Douglas?" His mother raised her brows.

"Never mind him," Dolly interjected. "I spent the best part of a week with Catherine while you were in London. And lucky I was to find such an unexpected, and memorable welcome home after soldiering in India. You're a sly old fox, Douglas, you never mentioned having a beautiful companion."

Catherine bent her head to hide the blushes heating her cheeks. Dolly was so sweet, and his mother and Mr. Francis had done everything possible to make her stay pleasant. Only he had been difficult...and that had changed for the better until he returned from London.

Still moody and unpredictable, Lord Beckwith shifted from light to dark without warning. Like as not, he'd speak up now, and she'd be able to take her leave. Tomorrow, if possible.

"Catherine." She raised her eyes when he spoke to her. "I have benefited from your presence, even when you threw a book at me."

"But you threw one first." She sputtered. For the first time since returning home, he smiled at her. A real smile. Not a chilly, polite smile.

"As I was saying, before you interrupted me, you were very persistent, could not get rid of you, no matter how hard I tried. So I finally gave in." He paused. "Thank you for putting up with me."

Catherine knew she was going to cry. Fumbling a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, she pressed it against her eyes, and stopped the tears. "I...uh...that is what I wished to speak about. Lord Beckwith, you no longer require a companion." She turned to his mother. "With your permission, my lady, I will leave tomorrow and return to London."

"You'll do nothing of the kind." He snapped. "I will decide when I no longer require a companion."

"Douglas, please do not speak to Catherine in that manner." Lady Beckwith drew in a deep breath. "I would very much like you to remain until after the party, my dear. Then I shall make arrangements for your return to London. Having you here has been a delight, a change from being the only female in a family of men."

Dolly stood, and raised his glass of wine. "A toast to Catherine, may she dance the night away with me at the party."

Light-headed, thinking she might faint for the second time in her life, Catherine willed herself to remain calm. A guest at Dolly's party? A guest like other guests? How would she be introduced? How to account for her presence in the house?

"Thank you, my lady. You are very kind. And thank you, Dolly for your toast. I am not sure about dancing the night away." She straightened her back. "If Lord Beckwith wishes me to continue as his companion until my contract expires, I shall do so."

He raised his glass. "Excellent. Perhaps you will accompany me to the stables this afternoon."

His change of mood caught her by surprise. "I will be pleased to do so, my lord. Do you intend to ride?"

"I may."

Then I shall go with you." Dolly announced. "You'll need some assistance to get the hang of using that new-fangled leg."

If looks could kill, his brother would be dead on the spot. Much as he loved Dolly, Douglas wished to spend time alone with Kate. To apologize for his boorish remarks. To make her smile. Not the fake smile, she'd flashed at him moments ago. Her usual friendly smile.

The way she'd smiled at Dolly when he raised his glass spoke volumes. Kate cared for him, that was obvious, but if he thought to steal every dance with her at the party, then they had best have it out before the guests arrived. His companion owed him a waltz or two.

Dolly would have the rest of his life to be with her. Whereas he could only claim her attention for another few weeks. Would they marry here or in London? As head of the family, he might insist they exchange their vows at the church in Winchfield, and receive their guests at the manor. Kate's London home was not sizable enough to host a large party, and her mother's finances would certainly not stretch beyond a small gathering.

Although Kate had never once discussed her family difficulties, his queries in London had shed light on the subject. He would finance the wedding. Dolly had his own fortune. They'd not lack for money.

"This is as good a time as any to tell you." Dolly tipped back in his chair looking pleased with himself.

"Tell us what?" Douglas's gut tightened. Was he about to declare his intention to ask for Kate's hand? Without discussing it with him? Had he called on Lady Jane Hartleigh when they were in London?

"I'm resigning my commission, decided to give up soldiering and do something different."

"Like what?" Douglas asked. Dolly loved army life. What had changed his mind? Kate?

"Head for the colonies. Canada, to start. It's closest. Gold fever is rife on the west coast, and I might try my hand at prospecting."

A hush fell over the table. Douglas studied Kate's face to see her reaction. Surely Dolly did not intend to drag her into the wilds of Canada.

A broad smile on her lips, she cupped her hands under her chin. "What a wonderful adventure! I know someone who hopes to take ship for Victoria. That's on the west coast, is it not? She expects to be on her way within weeks."

Dolly laughed. "Sounds like you have a courageous friend. Not many young woman take readily to long sea voyages."

"When did you decide to quit the army?" Douglas asked. "You said nothing about it in London. I'm sure mother is as surprised as I at your news."

Dolly shrugged. "Been thinking about it for awhile but coming home really convinced me to resign. I was tired of being shot at, for one thing, and wanted to try my luck in the colonies, for another. The whole world is out there waiting for me."

"But you've only just come home. Why I've scarce seen you. You're not leaving soon, I hope." Lady Beckwith signaled the footman to clear the plates.

"Don't worry, mother. I'll be here all summer. After serving in India, I want nothing more than to enjoy the peace and quiet of the English countryside. Douglas, Catherine and I will have fine times together."

Kate sat forward in her chair. "But I'll not be here for the summer, Dolly. I return to London within weeks."

"Then we shall invite you to stay. The air in London is not healthy in the summer. Much better for you to remain here." Dolly grinned at her.

"Perhaps Miss Hartleigh has other plans." Douglas frowned at his brother. Devil take him, he'd intended this all along. Never known him to be so devious, but where Kate was concerned, he seemed capable of pulling the wool over everyone's eyes.

The tip of her tongue wet her lips. "I think not, Dolly. I must return to London. My mother is alone and misses me."

A pleased smile on her lips, Lady Beckwith gazed around the table. "I have a splendid idea. Let me invite Lady Jane to spend the summer with us. There is cholera in London, she might enjoy a change of scene and the air is so much healthier here in the country."

No, no, no, no! A clamor arose inside Catherine's head. That would not do. Not while Lord Beckwith kept her on edge, never knowing from one minute to the next what she might say or do to change his mood.

But...her mother would love being here. This was the kind of life Lady Jane craved. She missed all the trappings of wealth, and once had high hopes Catherine would marry well. Instead of marrying, she'd taken paid work, and fallen out of society into a lonely, classless, limbo. Perhaps her mother's social standing would rise when it was mooted about town she had spent the summer at Beckwith Manor. As a guest.

"Well, what do you think?" Lord Beckwith asked. "Will your mother come for the summer or not?"

Unable to read the expression on his face, trapped into answering, she breathed deeply to calm herself. "Thank you. I am sure she will be delighted but..."

"But?" He raised his brows.

"I will be seeking employment, and hope to find another position as a companion. I may not be able to stay on here. If you and Lady Beckwith will give me a good reference, I should have no trouble..."

He cut her off. "You will have excellent references from both of us at the end of the summer. Is that clear? My mother has extended an invitation to you and Lady Jane to spend June to September with us. Do you accept?"

Catherine ignored him, and turned to Lady Beckwith. "Thank you, my lady, I am delighted to accept your invitation."

"Well, what an eventful luncheon this has been." Lady Beckwith nodded at the butler to draw back her chair. Her sons stood while she rose to her feet. "I must visit Francis, and tell him all the news. Then I am going to rest. All this excitement has tired me. Run along and enjoy yourselves. I'll join you for tea."

Catherine did not want to go anywhere. Not until the turmoil racketing through her body from head toe, stopped plaguing her, and she could think clearly.

"Come along, Catherine. Off you go to change into your riding costume, Douglas and I will meet you at the stables." Dolly escorted her from the table into the entrance hall.

Catherine hesitated. "I think you might welcome an opportunity to ride together. Perhaps, I'll join you tomorrow."

Lord Beckwith shook his head. "That will not do, Miss Hartleigh, I desire your company. If you do not care to ride, then you may read to me for the rest of the afternoon. If you recall, you did not finish Chapter Four of Boswell's Life of Johnson."

Catherine tried not to smile. He sounded like his old self. Gruff, ordering her about, but underneath, a hint of laughter lurked in his voice.

"Very well, my lord, I will meet you at the stables." She curtsied. A deep curtsy.

Dolly chuckled. "Very nicely done, Catherine, the queen would have loved it. Old Douglas here probably did not notice." He headed for the staircase.

She glanced at Lord Beckwith. Grinning wickedly, he dropped his canes and reached for her hands. "Come, let me assist you. Don't want you tottering over."

Dazed by his nearness, the warmth of his hands drawing her close to him, Catherine, who prided herself on her sweeping curtsies, momentarily lost her balance, and staggered against him. Immediately his arms circled her and, helpless to resist, she rested her head on his chest.

"Kate." Did she hear aright? It was the merest whisper, all but drowned out by the blood pulsing in her ears.

"My lord." She tried to keep her voice steady. "Thank you...thank you for assisting me."

Very slowly, he released her, and bowed an unfathomable expression on his face. "You must take more care when you curtsy, Miss Hartleigh, I may not always be close by to save you from toppling over."

"Would you please call me, Catherine, my lord, rather than Miss Hartleigh? It seems so very formal."

He rested his hands on her shoulders. "Very well, Catherine it will be. If that is what you prefer."

Dolly hailed them from the stop of the staircase. "Come along you two. Time's a-wasting."

Ignoring Dolly, Catherine gazed at Lord Beckwith. "That is what I prefer." She wished he had suggested Kate. She liked being Kate. Liked being reminded how he had teased her.

As though reading her mind, he smiled. "You will be Catherine in public and Kate when we are alone. Kate suits you much better."

Thinking her heart might take flight Catherine lifted his hands from her shoulders. "Thank you, my lord."

"No, Kate. If you are to be Catherine, and sometimes, Kate, then you must call me, Douglas. Not another, my lord, or I shall insist you read aloud The Life of Johnson from start to finish."

Tension trickled away from Catherine, leaving her knees weak. "Very well, Douglas." She cleared her throat of the frog lurking there. "I'll run along and change."

Safe in her room, away from his disturbing presence, she paced the floor, tossed her dress aside, and kicked off her shoes.

What did she want from him? She did not like it when he was brusque and off-hand, but...but when he held her...when his arms were around her, helpless to resist, she had rested her head on his chest. Heard him whisper her name. Even now, remembering the feel of him, heat eddied and swirled in deep, unexpected places, surprising her with a tingle she'd never experienced before. A tingly aliveness quivered in her private parts, and her breasts, seeming to have a life of their own, tightened under her shift.

Alarmed at the sensations coursing through her body, Catherine stripped off her clothing, filled the wash-basin with cold water, dipped her face into it, swept water over her breasts, then puddled her arms in, up to the elbows. After patting herself dry with a thick towel, she stood back, and examined her breasts in the gilt-framed bathroom mirror. With a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure Anna had not entered the bedroom, and might see her, Catherine, cradled her breasts in her hands. They felt nice. Round and soft and heavy. Like plump globes. With rosy crowns and pale brown nipples. How pretty they were. Would she dare sketch them? Only if she were absolutely sure no one would ever...

No she'd not sketch them. That might be considered wicked. Well brought up young ladies did not draw nudes. Flowers, birds and country scenes, were suitable subjects. Or...Catherine smiled and turned away from the mirror, remembering the sketch she had done of Douglas.

Douglas! He'd be waiting for her to ride with him. In a mad rush, she changed into her riding clothes, pulled on her boots, and ran downstairs, catching up with Douglas and Dolly on the path near the stables. He was limping slightly, but his long stride matched Dolly's. They halted when they heard her footsteps. Douglas turned to greet her.

"I thought you had forgotten your promise to ride with me."

"Oh, no...I." She'd not tell him she'd been admiring her breasts. "I had to put a stitch in the hem of my skirt."

"Come between us, Catherine." Dolly slipped her arm through his. She smiled up at Douglas.

"Does it tire you to walk? I would be pleased to fetch the chair."

His eyes darkened and her heart plummeted into her boots. Had she said the wrong thing? Would he sting her with a caustic remark about her place as his companion not as a giver of advice?

"Thank you but I no longer require the chair." There was a slight edge to his voice, but at least, he had not embarrassed her in front of Dolly. "I sent ahead to have the horses saddled. Misty for you. I want to see how you handle her."

Catherine relaxed. He'd forgiven her for the mistake about the wheeled chair. "She's not a bit of trouble. Does everything I ask of her, flies over fences like a bird. What horse have you chosen for yourself."

"Prince will do for my first time back in the saddle. He's feisty enough to give me a good hard ride, and not likely to balk when I mount from the right side."

The grooms led out the horses, and Dolly helped Catherine into the saddle. Immediately Misty tossed her head, pranced sideways, frolicked over to Douglas, and nuzzled into one of his jacket pockets.

"You haven't forgotten, have you?" He produced sugar lumps for her, and stroked her head while she lipped the sugar from his hand.

Catherine's heart went out to him. For months and months Douglas had not been near his horses, depriving himself of the pleasure they gave him. But she could not take any credit for the change in him. Before her arrival at Beckwith Manor, he must have been on the mend. Had his mother waited another week or two, she'd not have advertised for a female companion.

"Dolly, you hold Prince's head while I mount." His voice broke into Catherine's thoughts.

He stepped up on the mounting block, tossed his canes aside, grasped Prince's reins, shoved his right boot into the stirrup, and swung into the saddle before the horse could react. Leaning to the left, he fitted his other boot into the stirrup.

"Feels awkward but I'll soon get the hang of it." Beaming, he waited for Dolly to mount. "Off you go, Catherine, we'll follow."

She kicked her heels into Misty. The day was glorious. Blue sky. Bright sun. The scents of spring. Birds singing. Happier than she'd ever been in her entire life, she threw caution to the winds, and let Misty have her head.

Douglas and Dolly raced up alongside her. "Over this way," Douglas whooped. Off and running at full speed, he took the lead with Dolly in pursuit.

Catherine tore after them. He's mad, she thought. The first time in the saddle after months of idleness, and he's off like a shot. Fearless or feckless, he sat his horse with absolute confidence. Coming up behind the brothers, she admired their style. Easy in the saddle, true cavalry officers, they thundered ahead of her.

Then Catherine realized what they were doing. One brother trying to out run the other. Yelling like wild Indians, they galloped over a small rise, and disappeared down the far side. When she crested the hill, they were nowhere in sight. Puzzled, Catherine slowed Misty, and trotted down to the small lake where she'd seen the white swans. Off to one side was a dense stand of trees.

"Ha!" She whispered into Misty's ear. "I know where they are."

Edging around the trees, she waited until the last possible minute, then slid from the saddle, whacked Misty on the rump, and ducked out of sight into the woods. The mare lifted her nose, pricked her ears, and did just what Catherine expected. She followed after the other horses.

Silent as a wraith, or as best she could manage with twigs cracking under her feet, Catherine stole through the trees. Suddenly an arm snaked out, and grabbed her around the waist.

"So, my proud beauty, thought to sneak up on us, did you? Come along, Dolly, what shall we do with her?" Douglas chortled, and held her fast.

Dolly sauntered from behind a giant oak tree. Frowning, he looked Catherine up and down. An evil leer marred his usual sunny countenance.

"Burning at the stake? Not possible, not enough dry wood."

"Make her walk back to the house? No. That would be too cruel."

"I have an excellent suggestion. Because she fell right into our trap, and is not screaming her head off, we'll allow her to ride home with us in time for tea."

Douglas released her. "Haven't had so much fun since we were lads, and used to give our female cousins hysterics when we trapped them here and threatened to burn them alive. Believed us too, didn't they Dolly?"

Catherine burst out laughing. "What little horrors you must have been...and still are, leading me astray like that."

"Then you forgive us?" Douglas grinned at her.

She'd have forgiven him anything at that moment. To see him so happy with not a trace of suffering on his face, sent warmth chasing up and down her spine. This was the teasing, playful Douglas his mother had spoken of. The difficult, ill-humored man she had first encountered no longer existed.

With a haughty toss of her head, Catherine gave him and Dolly a killing look. "Very well, but next time, I will be more alert. I can be just as devious as you two."

Douglas raised her hand to his lips, and breathed a kiss on it. "I might have known you'd be a match for us. You should have seen her when she threw that book at me, Dolly. A shrew if I ever saw one and a devilish clever artist."

Catherine swallowed hard. The intimacy between them was almost more than she could bear. She and Douglas spoke a secret language. He had a private name for her. Her sketch hung in his bedchamber.

Dolly came to her rescue and, taking her arm, led her through the trees to the patiently waiting horses. "Shrew indeed! What a calumny. A more pleasant companion I cannot imagine. From what mother told me, you charmed him back to life."

"Charmed?" Catherine raised her brows. "I don't think he'll agree with that. More like I irritated him so much, he traveled to London to escape."

Douglas nodded, a teasing smile on his lips. "Very true, never had a minute's peace once you invaded my den. But I must say you have mellowed since I returned home. Although now and again I discern a little of the old Catherine waiting to pounce."

"Don't listen to him." Dolly tapped his brother on the shoulder. "He's a miserable old brute. Doesn't know what's good for him."

Laughing together, they cleared the woodland. Misty trotted over, and Dolly went to fetch the other horses from where they were grazing. Catherine turned to Douglas.

I'm happy you are riding again. You look quite different from..."

"...from the ill-humored monster you first encountered. God only knows why you put up with me."

She suppressed a smile. "You challenged me, and I was determined not to let you chase me away." She leaned against Misty and stroked her tawny hide. "But truth to tell, had your mother not paid me three months' wages in advance, I would have left after you pitched that book at me. You frightened me half to death."

Douglas rested one hand on her arm and his eyes searched hers. "I'll regret that to my dying day. Had you left, I might never have seen you again, and Dolly would never have met you. You've become a part of our family."

Catherine died a little inside. Part of the Beckwith family? Never. It was a temporary arrangement until the end of summer. He was being polite.

"Will you help me into the saddle, Douglas?" Placing her left boot in his cupped hands, he boosted her up. She looked down at him. "I've enjoyed to-day. It has been great fun."

"Then we'll do it again. Every day, if you like." He arched one dark eyebrow. "Unless you prefer reading to me?"

Catherine chuckled, and kicked her heels into Misty. "Anything but the Life of Johnson," she called over her shoulder, and raced away before they had a chance to mount their horses.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"What a splendid girl." Dolly declared, and gave Douglas a leg up to mount his horse. "She has Francis eating out of her hand, and you've taken a real fancy to her."

Douglas fiddled with the reins. "I'm fond of Catherine, that's true. She's been good for me, wouldn't let me wallow in misery. Gave me merry hell one day about feeling sorry for myself." Uncomfortable with this talk about Kate, Douglas urged Prince into a fast gallop. Side by side, he and Dolly crested the hill. Kate was far ahead of them.

"What about you, Dolly? What do you think of my companion?" Douglas called out to him.

"Think of her? I like her better than any girl I've ever met." Dolly barreled on ahead. "I'll catch up with her."

Douglas slowed his horse to an easy trot. Dolly had not said it right out, but he was clearly enamored of Kate. He'd make her a fine husband. A more honorable man never lived than his brother. Then why feel so gloomy? He should be happy for them.

Up ahead, Dolly had caught up with Kate. He was right, of course. She was a splendid girl. Why those idiot men in London allowed her to slip through their fingers was his gain, and their loss. He'd gain a sister...

Douglas clenched his hands around the reins.

Kate.

His sister? Wife of his brother?

An emptiness settled in his chest. When they took ship for the west coast of Canada, he'd not see her for years. Maybe never.

Prince slowed to a standstill. Douglas wrestled with his conscience daring himself to admit the truth. Once, out in the open, he could do battle with it. The truth was...the truth was. Dear God, he did not want to think it. He loved Kate. Wanted to touch her. Wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her. Wanted to marry her. Wanted her for himself.

Douglas blew out the breath he'd been holding. He could not have her, that was a given. He was still betrothed to Madeline and if Dolly had not spoken to Kate yet, it would not be long before he did. He showed all the signs of a man falling in love.

Determined not to conceal his own feelings for Kate, he nudged Prince with his knees. "Let's get moving, they'll be at the stable waiting for me."

The next question bedeviling him was what to do about Madeline? Their betrothal had nearly foundered in London. He had changed, but had Madeline? She was coming to Dolly's party with her parents to resolve any difficulties between them, and to make arrangements for them to wed.

"Are you all right?" Dolly rode back to meet him. "Catherine is at the stable. I suggested she return to the house, but she said, she'd wait for you."

Douglas snapped the reins and Prince broke into a fast trot. "Then we'd best not keep her waiting. I've no doubt my companion is making sure I am all in one piece, and capable of walking back to the house."

Kate sat on a bench under a holly tree. Sunlight glistened on the shiny green leaves and red berries. Douglas caught his breath when he saw her. Under the radiant canopy over her head, she appeared like a golden-haired sprite. She'd not worn a hat and her curls had escaped the ribbon holding them back. His hands itched to thread his fingers through her tresses, lift the hair from her nape, and drift kisses over her soft skin.

A stirring in his loins warned him to guard his thoughts. Disgusted for lusting after her, Douglas dismounted, straightened his jacket, retrieved one of his canes from the groom, and walked over to her. Dolly stayed behind to speak to the head stable boy. "Fetch my other cane when you come. I'll see how I go with one."

"Shall we start back?" Kate stood. He offered her his arm. Immediately, he knew it was not a good idea. She rested her gloved hand in his. Her trusting, innocent hand, while he battled the illicit passion heating his blood.

"Douglas, may I ask you something?"

He flinched. Had his demeanor changed? Had she caught a hint of his lascivious thoughts? Striving for calm, he forced a smile. "Of course."

"I hope you will not be shocked, and you have every right to refuse my request."

"Tell me, Kate. I promise not to be shocked."

"When I rode around our Dorset land, I rode astride. I really dislike riding sidesaddle. Never feel I am in perfect control, especially taking fences."

She withdrew her arm. "My riding skirt is not a skirt at all. Look." She whirled in a circle to show him the split skirt. "I think the French name is culottes. I can ride astride wearing my culottes. Are you shocked? If you think it unladylike or might upset your mother, then I shall not do so."

Douglas clasped her hands to stop the whirling. "Very little shocks my mother. From the stories father told us about her youth, she was full of daring-do, and Dolly and I are quite unshockable. However, there is a problem. We may not have a saddle just right for you. We'll have a look at them tomorrow."

"Douglas, you are the dearest man." Kate kissed him. A feathery light kiss on his cheek. It burned straight to his loins.

Dolly strode up to them. "Kip Jones tells me he is feeling his age, 'creaking a bit about the knees,' is the way he put it. I think he'll need more help. He's been here since we were lads. Must be near time to pension him off."

Douglas breathed a sigh of relief. Kip Jones he could deal with, but not Kate. If he was to survive the summer with her, then he'd best keep his distance. "I'll speak to Kip in the morning."

Dolly handed him his other cane. With two hands occupied, he'd not be tempted to touch her. "Time we returned to the house. It must be close to tea." Head down as though deep in thought, he walked on ahead. Kate and Dolly, laughing about something, followed behind.

When did he fall in love with her? A sudden memory flashed behind his eyes. It was the day following Madeline's visit. He had persuaded Kate to enter his sitting room with a promise not to throw a book at her. The draperies at the window were slightly open. Caught in a shaft of sunlight, she stood with her back against the wall. He'd expected a plain looking spinster instead a golden-haired, blue-eyed vision had robbed him of speech.

That was the day he had forced his mouth on hers, and she'd knocked him down. Douglas suppressed a smile, and wished he could re-live those first days when he had Kate all to himself. He'd been celibate too long that was the problem. Kate's presence as his companion had aroused his libido. If Dolly had not arrived when he did, she might have been his.

And Madeline? What of her? Weary of his thoughts Douglas reached the steps ahead of Kate and Dolly. "Look at the sky. There's a storm brewing. We'll not be riding out again today."

Catherine shivered. Off to the east, great billowing black clouds threatened. "Do you remember the day I arrived, Douglas? Thunder. Lightning. Rain lashing down. And I landed on your doorstep like a drowned rat."

"Not at all. Don't remember a thing. I'd persuaded mother to cancel the arrangements with you, and was happily hunkered down in my room listening to the wind howl. No female companion for me. I might have turned you out in the storm."

The distant tone in his voice confused Catherine. There was something so...so dismissive in his last statement. No female companion for me. Not a hint of amusement threaded through his words. Yet at luncheon he had actually thanked her for putting up with him, and had played games with her when he captured her in the woodland.

Catherine shook her head. Would she ever understand this difficult man? Pulled this way and that with his changing moods, she had no way of knowing from one minute to the next his frame of mind. Best to avoid him, and spend time with Dolly, Francis and Lady Beckwith.

Except. She was still officially Douglas's paid companion, and he had every right to claim her attention.

A rumble of thunder hastened Catherine indoors, and up to her room. She closed the French doors against the advancing storm. The boiler had been lit in her bathroom. Refreshed from washing her face, hands, arms and shoulders, she changed into a skirt, and a plain white cotton shirtwaist brought from London. Simply cut, the pale gray, silk fabric flared around her ankles. She had deemed it suitable for a companion, with no added fripperies or furbelows to draw attention to her.

She loved color, and was sorely tempted to throw Riena's gorgeous silk shawl over her shoulders. She drew the gypsy amulet from her skirt pocket. It was supposed to bring her luck. Instead her life had gone from one crisis to another. Perhaps the end of summer would bring a change of fortune, take her away from Beckwith Manor, and its difficult master.

Amulet in her hand she closed her eyes and wished. "I wish for Douglas not to be so changeable, and for him to like me just a little."

A knock on the door disturbed her reverie. "'Tis Anna, Miss Hartleigh. They're waiting tea for you downstairs."

Catherine's heart skipped a beat when a flash of lightning ripped across the darkening sky. Glad to have company, she hurried to join the family. Douglas and Dolly stood when she entered the dining room.

"Excuse me if I don't greet you properly, Catherine, I dare not disturb my poor gouty toe." Francis patted the chair beside him. "Come sit by me. I've missed you."

Delighted to see him, Catherine kissed his cheek. "And I've missed you."

"Aren't you the lucky fellow, Francis?" Dolly teased. "If I fake an illness, will I receive a kiss from Catherine?"

"Only for gout." Catherine smiled at him. "So you are quite safe."

"Woe is me." Dolly groaned. "I shall retire to a monastery and nurse my hurt feelings."

Catherine suppressed a grin. "I do hope the monastery will provide a cure. I'd not like you locked away forever."

Lady Beckwith poured tea from an ornate silver pot, and handed Catherine a cup. "Dolly in a monastery? It would soon be in an uproar, would it not, Douglas?"

Catherine had avoided looking at him, preferring to concentrate her attention on Francis and Dolly. Instead of answering his mother, Douglas gazed at Catherine, a wry smile on his lips.

"Surely to save Dolly from a monastery, you'd honor his request."

Dolly's teasing did not embarrass her but Douglas' remark had an edge to it guaranteed to bring a flush to her cheeks. Catherine longed to twist his neck. "I'm sure Dolly can look after himself with no help from me."

Much to Catherine's relief, Dolly broke the tension crackling between her and Douglas. "I've decided to bide my time. Some day, you may take pity on a poor soldier just returned from saving India for Her Majesty."

Breathless from hurrying, the butler hastened into the dining room. "Excuse me, Lady Beckwith, but there's a young lady come to the back door asking to speak to Miss Hartleigh."

"Asking for me?" Catherine set down her cup.

"Yes, Miss. She's in a bad way, soaking wet and hurting she is." He cleared his throat. "I believe she may be a gypsy. She gave me this to show you." Riena's amulet dangled from his fingers.

Catherine jumped to her feet, and caught hold of the amulet. "It belongs to my friend, Riena. Please excuse me, my lady, I must go to her. Where is she, Blewett?"

"The housekeeper put a chair for her in the passageway by the back door."

Douglas stood. "I'll come with you, Catherine. You may require assistance."

They found Riena cowering on the chair, her clothing soaked and dripping on the floor. She raised her bruised face to Catherine. A small cut oozed blood by her right temple.

"Please let me stay awhile. Just long enough to dry me off, I'll not be any trouble."

Catherine knelt beside her. "Riena, you are hurt. You cannot leave until..." Catherine turned to Douglas. "Lord Beckwith, this is Riena Stanley, a dear friend of mine. May I look after her? She is not fit to travel."

Douglas bowed. "Of course you may care for her." Catherine could have hugged him. He'd acknowledged Riena without a hint of arrogance, as though a bedraggled gypsy girl coming to his door asking for shelter was an every day occurrence. He immediately took charge.

"Ask the housekeeper for towels to wrap around your friend. Take her to your room, and put her to soak in a hot bath. I'll send up ointments for those cuts and bruises on her face." He smiled at Riena. "Catherine will make sure you are soon warm and dry."

Riena staggered to her feet, and caught hold of Catherine's hands. "My crystal. I left the box under the hedge near the door. I must not lose it."

"Your crystal?" Douglas asked.

"It belongs to Riena..." Catherine paused. Would he think ill of her gypsy friend if she told him about the fortune telling? Catherine slid her tongue over her lips, and chose her words carefully. "She inherited a crystal globe from her grandmother. It is a treasured possession."

"Then I shall retrieve it." Douglas limped out into the storm, and returned with the box. "There you are, no harm done."

Her eyes misty with grateful tears Catherine's gaze lingered on him. "Thank you, my lord."

Douglas touched her hand. "Look after your friend. I'll inform my mother, and we'll decide which room to put her in. She'll be safe here."

"I'll fetch some towels, Riena. Wait for me, I'll not be a minute." Catherine dashed into the kitchen. "Mrs. Paige, I have to dry off my friend. May I have two or three towels?"

The housekeeper didn't bat an eye. She opened an airing cupboard, and handed Catherine four towels. "The girl is a friend of yours, Miss Hartleigh?"

Catherine nodded. "From when I was a child. Lord Beckwith has given me permission to care for her."

When Catherine returned, he was holding Riena's wrist. "Her pulse is strong. She'll soon be herself once those bruises heal."

"What's keeping you so long?" Dolly called out, striding towards them. Seeing Riena, he stopped in his tracks. "My God who did this to her?"

"I don't know yet." Catherine wrapped towels around her friend. "Come Riena, we'll talk later."

Douglas stared after them. "Some brute has beaten her, and she's run to Catherine for shelter. Must have known she was living here."

Dolly cracked his knuckles. "I'd like to get my hands on the man who did it. She must be the girl Catherine told us about, seems they knew each other as children. What's to become of her?"

They sauntered back to the dining room, and their interrupted tea. "For the moment, Catherine will care for her. From the look of Riena, she'll not be fit to leave here for several days, not until those bruises, and that cut heal. I'll speak to mother about where to put her."

"She's had a terrible beating." Dolly paused outside the dining room door. "Can't bear to see a woman hurt like that. We must help her out."

A troubled frown creased their mother's brow when they took their places at the table. "Where is Catherine?"

"Her friend has been injured, and Catherine is caring for her. Riena Stanley is the gypsy girl Catherine told us about." Douglas shook his head. "Someone has beaten her. Her face is bruised, one eye almost swollen shut, and there's a cut over her temple. I promised to send up ointments."

"Oh dear, oh dear, that is dreadful. Who would do such a thing?" Francis asked.

"That we do not know." Dolly beat a rapid tattoo on the table with his fingers. "But when we do, I shall find him, and make him pay for what he's done to her."

Lady Beckwith signaled the footman. He drew back her chair. "Have a fresh pot of tea sent in, and have Mrs. Paige prepare a tray to be sent up for Miss Hartleigh and her friend. I had best go and speak with Catherine. I have healing ointments for the girl."

Douglas resumed his seat after she left. "Mother is a remarkable woman, nothing seems to faze her. I thought she might have some qualms about taking in a gypsy, but it did not seem to trouble her in the least."

"Probably because Riena is Catherine's friend, and she trusts Catherine's judgment." Dolly helped himself to three tiny sausage rolls. "Mother thinks the world of your companion. Treats her like the daughter, she never had. You really ought to be more pleasant to Catherine. I've caught her looking at you when you've been a bit abrupt, and I swear she is either going to burst into tears or hit you. Serve you right if she threw another book at your thick head."

~~~

Catherine assisted Riena up the staircase and along the hallway to the bathroom. A lighted lamp hung from the ceiling and a fire glowed under the boiler heating water for the bathtub and wash basin.

"What is this place, Catherine?" Riena whispered. She held the towels tight around her wet clothes.

"A bathing room." Suddenly aware that her gypsy friend had probably never seen indoor bathing facilities, Catherine smiled. A reassuring smile. "You'll come to no harm here. The tub is for you to bathe in. I'll run warm water into it, and leave you to wash yourself." Catherine turned on a tap. Hot water gushed out.

Riena stepped over to look. "Am I to sit in it?"

"Sit in it. Lie in it. Wash your hair. Do whatever pleases you."

"And do I take off everything? When I bathe in a river, I keep part of me covered."

"You can take everything off. No one will see you. Now, I think the water is just right. Let me help you out of your outer garments."

Riena pealed off one thing after the other. Off came a shawl, a jacket, a patterned vest, three blouses and four colorful skirts, all dripping wet. Catherine could not believe her eyes. "Why are you wearing so many clothes?"

Tugging off her red leather boots, Riena shivered. "He...my husband threatened to kill me. He beat me, said I was holding back money from him. Two nights ago, I mixed a potion to make him sleep soundly. When I was sure he would not wake until morning, I put on every bit of clothing I could, took my money from its hiding place, picked up my crystal box and left the camp."

Catherine's heart ached for her friend. "Thank goodness you thought to come here. Do you think he'll know where you are?"

Riena shook her head. "I don't think so. Even if someone from the tribe mentioned your visit to our camp, he'd never expect me to run to you. We were miles away from here when I left."

"You're safe now and I'll take good care of you." She paused. "So, no more talking. Soak in the bath, it'll do you a lot of good. I'll take your things down to the laundry and have them washed and find something for you to wear in the meantime." She gathered up Riena's wet clothing. "I have your amulet in the other room."

"Here, take this with you." She unbuckled a wide belt cinched over a plain, cotton shift. "'Tis my money belt. There's also a place in it for my gold trinkets." A little smile brightened her bruised face. "I'd not have left my gold for him. Most of it came from my grandmother."

Catherine, close to tears for her troubled friend, placed the belt on top of the wet clothing. "I'll put it away while I go to the laundry. Finish undressing, and climb into the tub before the water is cold. There are fresh towels on the shelf behind you."

She put the money belt in one of the wardrobe drawers. A knock on the bedroom door surprised her.

"May I come in, Catherine?" It was lady Beckwith.

"Of course, my lady." Catherine was not sure what her ladyship might think of the new arrival, especially since it meant extra work for the staff. "I was about to take Riena's wet clothing down to the laundry."

"My goodness, what a bundle you have. Was she wearing all those garments?"

Catherine nodded. "Riena's husband beat her, and threatened to kill her. She escaped wearing as many of her clothes as she could. I've not heard the whole story. She's bathing now and I will find something of mine to fit her. We are close to the same size."

"I've brought some ointments for her bruises, and am having tea sent up for both of you. You hardly touched a bite. Speak to Mrs. Paige when you take those things to the kitchen. She'll have the laundry maids see to them."

Lady Beckwith placed two opaque glass jars, one pink and one blue, on Catherine's table. "These ointments came from France and are very soothing. Use the ointment from the pink jar first, leave it for several minutes, then smooth on the other. I'll return later to meet your friend. She is welcome to stay with us until she has healed, and it is safe for her to go. I do hope her husband has not followed her."

"I sincerely hope not. I did not know what to do other than take Riena in. She feared for her life."

Lady Beckwith patted Catherine's hand before taking her leave. "You did exactly what I would have done. Now, run along down the back stairs, and take those wet clothes to the laundry."

Catherine was back within ten minutes, having taken a wrong turn in the unfamiliar warren of passages at the rear of the house. She opened the wardrobe and looked over her meager selection of clothing, and decided the freshly laundered azure dress would suit Riena who liked bright colors. It was the brightest of Catherine's dresses. She selected undergarments, and satisfied with her choices, knocked on the bathroom door.

"Are you all right? I have dry clothing for you. May I bring them in?"

"Yes, I'm out of the bath and wrapped up in a towel."

Catherine pushed into the warm room. Riena sat on the edge of the tub, drying her long black hair. "You look better already. How do you feel?"

"Much better. I don't hurt as much. The warm water soothed my legs where he whipped me. Look at what he did." She raised the towel above her knees. Raised red welts enflamed her skin. "I'll never forget your kindness. You saved my life. He might have caught up with me."

Catherine choked back the bile rising in her throat. The extent of Riena's injuries sickened her. "He'll not find you here, I promise you. We've two strong men to protect us if he dares show his face."

Catherine handed her the clothing. "Dress, then we can talk. Lady Beckwith is sending up tea. You can tell me everything after we've had something to eat."

Wait." Riena held up her hand. "Lady Beckwith? Is she the wife of Lord Beckwith?"

"She is his mother. Lord Beckwith is not married, although he is betrothed."

"To you?" Riena's dark eyes studied Catherine.

"Good heavens, no, whatever made you think that?"

"He loves you." Riena swirled her hair behind her ears and quickly braided it.

Catherine shook her head. "Lord Beckwith barely tolerates me. I am his paid companion."

"You are mistaken. He loves you. I knew it the moment he stood beside you. A wonder to me you do not feel it."

"Riena Stanley, you are talking nonsense. Hurry and dress, I can hear Anna in the other room setting out the tea things."

Glad to escape from Riena's questioning gaze, Catherine ducked out of the bathroom. Her friend was overwrought, perhaps a little sick in the head from the beating she'd endured. A day or two's rest and she'd come to her senses. Why, she'd been in too much pain to observe Douglas, and probably mistook his compassion for something else.

Had it been Dolly, Riena might have been partly right. Not the kind of love she meant though. More like the love between a brother and sister. Catherine thought Dolly the best, the nicest, the most loving man she had ever met.

Big handsome Dolly. He'd be a wonderful husband. Catherine smiled to herself. Perhaps Dolly loved her, but she hoped not because she did not love him the way a woman should love a man.

He'd kissed her once at Winchfield station. It was a very nice kiss. Not like the kiss...

A flush heated her cheeks. She did not want to remember when Douglas had kissed her. It was not a gentle kiss. More hard and demanding. It had made her jumpy, and hot, and uncomfortable.

"There's your tea, Miss. I hope your friend is feeling better."

"What?" Catherine blinked. "I'm sorry, Anna, my thoughts were miles away. Thank you for bringing our tea. Riena and I will enjoy it."

Catherine sank into one of the wing chairs when Anna left. She'd discourage Riena from mentioning Douglas. If he found out what she had said, Catherine would die of shame. Not only had her friend's body been bruised, but her mind affected as well.

But try as she might, Catherine could not wipe Riena's words from her mind.

He loves you.

That was out of the question. Such a thing had never occurred to her. How could it? Douglas was betrothed. And why would he be the slightest bit interested in her? She had been useful to him that was all.

Seeking a diversion, Catherine turned her attention to Riena's box containing the crystal. She'd carried it upstairs for her friend, and placed it on the floor by the other wing chair. Its contents fascinated her, but she resisted the temptation to undo the brass clasps and take the globe in her hands. Perhaps it would be unlucky for her to touch it. The palms of her hands prickled. She had never been superstitious about gypsies but...

What if Riena had special powers?

What if...

No that was impossible even for Riena. She could not possibly know anything about Douglas. He'd been kind to her friend. Something Riena would not have expected from the lord of the manor. That is what she had sensed, his kindness and surprising offer of help.

Catherine knew for certain, Douglas had little use for her unless it suited him. Charming one minute, cold and remote the next, she was surprised he'd agreed so readily to his mother's suggestion she remain at the manor until the end of summer. Perhaps he intended to spend time in London with Lady Madeline preparing for their nuptials.

"What do you think, Catherine? I've never worn a Gadji dress before." Riena stopped in the doorway and gazed around the room. "Is this all yours? It is beautiful."

Catherine beckoned her to sit in the wing chair opposite. "It is lovely. The Beckwith family are very wealthy and assigned me this room when I came to work here." She quickly changed the subject hoping to divert Riena from making any comments about Douglas.

"You look splendid in my dress but I much prefer your own bright colors. Lady Beckwith sent up ointments for your bruises. I'm to use the salve from the pink jar first, then the blue one."

She winced when Catherine smoothed the first lot of ointment over her bruises and the welts on her legs. "I'm sorry if I'm hurting you."

"It's all right. The ointment feels cool on my skin now."

"Then we shall have our tea before I apply the other one. Are you hungry?"

Riena smothered a yawn. "Hungry and very tired. I've scarce eaten or slept for two days."

Catherine poured cups of tea. "Then let us eat. Lady Beckwith will be along to meet you, and will have ordered a bedroom made ready."

Riena picked up a tiny sandwich and popped it into her mouth. Then another. "How can I stay here, Catherine? I don't know the ways of your people. I've never lived in a house. Caravan life is not like this."

Quick to sense Riena's discomfort, Catherine leaned towards her. "You must stay until you are well. You and I will have our meals sent up here, and pretend we are living in a caravan. What do you think of that?"

Tears trickled down Riena's cheeks. "I think...I think that will give me time to plan what to do."

"Are you still of a mind to board a bride ship to Canada?"

Riena nodded. "Yes. I can't stay too long here. The ship sails from London within a fortnight." A grin twisted her swollen lips. "I have to dress as a white girl. The church authorities in charge of the ship would never allow a Romany aboard. I shall be very prim, wearing brown or black, and not don my own clothes until I step on Canadian soil."

"Then I shall teach you our ways while you are here. You will be letter perfect by the time you leave. No one will guess you are a Romany. You'll be a mysterious dark-haired beauty." She leaned over and rested her hand on Riena's arm. "Enough talking, let's have our tea."

Lady Beckwith arrived as they finished the cake. Catherine stood and signaled Riena to join her. "Lady Beckwith, this is my friend, Riena Stanley."

"Welcome to our home, Mrs. Stanley. How are you feeling? My sons tell me you have been through a very difficult time."

Riena bobbed her head. "Yes, Ma'am, I am feeling a good deal better, and I thank you for your hospitality."

"We are pleased to help." Lady Beckwith turned to Catherine. "I've had the room to the right of yours prepared for Mrs. Stanley. Perhaps you will come to the library and see me when your friend is settled."

"Thank you, my lady. Riena is very tired. I expect she will sleep the clock round."

Riena's dark eyes drooped. "Thank you for the soothing ointments, Lady Beckwith. You are very, very kind."

"You are Catherine's friend, and are welcome here. We'll speak again when you are rested." Smiling, she swept out of the room.

Riena sank into her chair. "What a beautiful woman. Little wonder she has such handsome sons." She lay back and closed her eyes. "Would you smooth on the other ointment? I cannot stay awake much longer."

Using the tips of her fingers, Catherine doctored the bruises with the ointment from the blue jar and setting it aside, crossed over to the wardrobe. "You shall have one of my nightgowns, then off to bed with you."

"May I have my money belt?"

"Of course, I tucked it away in one of the drawers." Money belt over one arm and a nightgown over the other, Catherine handed both items to Riena.

She opened a pocket in the belt and drew out a small velvet bag. "Hold out your hands."

Catherine cupped her hands together and Riena tipped a shower of gold trinkets into them. Choosing a pair of hooped earrings, she gathered up the other trinkets, and returned them to the bag.

"These are for you." The gold hoops gleamed in Catherine's hands.

"But I cannot accept these. They are much too valuable."

"You must accept my gift. When a Romany offers a gift, it is from the heart. To refuse would bring ill fortune to the giver. You must wear them, and think of me."

Catherine hugged her friend. "I'd not want you to suffer. I will treasure your gift forever."

Smothering a yawn, Riena handed the belt to Catherine. "Keep it, and my crystal with you. And now I would like to sleep."

Catherine saw her to her room and closed the door. The gold earrings, looped over two fingers, glowed in the lamp-lit hallway. Smiling to herself, she returned to her bedchamber, and standing in front of the Cheval glass, shoved her curls out of the way and held the hoops next to her ears.

She'd never owned anything quite like these gold hoops. Her earrings were small and unpretentious suitable for an unwed young lady. When and where should she wear the exotic gypsy earrings? Not during daylight hours, they were too...too showy.

But she would wear them at least once, or ill fortune might follow Riena. And that would not do.

Catherine folded them into a handkerchief, and tucked them away with the money belt far back in one of the wardrobe drawers. The box with the crystal, she placed on the top shelf, and closed the wardrobe.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lady Beckwith had asked to see her. No doubt she was interested in how long Riena intended to stay. Catherine tidied her hair and stepped into the hallway. His door was open. Hoping to pass by unseen, her hopes were thwarted. Seated at his desk, pen in hand, Douglas tilted back in his chair when he saw her.

"Good evening, Kate. Have you come to read to me?"

"No, my lord. Your mother asked to meet with me. If you will excuse me, I am on my way there now."

He loves you.

Her chest tight, she found it hard to breathe. Surely he did not expect her to read to him since he could see well enough to write at his desk.

"How is your friend?"

"She is much improved, my lord. She is sleeping now, and I do not expect her to wake until morning. She was very tired."

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "After dinner, I wish to speak with you. Privately. We'll have our coffee in my study."

"Your study, my lord?"

"Yes, Kate. In my study."

"I don't know where your study is, my lord."

He thumped one fist on his desk and stood. "Stop calling me, my lord! I do not care for this change in you. Did you not agree to call me, Douglas? If you insist I am your lord, then you must bend your knee, humble yourself, and behave like a proper companion who knows her place."

Catherine gritted her teeth. "I have not changed, my lord, it is you. I cannot fathom your moods. One minute you are pleasant and the next...the next you are harsh and critical. You find fault with me, and I am never sure what I have done to upset you."

"Then I must guard my tongue lest you are tempted to throw another book at me." Picking up his cane, he walked over to Catherine, and held out his hand.

"Let us call a truce. Even Dolly thinks I am too abrupt with you at times." He clasped her hand.

Catherine nodded, unable to speak, while the warmth of his touch coursed up her arm, and into her heart.

He loves you.

Riena's words pulsed in Catherine's ears. Shaken, she withdrew her hand, and drew in a deep steadying breath. "A truce."

"And you will call me, Douglas."

"Yes."

"At times I may call you, Kate. Is that agreeable?"

Catherine stepped back a pace.

He loves you.

"Is that agreeable, Kate?" His eyes searched hers.

She swallowed hard, and forced a smile. "Yes, Douglas. You may call me, Kate. If it pleases you."

"But does it please you, Kate?"

He loves you.

Light-headed, Riena's words thrumming at the back of her mind, Catherine lowered her gaze to the safety of the floor. "Yes, it pleases me. Now I must run along, and meet with your mother."

"I'll come with you. Mother is probably concerned about Mrs. Stanley."

By the time they reached the library, Catherine had regained her composure. Francis rested his gouty foot on an ottoman, and waved at her. Lady Beckwith, looking worried, set aside her needlework.

"Come sit by me." Dolly stood, and folded up The Times he'd been reading. Catherine sensed something amiss, and joined Dolly. Douglas remained standing, his back to the fireplace.

Lady Beckwith smoothed her hands over her skirt. "Blewett and Mrs. Paige have been to see me. The servants are very upset at having a gypsy in the house. Mrs. Paige had to be stern with the laundry maids, and stand over them while they washed Mrs. Stanley's clothing. They fear gypsies, all nonsense, of course, but country girls believe all those old wives' tales about gypsy curses and the ability to cast spells."

He loves you.

Catherine tried to concentrate.

"Please do not misunderstand me, Catherine, as far as I am concerned, your friend is welcome but..."

"But her presence is causing problems." Douglas thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. "I'll meet with the servants. They'll have to understand that Mrs. Stanley is Catherine's friend, and we cannot turn her out."

"Will it help if I keep Riena out of sight?" Catherine asked. "If you agree, we'll have our meals sent up to my room. Riena is not used to living in a house, and is almost as uncomfortable as the servants."

Lady Beckwith nodded. "An excellent idea, but do not feel you have to remain indoors. As long as you stay close to the house, there'd be no harm in taking Mrs. Stanley outside."

"What are her plans when she leaves here?" Dolly turned to Catherine.

"Ever since her husband began beating her, Riena has been putting money aside to pay her passage on a ship sailing to Victoria. She cannot board the ship dressed as a gypsy, and will purchase appropriate clothing in London. Once her bruises heal, she'll be on her way."

Catherine thought it best not to mention the ship's female passengers were going out to be brides. "I will teach her how to behave like a Gadji while she's here."

"A Gadji?" Douglas asked.

"Gadji is a Romany word for people like us. white people, who are not part of the tribe."

"What if her husband tracks her down? The brute might seize her." Dolly smacked his hands on his knees. "We'll have to make sure she reaches London safely. Do you know where the ship sails from?"

"From the Port of London, I think. Perhaps I should speak to your staff, and assure them Riena is not an evil person? She's but twenty years old, and has suffered greatly."

Douglas smiled at her. "Let me look after it. I don't want Blewett or Mrs. Paige having to smooth ruffled feathers. The servants will listen to me."

Dolly crossed his arms over his chest. "When your friend is ready to leave, I will escort her to London and, if necessary, convey her safely to the ship she sails on."

Catherine leaned over and kissed him. "You are a darling man. Riena will not have a minute's worry with you at her side."

Lady Beckwith picked up her needlework. "Then that is settled. We'll all rest easy knowing she is safe. Mrs. Stanley will be well on her way before our party. The invitations have been sent, and Catherine, I would like you to help with the decorations. Let's hope for fine weather. I want the ballroom doors open to the terrace, and we'll have lanterns lighting paths to the gardens.

"Young people do like to stroll about. I remember how I used to try and escape the eagle eye of my mother to meet with my current beau." She laughed. "All quite harmless, and such fun. Perhaps I'd feel differently if I had a daughter."

Blewett knocked and entered the library. "Dinner is served, my lord."

Douglas assisted his mother from her chair. "Thank you, Blewett. I understand the servants are concerned about Miss Hartleigh's friend. Ask them to come to the drawing room after we've had our coffee. I will speak to them, and assure them Mrs. Stanley is not a threat."

"Very good, my lord."

Francis dozed in his chair. "Are you coming, Francis?" Catherine tapped him on the shoulder.

His blue eyes blinked open. "Very slowly, my dear, very slowly. You go on ahead with the others."

Douglas waited for her. "May I escort you, Kate?" He kept his voice low. The Kate was for her ears alone.

"Thank you, Douglas." He slipped her arm through his and her slim hand rested lightly on his palm. The feel of her soft skin, the tantalizing rise and fall of her breasts when she breathed, the swish of her skirt, the delicate scent of her perfume, it was all he could do to remain steady on his feet.

"Do you still wish to see me in your study after dinner?" Kate smiled up at him.

He should say, no.

An unequivocal, no.

"Yes. Wait for me there. One of the footmen will serve our coffee. I have to speak to the servants first."

"Where is your study? I find it easy to lose myself in this huge house."

He pointed to the left. "Past the morning room, the formal drawing room and the music room. My study is around the next corner."

Kate paused at the dining room. "I'm so happy we've declared a truce. I did not think I could spend the summer here if you did not..."

"If I did not what?"

A flush colored her cheeks. "If you did not want me in the house. I think you dislike me, and find my presence irritating."

"Dislike you? Is that what you've been thinking? That I disliked you? Why you've been become part of my life..."

Dangerous words. He cleared his throat. "Part of all our lives. Mother, Francis and Dolly think the world of you."

"And you, Douglas?" Kate gazed into his eyes.

Damn it all, she expected an answer. "Of course I like you. How could I not like a young lady who throws books at me." He'd danced around that pitfall nicely.

"You are such a tease. You'll never let me forget that horrid day, will you?"

Her smile warmed him, and warmth he did not need. Not then. Not while her innocent smile charmed him into desiring her. This lusting after Kate had to stop. Too long celibate was his problem. He'd love her at a distance, and take good care not to create problems between her and Dolly.

Blewett rescued him. "Will you and Miss Hartleigh be seated, my lord?"

Opposite Kate at the table, Douglas encouraged her to tell them more about Riena. "I want to make sure the servants understand why she is here, and how you came to know her. I'll make it sound like a real-life fairy tale. Perhaps she is a gypsy princess. What do you think?"

Kate chuckled. "Riena is not a princess, but her father was head of their tribe. Riena said he was a sorcerer. When we were children, he gave my brother and me an amulet carved with strange symbols. He warned us never to lose them. He said they would bring us luck. Riena's is similar to mine."

"Do you still have yours?" Douglas asked.

Kate nodded. "I always have it with me."

"May I see it?"

She blushed. "No. Except for my brother and Riena, no one has ever seen it."

"Are you superstitious, Catherine?" Francis twinkled at her. "I believe in ghosts, myself. Saw one once. Not here. In France. Gave me quite a turn. Decided then and there to quit that chateau of ours, and I never went back."

Glad to have the conversation turn to ghosts rather than gypsy amulets, Catherine wished Douglas would not observe her so closely. She concentrated on the delicious roast pheasant, but whenever she raised her eyes, so intent was his gaze, he seemed to be memorizing her face.

Did he think she'd been rude to refuse his request to see her amulet? Perhaps she was superstitious. It didn't seem right to pass it around from hand to hand. She'd always had the notion that the only other person to see it would be her husband. A foolish notion, but one she'd clung to all these years.

Her mother's letters were filled with fretful reproaches about Catherine's fall from grace, and how hopeless the task of finding a suitable husband for her.

"Word has come to me that gossips have learned of your employment. I am fearful of being asked to confirm or deny whether or not it is true."

Catherine had penned the letter inviting her mother to stay at the manor for the summer months. That should please her, and give her something else to think about than her daughter's uncertain future.

Catherine mulled over the idea of following in Riena's footsteps, and book passage on one of the bride ships. Not that she intended to be a bride, but there'd be opportunities in the colonies for someone like herself. As a governess. A riding instructor. A companion.

"Day dreaming, Catherine?" Douglas asked. "You seemed miles away. Francis asked if you were superstitious."

Flustered, she dragged her thoughts back from the future. "Sorry, I...I was thinking about Riena."

"Are you superstitious?"

"Of course not." Catherine wished he would stop quizzing her, and stop speaking directly to her. His words said one thing, but seemed to mean something else.

"Then why not let me see your amulet?"

"Very well, I am superstitious. I have a reason not to let you see it."

"Douglas, you are making Catherine blush. Do let her be." His mother turned to her. "You have my permission to throw something at him if he persists in teasing you."

Catherine released the breath she'd been holding. "Thank you, my lady, I will bear that in mind." She raised her wine glass and grinned at Douglas over the rim. "I hope you live in fear and trembling from now on."

"So my little companion becomes a shrew, does she? I'll have to think on this. After I've spoken to the servants, I suggest we meet and discuss this new development."

Dolly raised his brows. "Catherine, I will be your champion if he treats you ill."

"Thank you, Dolly. I think I can tame your brother." There, she thought, the shrew has answered back. Her heart skipped a beat at the quirky smile on Douglas' lips. He'd caught her meaning.

She picked at the rest of her dinner while listening to Dolly recount ghost stories he'd heard during his service in India.

"They are much too bloody for me." Francis remarked. "If there must be ghosts, I much prefer frail, ethereal creatures who drift through doors."

Glad to have dinner over, Catherine excused herself. "I'll run up and see if Riena is still sleeping."

Douglas nodded. "If she requires anything, let me know. I'll be in my study."

He had asked her to meet him there...not asked really, more like he'd ordered her, and she could hardly refuse. What could he possibly want?

Stretching out the time before she had to meet Douglas, she walked slowly upstairs to Riena's room, opened the door quietly, and peeked in. The room was completely dark except for a shaft of light streaming in from a hallway lamp, and the only sound, Riena's soft breathing. Catherine tiptoed over to the bed. Cuddled under a soft comforter, Riena slept soundly.

As quietly as she had come, Catherine left her friend and made her way to Douglas' study.

He loves you.

Riena's words made no sense. Then why could she not dismiss them?

Why?

Catherine reached the study, and opened the door. Douglas set aside a journal he'd been reading, and stood to greet her.

Then she knew why. And almost turned tail and to run away.

"Come in, Kate. Sit here where I can see you." He motioned to a leather-covered chair near where he stood. Beside him, on a small table, was a silver coffee service and two cups and saucers.

Holding herself together as best she could while her common sense fought a pitched battle inside her head, she knew it was not true.

It could not be true.

Riena was wrong. Wrong as could be about him.

Catherine sat with her hands folded on her lap, and stared at the carpet. He must not guess. Must never guess.

"Kate? Are you all right? You've gone white as a sheet. Didn't meet a ghost upstairs, did you?" He pulled a chair close to hers.

A silent plea rose in her throat. Don't let him touch me. I can't bear it.

"Kate, what is it? Has something disturbed you?"

She could faint. But that would not do either. Then he'd gather her into his arms...

"I feel a trifle warm. Perhaps if you opened the window, the fresh air would revive me."

He flung up the sash, and a gust of wind blustered into the room, stirring the velvet draperies.

"Is that better?" The concern in his eyes mocked her. If he knew. If he knew. He'd send her away. Think her a silly chit.

She loved him.

And she did not want to love him.

"Are you feeling ill? Shall I send for Anna to assist you to your room?"

Catherine leaned far back in her chair, distancing herself from him. "Thank you, I am fine now. What is it you wished to discuss with me?"

Douglas thrust his fingers through his dark hair. An unruly lock fell across his forehead. Impatiently, he pushed it back only to have it fall foreword again. Catherine had always intended to sketch him, not ill-humored as before, but with his hair tangled. His mouth...

His mouth. She gave it some thought. His mouth would be smiling that special smile, when he called her, Kate. She'd draw one black eyebrow, definitely quirked, as though he planned to say something. Something amusing to make her laugh.

"Kate, you are staring into space. A penny for your thoughts."

"A penny?" She tensed. He was smiling. The Kate smile. Pressing her feet flat on the carpeted floor to force herself to stay seated, she returned the smile. A small, remote kind of smile, she hoped, her lips firm.

"Surely my thoughts are worth more than a penny." She wriggled her toes inside her shoes, a relaxation method taught by her governess when mathematics' lessons proved difficult, and she could not think clearly.

"What then? Name your price."

She shook her head. "My thoughts are not for sale."

"Very well, if you will be stubborn."

"Douglas, I am not stubborn."

"Ha, I knew my Kate would rise to the bait."

Feeling as though she were sinking into quicksand, Catherine straightened her back. "Please do not call me, your Kate. You may call me, Kate. But not your Kate."

"But you are my Kate. My lady companion. I will call you whatever I choose. Kate. My Kate. My little shrew. Catherine when I am being very formal. Miss Hartleigh when you are behaving badly."

Obviously enjoying himself, Douglas pushed back his chair, stretched out his legs, and crossed one foot over the other.

Catherine breathed more easily. With a trifle more space between them, her wits returned. "Very well, you may call me whatever you please, Douglas, but why did you wish to speak to me?"

"Oh that. I suppose we must be serious." He rubbed his chin. "You are paid to be my companion until the end of May. I quite like having you as my companion. I shall miss having you to myself."

Catherine squeezed her eyes tight shut to stop any foolish tears. When she opened them, Douglas seemed intent on studying the toes of his boots. Silence fell between them. A clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour. Catherine cleared her throat.

"Until I was employed as your companion, I had never worked before. Not for money, I mean. I always worked around horses at our family home in Dorset." Douglas raised his eyes to hers. For endless seconds, she could not tear her gaze from him. Mired in quicksand, Catherine wrapped her arms around her chest to hold herself together.

"I never expected to like you. Not after you..." What was she saying?

"Not after I tried to frighten you into leaving." He paused. "And now, Kate?"

She wanted to run away. Not have to answer. With an effort, she managed a shaky smile. "Now, I quite like you. You are not the beast I thought you were at first."

"In that case, I will enjoy your company even more. For instance, I expect you to ride with me every morning, and possibly during the afternoon as well. In the evenings, I may ask you to meet with me here. You have a very pleasant voice, and I have a fancy to have you read to me. You never finished The Taming of The Shrew."

"But your eyes are back to normal, are they not?" Catherine frowned. "What happened to them? I thought once a person lost his sight, it never returned."

Douglas stood, crossed to the window and closed it. He rested his head against the glass then turned to Catherine. "I served with the 17th Lancers in the Crimea as part of the Light Brigade. Under the command of Lord Lucan and Lord Cardigan, we were led, stupidly led, into a narrow valley, where the heights bristled with Russian guns. Within twenty minutes, men and horses were slaughtered. A trooper riding alongside me had his head blown clean off his body. His blood spurted into my eyes, blinding me. The next thing I knew, cannon fire ripped into my leg, and tore into the neck of my horse. We went down."

Douglas sank into his chair. "It took months for my eyes to heal. Shock the doctors told me. By the time you came, they had improved."

Catherine could not stop herself going to him. She knelt beside his chair and rested her head on his arm. "I'm sorry I was so awful to you, I wish I could take back all the rude things I said."

"Take back nothing, Kate. You made me want to live again. You are my little shrew. Don't ever change."

Tempted to draw her into his arms, Douglas contented himself with breathing a soft kiss into her hair, and hoped she'd not feel it. How could he give up seeing her? Allow Dolly to take her away to the ends of the earth. He'd convince his brother he needed him on the estate. He'd expand the stables. Dolly knew horses. He'd send him to France and Spain to purchase brood stock. Kate would assist them. Her children would ride prize horses from the Beckwith stable.

The clock struck the hour. Ten o'clock. Kate stood and looked down at him. "Unless you want me to read to you, I'll say goodnight."

"Stay awhile longer, there's something I wish to discuss with you." Remembering the coffee, he poured two cups and handed one to her.

She resumed her seat. How this beautiful girl came to be his companion never failed to astonish Douglas. His mother had relied on their solicitor to choose an appropriate person and old Mr. Knightley had settled on Kate. Why her?

When he'd been in London, Douglas had made discreet inquiries about Kate's family. Her mother, Lady Jane Hartleigh was the only child of an impecunious earl who'd died when she was fourteen and his brother had inherited the title. She lived in reduced circumstances. Kate's father had evidently lost his wits two years past, and bankrupted himself at the gaming tables.

"Well, Douglas?"

Kate's smile tugged at his heart. He'd best finish what he had to say, and allow her to leave lest she read his thoughts. "I'm planning to expand our stables, and bring in brood stock from the continent. Dolly has an excellent eye when it comes to horses. He talked about going abroad, but I have need of him here to visit France and Spain. They breed excellent animals. I have a fancy to raise some prize Arabians as well. You're a keen horsewoman. What do you think?"

"I think it's a splendid idea, but will Dolly agree? He seems to have his heart set on seeing in the world. I can't blame him for wanting to seek adventure."

The tip of her pink tongue, flicked along her lower lip. Douglas imagined her tongue...

He sucked in a deep breath. "Do you crave adventure, Kate?" He might as well know the worst.

"Me?" His question surprised her. "I've thought about it."

"And where would you go adventuring?" Why did he not ask her straight out when she and Dolly planned to wed?

She lowered her eyes. "Canada perhaps."

Douglas did not want to know anything else. Not yet. Dolly did not plan to leave England until the end of summer. Perhaps by then, he'd have persuaded him to stay. Kate would live here. Forever. She set her coffee cup aside, and stood.

"I forgot to ask if you managed to ease the servants' concerns about Riena."

Douglas braced his right leg on the floor, and rose to his feet. "I convinced them that any friend of yours was welcome in my home. However, since many of the maids seemed apprehensive, I told them Riena would be spending her time with you, and she expected to be on her way within a day or so. I hinted she might be a gypsy princess on the run from a wicked sorcerer."

"You didn't!"

"I thought a wicked sorcerer was much more interesting than an abusive husband."

Kate chuckled. "Makes it sound more like a fairy tale where nothing bad happens. I like that." She paused in the doorway. "Goodnight, and thank you again for sheltering Riena."

A lamp in the hallway shone down on Kate. Her hair gleamed golden and his longing returned. The longing to lift the curls at her nape and kiss her.

Desire stirred and his damned sex thickened. Disgusted with himself for lacking control, Douglas shifted his unruly thoughts from Kate to the question of Riena. Calm returned. More or less. Heat still swirled deep in his gut.

"I did insist they treat Riena well if they came across her during her stay. She was not to be snubbed nor insulted in any way. And I lied a little about how she was hurt. I said she had been cut and bruised trying to escape from a pack of dogs."

Kate frowned. "Why not tell them the truth, that her husband had beaten her?"

"Because beating a wife is a fairly common practice among some country folk. I suspect a few of our servants would expect her to put up with it, and not come running to you."

"I'm glad she did. If any man laid a hand on me, he would live to regret it."

"That's my Kate. God help me if that book I threw at you had actually found its mark, I might not have lived to tell the tale."

She dazzled him with a wicked smile. "Very true, my lord. Remember, in future dealings with your companion, she does have an excellent throwing arm."

"Miss Hartleigh, I am terrified."

"Goodnight, Douglas. I think I have you properly tamed."

"Not quite, my little shrew. We will discuss this further."

The clock struck the quarter hour.

"Goodnight, Kate."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Catherine made her way slowly upstairs. She looked in on Riena who slept on, peaceful as a baby. In her own room, she readied for bed, her thoughts on Douglas. Betrayed by her heart into loving him, Catherine did not know how to survive the summer months without giving away her secret. He had asked her to ride with him every day, then spend the evening hours reading to him.

She wished he would not call her, my Kate, as though she belonged to him. As though she was special. She frowned. No, he did not love her. Could not love her. Cared for her, perhaps. Cared enough to tell her what had happened to him in Crimea.

When she had knelt beside his chair, and rested on his arm, he had kissed her. Not a real kiss. A soft kiss on her hair. Like as not he meant it as a grateful kiss for her coming to comfort him. To let him know her heart ached for him. But it had taken all her will power not to raise her head, and kiss him. A real kiss. On his mouth. A lover's kiss.

What was she thinking? Kiss Douglas? Like that! Moistening her lips, she imagined how it would feel. Soft to start. Then he'd hold her much closer. She'd slide her arms over his shoulders and smile at him. "Kiss me again." She'd say. And he would. Again and again.

Dismayed at her overwrought imagination, Catherine undressed, and stared bewildered at her slightly swollen breasts, nipples boldly erect. And not just her breasts! Those strange sensations she'd felt before stirred in other parts of her body. What had she done? What wickedness had she conjured up just by thinking?

Catherine pulled her nightgown over her head to hide her shameful breasts, but the wretched nipples peaked through the fine cotton fabric. She'd have to bind her breasts in the morning if they had not returned to normal lest they be visible under her dress. She would die of shame if anyone guessed the cause.

No more thoughts about kissing Douglas! If he so much as guessed, she'd never be able to face him again. And she'd not be his Kate but Miss Hartleigh.

His unladylike companion would no longer be welcome in his home and would be on her way back to London on the first train out of Winchfield. Douglas was betrothed. He loved Lady Madeline.

Catherine tossed and turned in bed. First this way, then that. She heard Douglas' halting footsteps in the hallway. The tap tap of his cane. Then his door closing. She'd avoid him as best she could until she had her perfidious thoughts firmly under control. With Riena to care for, there'd be little need to spend time with him except to discuss how best to protect her friend from her abusive husband.

A sound wakened Catherine from a deep sleep. A rattling kind of sound. She lay still trying to identify it. It sounded like stones in a gourd. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Someone was out there. Shivering, she threw back the comforter, slid out of bed, and padded over to the open French doors. The sun, barely over the tree tops, shed pearly dawn light on the wet grass. On hands and knees, Catherine crept across the balcony and peered through the railings at the wide stretch of lawn, and hedge-bordered path leading to the raspberry patch and apple orchard.

Blinking sleep from her eyes she waited. A shadow moved out from the hedge. A man stood there, a red kerchief knotted around his head. He raised his arms above his head. Sunlight glinted on something in his hands. Then the rattling began again. The strange rhythmic pattern sent chills coursing up and down Catherine's spine.

Riena's husband had come for her! Terrified, knowing she had to find someone to chase the man away she threw a robe over her shoulders, and dashed across the hall to Douglas' suite. If she knocked would he hear her?

With the awful rattle still echoing in her ears, she opened the door into his sitting room. "Douglas," she hissed. Nothing. She had to wake him. Hurrying across to his bedchamber door, she turned the handle, and opened it.

"Douglas! He's here, he's come for Riena." A ray of sunlight beamed through the open window.

He opened his eyes, and knew he was dreaming. Kate stood at the end of his bed. Had she come to him? Were his thoughts so powerful, he'd drawn her from her bed to his?

"Douglas, dress and come quickly, I need you."

Dragging his wits from his dream, he sat up. "What is it?"

"There's a man outside, making a horrible rattling sound. I think it's Riena's husband come for her. He's by the hedge going towards the orchard."

Fully awake, Douglas pulled the bell rope beside his bed. "You're white as a sheet, Kate. Let me look after this. You'd best go. Stay with Riena."

Pickens hurried into the room, and halted at the sight of Kate in her night attire. "Excuse me, milord, I thought you rang."

"Run along. Wake my brother. Tell him to dress, and meet me downstairs. There's a prowler out on the grounds. Miss Hartleigh has seen him. He's been making some fearful rattling noise. She's come to me for help." He added that last bit to save Kate's reputation. Pickens might think she'd spent the night with him.

"Very good, milord." With a backward glance at Kate, he set off to rouse Dolly.

Thank you, Douglas. I didn't know what else to do but wake you." Her gaze shifted from his face to his bare chest.

"You'd best see to Riena." Her presence in his bedchamber unnerved him. "Go, Kate, I cannot get out of bed with you standing there."

Her cheeks flamed. "I'll see if the rattling wakened her." Backing away from the bed, she bumped into the door and the robe slipped from her shoulders. Under the bodice of her nightgown, the round globes of her breasts nuzzled against the fabric, the nipples enticingly erect.

Fully aroused and aching to make love to her, Douglas drew a ragged breath. "Out, Kate, or your man will be gone before I'm up and dressed."

In a flurry of white, she scooped up her robe, and rushed from his bedchamber. Douglas swung his legs over the side of the bed and plucked a shirt from the nearby clothes rack. With Kate gone and work to be done, desire to bed her cooled. He fitted on his leg, strapped it in place, and finished dressing. Cane in hand, he hurried downstairs. Dolly waited by the front door.

"Pickens says a prowler outside frightened Catherine. Thought I'd bring along a pistol to chase the fellow off. What's it about?"

"She thinks it's Riena's husband. Seems the man was making some kind of rattling noise. That's what frightened Catherine into coming to me for help. She saw him by the hedge on the path to the orchard."

Pistol cocked and ready, Dolly strode alongside Douglas to the hedge. "Look." Dolly pointed to muddy footprints on the stone steps leading down to the orchard. "The fellow has cleared off. I'll go after him."

"Wait. He's left this." A dead crow, wings outstretched, its legs broken, had been tied to the hedge. Two beads, one red and one black, dangled from a string fastened tight around the bird's neck.

"Good God!" Dolly turned to Douglas. "That's a death threat if I ever saw one. Catherine's friend is in danger."

"Aye, we'll have to make arrangements for her safety. Take down that damned bird and bury it. I don't want any of the gardeners to see it. I'll go back, and speak to Kate. She'll have to be told."

Dolly uncocked the pistol, shoved it into his jacket pocket and quickly removed the crow. Grasping the beaded string around its neck, he dangled the bird from two fingers. "Kate? Is that what you call her? Then so shall I."

Douglas frowned. "No, it's just a bit of nonsense. She much prefers Catherine. Get rid of that thing before the gardeners are up and about. We'll keep this to ourselves."

Douglas started back to the house. He did not want Dolly calling her Kate. He'd have her all to himself soon enough. Let him find his own pet name for her.

Pickens waited for him at the front entrance. "Did you find anything, milord?"

Douglas shook his head. "Some muddy footprints. Probably a tramp wandered in off the road looking for a bit of thieving." If word of the dead crow spread to the servants, they'd want Riena out of the house, fearing her presence would bring bad luck.

Frowning, Douglas made his way up to Kate's room. He tapped at her door. "I have to speak with you."

She opened the door. Fully dressed, she hushed him with fingers to her lips. "Riena is sleeping. Did you find the man? Was it her husband?"

"May I come in?" She nodded and closed the door.

Douglas strode past her to the French doors. He shut them, and slipped the bolt. "Lock them at night."

She hurried over to him. "What is it? Tell me."

"Dolly and I are sure the man you saw was Riena's husband. He left a message for her."

"A message? What kind of message?" Fear darkened Kate's eyes.

"You're not to mention this to Riena. She has suffered enough.

I think the rattling was for us to take notice. To warn us off. He spread-eagled a dead crow on the hedge. It's legs were broken, and a string with one red bead and one black, had been tied around its neck.

Kate's hands flew to her throat. "What shall we do? He's cast a spell. He's going to kill her."

Thinking she might faint, Douglas closed the gap between them, and drew her into his arms. "Kate, he is not going to kill Riena. You are too sensible to believe he can harm her by casting a spell. She will remain indoors until it is safe for her to travel. Then we'll make arrangements for her safety. You are not to worry."

Kate nestled into him. "What if he comes back again?"

Douglas rested his cheek on her head. He stroked her back like a mother comforting a frightened child. But Kate was no child. Her breasts, warm against his chest, tempted him into danger. Tempted him into wanting to cradle them in his hands, and kiss them.

He cleared his throat. "We'll set the dogs loose tonight. I'll have our men patrol the grounds. He'll not show his face again, I promise you that."

Kate tipped her head back. "Thank you, I'll not tell Riena about the crow." Kate's mouth was so close. Her lips slightly parted. Douglas halted his mothering caresses. He pressed his hand against the small of her back. The pink tip of her tongue slid along her bottom lip, wetting it.

"Then I'd best return to my rooms." He forced the words out through clenched teeth or he'd kiss her. Not once. Twice. Three times. Impossible to think of kissing her once and stopping. Once started on a downward spiral, he'd be damned in her eyes. His beloved lady companion would quit his employ on the spot.

What right had he to kiss her? To dwell on kissing her? And what, for God's sake, was she doing in his arms? She'd sought help from him, needed him to comfort her. He should have known better than embrace her.

"Yes, you'd better go." Her voice trembled. Was she afraid of him?

Douglas jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Let me know how Riena is. If she is up to it, I'd like her to meet with mother, Francis and Dolly in the library at eleven o'clock. Time to start making plans for her safe journey to London."

Kate stood on tiptoe and kissed him. On his cheek. "I know everything is going to be all right with you and Dolly taking care of her."

With no plausible excuse for lingering, Douglas raised her hand to his lips. "Good morning, Kate, I'm glad you came to me for help."

With a teasing smile, she swept into a deep curtsy, her hand still clasped in his. "You are my champion. I trust you to protect me."

Douglas drew her up. An eternity passed while he gazed into her eyes. "I will always protect you."

She slipped her hand from his. "Thank you, I know I am safe with you."

He stepped back a pace. Safe with him? Only if he kept his hands to himself. Kept his distance from her and behaved like a gentleman. Being physically close to Kate pushed his control to the limit. "I will see you and Riena in the library." Turning on his heel, he strode from the room and closed the door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Catherine stared at the door, wishing him to return. To return and stay with her. To hold her in his arms. To feel his hand on the small of her back, pressing her close against his body.

Being in his arms had felt so wonderful. The magic of resting her head on his chest. Listening to his heart beat. She'd wanted him to kiss her, not once, but many times.

Catherine straightened her back. Whatever was wrong with her? All she seemed to think about was kissing Douglas. Let him touch her hand or stand close beside her, and immediately she imagined kissing him. And that would not do. These ridiculous imaginings had to stop. At once. Douglas had come to protect and comfort her, that was all, and to repeat his promise to keep Riena safe. She'd best go and see if her friend still slept.

She tapped on Riena's door and entered. Riena sat up in bed wide-awake. Her eyes gleamed dark and mysterious in her bruised face. "He has come for me."

Catherine rushed over to the bed, and wrapped her arms around her friend. "You are safe. He'll not harm you."

"He is evil. He is nearby. I can feel him, waiting for me." She shivered and huddled into Catherine. "When? When did he come? What do you know?"

"Riena, I heard a strange noise early this morning. When I looked out the window I saw a man lurking outside so I went to Lord Beckwith for help. He and his brother chased the man off. Tonight, the dogs will be loose and men patrolling the grounds with them. If it was your husband, he'll not get close to the house."

"Tell me the truth. Did he leave anything?"

"Anything? What sort of thing?" Catherine's voice quavered. Lying did not come easily to her.

Riena jumped out of bed and faced Catherine. "I must know! Don't you understand. I must know what spell he is casting."

"You don't believe a spell can harm you."

You Gadji! You..." Riena lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. "If you love me and want me to be safe, you must tell me what he left behind."

Catherine released the breath she'd been holding. "I promised Lord Beckwith not to tell you."

Tell me!" Riena grasped Catherine's wrist.

"A dead crow, its wings spread out, its legs broken and a string around its neck."

"And on the string?" Riena's dark eyes pierced Catherine's.

"Two beads. One red. One black."

Riena sank to the floor. "Now I know what to do."

Catherine sat beside her. "Aren't you frightened? Lord Beckwith did not want me to tell you."

Riena shook her head. "No, I am not frightened. He cannot harm me now that I know the spell he's cast." Rising to her feet, she gazed down at Catherine. "Bring my crystal and money belt."

Heart thudding, Catherine scrambled up. "You're not leaving! I will not let you go. I'll call Lord Beckwith. He'll not allow it. You are not fit to travel."

Riena rested her hands on Catherine's shoulders. "I need my crystal and my money belt for what I have to do. I must be alone for awhile. Do not come for me. I must not be interrupted."

Catherine shivered and backed away from her friend. "What are you going to do?" She wanted to know and didn't want to know. Not if it involved black magic or calling on spirits or conjuring up the Prince of Darkness.

Riena smiled. "You are Gadji. You'd not understand."

"You'll not consort with Satan and bring evil to this house." Catherine refused to budge until Riena convinced her everyone at Beckwith Manor would be safe from harm.

"Do not fret, Catherine. It is not in my nature to do evil. Satan is your Christian creation. He has nothing to do with me."

"Very well, I'll fetch your things." When Catherine returned, Riena had taken a sheet from the bed and spread it on the floor. She sat, cross-legged, in the center.

"Open the box. Place the crystal in front of me." Catherine, her fingers trembling, raised the lid, and lifted out the crystal. Down on her knees like a supplicant, she arranged the globe on the sheet.

"The stand is in the box. Hand it to me." Riena's voice sounded strange to Catherine. Not like her ordinary voice. More high pitched.

The money belt, please." Catherine gave it to her. From a little pouch worked into the belt, she spilled a few grains of white powder into her left hand.

"Leave me now. Lock the door so no one can enter. I must not be disturbed. Slide the key under the door. I will come to you when I am ready."

"By eleven o'clock?" Catherine squeaked, her throat tight. "Lord Beckwith wishes to meet with us at that time."

But Riena, bent over the crystal did not answer. Afraid of disturbing her, Catherine locked the door from the outside and shoved the key under it. A sound from behind it sent her heart racing. A faint high-pitched chant coming from Riena. Half expecting to see a spirit floating towards her, she swung around to find Douglas, one elbow propped against the wall by his suite, observing her.

"What are you doing, Kate?

"Doing?" She echoed.

"Doing." He sauntered up to her.

Catherine smoothed her skirt. "I was locking Riena's door."

He raised his brows. "And?"

"Do stop questioning me. I locked her door and shoved the key back in so she'd not be disturbed until..." Catherine pressed her lips together. What should she tell him? "Until she felt ready to meet with your family." There, that would do nicely.

"Kate, you seem nervous. Is there something I should know about Riena that you've not told me?"

"Promise not to turn her out when I tell you." Catherine hoped he'd understand. He linked her arm through his.

"I promise. Now come along to my suite."

Anna bustled from Catherine's room. "I've just set out your breakfast, Miss. How is your friend?" Her glance shifted away from Catherine and darted down the hallway to Riena's bedchamber.

"She is much improved, Anna. She hopes to be on her way within a day or so."

Anna curtsied. "I'm pleased to hear it. Good morning, my lord." She nodded and hurried away.

Catherine freed her arm. "May I have my breakfast before I meet with you?"

Douglas grinned at her. "Don't be too long, I'm interested in learning more about your friend."

Catherine wished he'd not smile like that. It melted her heart. Made her legs weak. "If Riena joins me, shall I bring her with me?"

"No, I'd prefer speaking with you alone."

"Very well, I'll be as quick as I can." She closed her bedchamber door, walked slowly to the table and sat down. She poured a cup of tea, and watched the steam rising before adding milk, and two lumps of sugar.

She did not want to meet Douglas in his sitting room. Officially, she was still his companion, but everything had changed between them. She no longer felt comfortable meeting him alone in his suite. Falling in love with him had turned their relationship upside down. At least for her. Well brought up young ladies did not dally with gentlemen in their private rooms. She had even been in his bedchamber. Had seen his naked chest.

When she had a private moment she'd sketch him. His black hair tousled from sleep. His eyes questioning hers. His mouth? Inviting.

Naked to the waist, shoulders bare, his chest had fascinated her. Even in her panicky state, she'd noticed his body. The muscle structure. The fine dark hair. His nipples. Her fingers itched to explore him. To smooth her hands over his shoulders and chest, to touch his nipples, to...

Catherine caught her breath trying to stop what was happening. Warmth, like a sinful snake, coiled up from deep in her body, swelling her breasts and peaking her nipples.

"No!" She spoke aloud. "Stop this minute or I shall..."

"Shall what, Catherine?" Riena poked her head around the door, and entered.

Sure her face would give away her guilty secrets, Catherine picked up her napkin, and made a great show of wiping her mouth. She forced a smile, and conjured up a lie.

"I had to stop myself from eating your breakfast as well as mine. Come sit down. I'll pour some tea. Under the silver cover you'll find bacon, sausages and eggs. Are you hungry? I am. So much excitement in one morning has given me an appetite. I met Lord Beckwith when I left your room. He asked to speak to me. About you. I'll have to tell him about the crystal ball and the spell and your fortune telling and..."

"Catherine, do stop long enough to breathe. Your face is flushed. Are you feverish?" Riena propped her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hands and studied Catherine. "Or are you in love?"

"In love?" Catherine croaked. "Of course I'm not in love. My tea was too hot, that's all. Near burned my tongue. Now eat up before everything is cold."

Riena lifted the silver cover and helped herself to sausages and eggs. "Tell me about Lord Beckwith."

"About Lord Beckwith?" Catherine did not want to talk about him. Just saying his name in front of her all too perceptive friend made her uncomfortable.

"You must know him very well, being his companion and all."

"He was wounded in the war. Part of his left leg had to be amputated. His eyes also suffered, but they have recovered. He is very pleasant."

"Is that all? Do you not think him handsome? He could almost pass for a Romany."

Catherine speared a sausage, cut it into four pieces and ate two before answering. "Yes, he is handsome, but I take little notice of his looks." The lie tripped off her tongue.

Riena chuckled. "I mind when we first met. You and Johnny threatened to hand me over to the gamekeeper, but I knew you would do no such thing. Catherine there is no guile in you. It is impossible for you to hide your feelings. Your eyes give you away. I think you are well aware of Lord Beckwith."

"All right, Riena, I think he and his brother are very handsome. However, I prefer not to dwell on Lord Beckwith. I am employed as his companion. Nothing more. It's not my place to comment on his features." Close to choking on a piece of sausage, she cleared her throat and changed the conversation to something less personal.

"Your bruises are fading. I'll apply more of Lady Beckwith's ointments as soon as you finish breakfast."

"You have not told me why you are here. Why are you paid to attend Lord Beckwith? You are not a poor girl. I well remember the size of your family estate. Was there nothing left after your father's death? How is it you do not have a husband? You are beautiful enough to attract men unless they are all blind."

Thankful for the change of topic, Catherine relaxed. "All the young men I knew were looking for wealthy brides. Without a dowry, I had nothing to offer. As for how I came here. I answered an advertisement in The Times to be a companion. I thought I would be attending a young lady. I was mistaken. It was to be a companion to Lord Beckwith. He did not want me here and did his best to drive me away. But he has mellowed. We've become friends."

"More than that, Catherine, you and Lord Beckwith are more than friends. You are lovers."

Catherine jumped to her feet, bumped the table and fell back into her chair. "Do not say those words! I will not listen to such nonsense. You are mistaken. Why...why Lord Beckwith would be horrified to know you spoke of him in that way. He is a perfect gentleman, betrothed to a fine young lady. I expect she will be attending the party he and his mother are planning to welcome Dolly, I mean Captain Delacroix, home."

Riena's dark eyes sparkled in the sunlight beaming through the French doors. "I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you. But sometime in the future, remember what I've said." Suddenly she tilted her head on one side as though listening.

"What is it? Do you hear something?"

Riena rose slowly to her feet, walked to the French doors and opened them. "Come here."

As though drawn by the force of Riena's words, Catherine followed her.

"Look." She pointed to a crow circling over the place where Catherine had seen the man.

Determined not to see anything significant in the crow, Catherine stepped out on the balcony. "It's only a crow. Hundreds live in the countryside. I see them all the time."

"You are wrong. She'll be the mate of the one he killed. Come to seek vengeance."

"Vengeance?" Catherine's blood ran cold, and she struggled to keep her voice steady.

"He'll not have a moment's peace until the day he dies."

"How can a crow frighten him?"

Riena joined Catherine on the balcony. "He will see her every day. She'll sit atop his caravan while he sleeps. The first thing he'll hear when he wakes in the morning are her claws scratching on the wood, and her raucous voice."

"But Riena..."

She hushed Catherine. "There is much you do not know. I am no longer in any danger from my husband. Think no more of him." She rested her arm across Catherine's shoulders. "Come, the tea will still be hot and I am thirsty."

As though it was the most natural thing in the world to believe in vengeful crows, Catherine returned to the table with Riena. She poured tea into their cups. "May I inform Lord Beckwith about the crow?"

Riena shrugged. "If you like. I doubt he'll believe you. Men find such things difficult."

Catherine nodded, wondering all the while if a very ordinary crow just happened to be out there going about its daily activities, and Riena had heard it cawing. She did not like to doubt her friend. During her childhood, she had heard stories about Romany curses and spells. Spells to make a cow's milk dry up. To stop chickens laying. Or a spell to make a barren wife, pregnant with the passing of a silver coin across a gypsy's hand.

How enigmatic Riena had become. Even in Catherine's blue dress, she had the appearance of a mysterious stranger from some distant land. No longer the poor wounded creature who had sought help from Catherine. A restful night's sleep had restored her olive-skinned beauty.

Catherine glanced at the clock on her mantel. "I'll leave you for a few minutes and speak with Lord Beckwith." Across from her room, she found his door open. He sat at his desk, writing. "May I come in? You asked to speak with me."

Douglas laid his pen aside. Kate. His Kate. She stood there, waiting for him to invite her in. This is how he would always remember her. This is how he would like to have her portrait painted. Standing in the doorway. She'd be wearing her blue dress with sunlight streaming through the window, turning her hair to gold, a faint look of apprehension on her face.

Dear Kate. From the first time she'd stepped into his room, she'd not backed down an inch. Without his lady companion, he might still be hiding from life. Instead he was deeply in love with her. For all his honest resolve never to touch her, to keep a decent physical distance away from temptation, he knew his was a lost cause the minute he was in her presence. Kate was so touchable. Her lips so inviting.

He stood, came around his desk and taking her hand, led her over to the window seat. "You look very pretty sitting there. The sun makes your hair shine." Against his better judgment, he sat beside her.

She smoothed her skirt, and glanced out the window. "Thank you. It is lovely and fresh outside after the rain."

"You've not left the house, have you? I want you and Riena to remain indoors until we apprehend that fellow. He's a dangerous man."

"I've been on the balcony with Riena watching a crow." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I have something to tell you."

Douglas stopped himself from smoothing the frown furrowing her brow. "What is it, Kate? What is troubling you."

"You asked about Riena. She is...I don't know where to start."

"Start now. Tell me what you were doing on the balcony watching a crow."

Her eyes widened. "How did you know that was important?"

"I can read your face."

"You can?" She turned away from him.

"Kate, look at me. What is wrong? You must tell me." She offered her profile. Douglas cupped her chin in his hand and, very gently, turned her head to face him.

"Much better. I like to see your eyes when you speak to me." And forgetting every resolve he'd made regarding her, he stroked his fingers over the soft skin of her cheek. His thumb slid down and grazed her throat.

She drew back. "Douglas, I do not think you should do that." Her voice quavered.

"I'm sorry...it's just." He cursed his weak will. He'd frightened her. "It won't happen again. Tell me about the crow."

She removed herself from danger by shifting as far away from him as possible, and averting her eyes. At the end of her bizarre tale about the crow, Riena's crystal globe, her gypsy calling as a fortune-teller, Douglas did not know whether to laugh or take it all seriously. But Kate's solemn face warned him against teasing her.

"If Riena truly believes she has the power to make a crow seek vengeance, and her life is no longer in danger, then so be it. But I'll rely on myself and Dolly to keep her safe."

"Thank you. Do you think your family have to know about the crow and the fortune-telling?"

"Not at all but I will inform Dolly. He'll take this in stride. I rather fancy he sees himself rescuing Riena, and seeing her safe on board ship."

Kate stood. "I do love him. He'll see no harm comes to her. When I first met him, and he told me to call him, Dolly, I very nearly laughed out loud. Only a man as big and strong as he, could cope with such a name. How did it start?"

It was unbearable to look at Kate when she talked about Dolly. Her beautiful eyes shone with love of him. Douglas turned and gazed out the window.

"I was not yet two years old when he was born. Randall was hard for me to say. I insisted on calling him, 'Dall, Dall.' Then I changed that to Dolly. The name stuck, and God help any lad who dared laugh at him."

Kate smiled. A melting smile. A smile to break his heart. "You and he must have been a wicked pair. From what your mother told me, Dolly brought frogs and snakes into the house, terrorizing the staff. Were you part of that?"

"Not frogs and snakes. Spiders. Big ones. Poor Francis. He all but fainted when I put one on his lap, and it crawled up his arm."

Kate wrapped her arms around her waist. "Just talking about spiders gives me the shivers. I'd best go back to Riena. It's nearly time to meet with your family."

Douglas walked her across the hall to her room. "I regret touching you the way I did. I hoped to comfort you. I meant no harm."

Kate's beautiful eyes searched his. "You have become a dear friend. It comforts me to know I can come to you and not be treated lightly as though my worries are of no account."

His arms ached to hold her. To enfold her against his chest and keep her safe from all harm. His love for Kate was impossible. It would be Dolly's role in life to protect her. His brother would rescue her from the humiliation of going about the countryside seeking employment as a companion.

Douglas bowed over her hand. "I expect you and Riena in the library within five or ten minutes."

Kate hesitated. "I think it best if we no longer meet in your sitting room. I would prefer your study."

"Perhaps you are right." His sitting room had too many memories for him. Memories of their first meetings when he'd fallen in love with her. Douglas knew he'd stepped over the bounds of propriety by touching her. If she had an inkling of the urges stirring his loins, she'd pack up and leave. Better they meet in the study, leaving the door open. Less chance of falling into temptation with servants passing by, going about their duties.

Before joining the others downstairs, Douglas returned to his desk. He picked up his pen to continue the letter he'd been writing to his solicitor when Kate interrupted him.

From inquiries he'd made in London, Kate and her mother had very little in the way of funds. Their country home had been leased.

The London house was badly in need of repairs. He intended to settle a substantial dowry on Kate at the end of her three month's employment as his companion.

Knowing his Kate, she'd not take kindly to his gift, but her mother might be persuaded to convince her to accept. Lady Jane Hartleigh did not approve of Kate taking paid employment. She wanted her only daughter to return to society in style. As Dolly's wife, she would do just that.

Douglas finished the letter, folded and sealed it in an envelope. Kate would be well taken care of. Now the next order of business was to plan how to protect Riena on her journey to London, then see her safely on board ship.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Excuse me, Riena, I must tidy my hair before we meet with the family."

Catherine hurried into the bathroom and closed the door. Panic fluttered in her throat. She could still feel the touch of Douglas hand on her cheek. His thumb tracing down her throat. She loosened the collar of her dress, wrung out a cloth in cold water and pressed it against the back of her neck. He should not have touched her. Not like that.

Her knees weak, she sat on the side of the tub to compose herself before facing Riena. She'd guess within seconds something was wrong. Probably had done so already. Her friend's lustrous dark eyes missed nothing.

What if she pretended to be ill? Catherine stood and peered at herself in the mirror hanging over the wash basin.

Ill? She did not look the least bit unwell. A little feverish perhaps. Her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes brilliant, and her heart playing tricks, she might pass as someone coming down with...with love sickness!

Impossible. She was much too sensible to be lovesick. A stomach upset, perhaps, from the sausages she had eaten at breakfast.

Catherine filled the basin with cold water. She held her breath and immersed her face. "Love sickness indeed." She bubbled the words under the water, pulled out the plug and drained them away.

Cooler now, she toweled dry, tidied her damp curls, buttoned up her collar, and prepared to meet Riena. She opened the door and strolled into the bedroom. Very casual. Like someone without a care in the world and nothing to hide.

"Are you all right, Catherine?" Riena asked.

"I'm fine. I felt a little warm, and bathed my face. Are you ready to meet the Beckwith family?"

"Of course. Is there anything I should know about how to greet them? This is all new to me."

Only too happy to veer the conversation to safer topics, Catherine ticked off what Riena should do. "Greet Lady Beckwith first with a curtsy if you like. Practice with me." By the time Catherine had Riena doing a perfect curtsy, her friend was laughing so hard, tears streamed down her cheeks.

"That is very good. You curtsy to ladies and nod, gracefully to men when you meet them. Lord Beckwith is the next person you greet. Then his brother, Captain Delacroix. Then their uncle, The Honorable Francis. You met Lord Beckwith and his brother last night. Do you remember?"

Riena nodded. "Lord Beckwith loves you. That I remember."

"Please do not say that. It is not true. He is a man of honor. He is betrothed. His fiancée will be coming here next week to attend a home coming party for Dolly, Captain Delacroix."

Riena clasped Catherine's hands. "You are destined to live in this house. To marry..."

"No. What you are saying is impossible. He loves another. She will be Lady Beckwith."

Riena's gypsy eyes, wise and knowing, sparkled. Her lips curved in a winning smile. "When you and Lord Beckwith marry and you give birth to your first child, name her after me."

Catherine felt really ill now. Was Riena mad? A sorcerer? Someone to fear? First she'd said Douglas loved her. Now she cast farther into the future and spoke of Catherine giving birth to his child. A girl to be named Riena.

Light-headed, thinking she might faint, Catherine heard the mantel clock strike eleven. Until she came to Beckwith Manor, she had never fainted. Now it seemed a useful ploy to avoid unpleasantness. The last chime died away and with it, her cowardly desire to evade her responsibilities to Riena. Plans had to be made for her safety.

"Come along. It's time you met the family." Taking Riena by the arm, Catherine hustled her along the hall, past the armored knight, around the next corner, down the stairs, across the entry hall and halted abruptly at the library door. She faced Riena.

"Promise to say nothing about me and Lord Beckwith or I will die of shame."

"I promise, I don't want you dying before you name your baby girl after me."

Cheeks flaming, heart thudding against her ribs, Catherine opened the door, and ushered Riena in to meet the family.

Lady Beckwith beckoned them over to her. "You look much better this morning, Mrs. Stanley. Did you sleep well?"

To her credit, Riena curtsied. "I slept very well. Thank you for your ointments. My bruises are much improved."

Catherine introduced her to Douglas and Dolly, then Francis. He motioned to the chair next to his. "Come sit by me, Mrs. Stanley. Apart from our Catherine, you are quite the loveliest young lady to enter this house in years."

Dear Francis, Catherine thought. He could charm the birds from the trees and have them eating out of his hand in a trice. Riena seated herself. Catherine found a place next to Dolly on the sofa. Douglas drew up a chair beside his mother, directly across from Catherine. Intensely aware of him, fearful he might read something in her face, she turned to Dolly.

"Douglas tells me you are willing to escort Riena to London."

"Indeed I am. I'll see her safely to the ship."

Douglas interrupted. "Mrs. Stanley, when do you think you'll be fit to travel? We must make plans for your journey after you leave our home. Where, for instance, will you stay in London? What will you require in the way of money and female garments? Catherine tells me you are taking ship to Canada. I think warm clothing will be essential once you are on the high seas. It's a long voyage, and could be hazardous."

"I hope to be on my way tomorrow, my lord. In London, there are modest hotels suitable for a young lady on her own. I learned this from a Gadji, pardon, from a girl I worked beside at the hop picking last year. She gave me two addresses. Money is not a difficulty I have been saving against the day I could leave my husband. My plan is to purchase suitable garments for the journey in London." She paused. "The church authorities supervising the bride ship would not allow me to board if they knew I was a Romany."

"Bride ship?" Lady Beckwith leaned forward in her chair. "But you are married, are you not? Surely you do not intend to wed another."

Riena shook her head. "No, my lady. I want to start a new life in Canada. Many of the young women go out to Victoria to become servants, others hope to find husbands."

Catherine held her breath hoping Riena would not tell them about the vengeance she had wreaked on her husband.

Dolly interrupted. "Do you expect to become a servant?"

Riena's eyes widened. "Indeed not. Once on Canadian soil I intend to make my own way. I will open a small shop and sell trinkets, ribbons and the like to the women. I expect my fortune-telling skills will be in great demand."

Catherine winced. Now the blow would fall. The Beckwith family might want their strange guest to leave immediately. Silence descended. Everyone gazed at Riena. Dolly stood, walked to the fireplace and propped his elbow on the mantel. Watching him, Catherine thought him enchanted by her friend. There was something about the way he looked at her.

"I never thought for a minute you were cut out to be a servant, Mrs. Stanley. It takes courage to start a new life on your own. Perhaps we shall meet in Canada."

"That is all very well, Dolly." His mother spoke sharply. "In the meantime, we must put together a suitable wardrobe for Catherine's friend. She'll not be safe traveling in Romany clothing. Her husband may be looking for her."

Catherine sensed trouble brewing. "Riena can have other items of my clothing. The dress she is wearing fits her nicely. My coat and bonnet will do as well. I will ask my mother to send me replacement garments."

Douglas decided it was time to take charge. From what he had seen Kate wearing, she did not have an extensive wardrobe.

"Thank you for your generous offer but we will find ways and means to outfit Mrs. Stanley." He smiled at his mother. "There are chests of clothing stored in the box rooms. If Catherine agrees, she and I will search through them for suitable dresses. We'll have Mrs. Stanley turned out in fine fashion, appropriate for a demure young lady sailing on a bride ship."

Riena raised her hand. "Please call me, Riena, not Mrs. Stanley. It is a custom of your society not of mine. I prefer to be Riena." She nodded at Douglas. "Thank you, Lord Beckwith. I will never forget you or your family for your kindness. As for Catherine, she is especially dear to my heart. I knew I could come to her, and find a safe haven. Your home is blessed with good fortune by her presence."

Amen to that, Douglas silently agreed. "We have much to do, Riena, if you are to leave on the morrow. If your husband is watching the railway station at Winchfield, you will leave here dressed as a young lady, in mourning perhaps, with a black bonnet and a veil covering your face."

Dolly rubbed his hands together. "And I shall be her escort, caring for the poor grieving lady. I shall protect her from unwanted attention."

Francis patted Riena's hand. "Just like a masquerade, child. Pretend to be someone you are not."

Riena chuckled. "I've no notion of a masquerade, but I do know how to pretend. I used to pretend I was Catherine when we were children. I practiced speaking like her. It stood me in good stead at the hop picking. Some of the girls thought I wasn't a real Romany because of the way I spoke."

Douglas could not keep his eyes from Kate. She smiled fondly at her friend. "I'll teach Riena our ways while she's here so she'll not feel out of place on the ship."

"Then, everything is settled. Riena leaves tomorrow." His mother tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. "Would it not be better for Francis to escort her to London?"

Her question surprised Douglas. Francis still had a touch of gout. He'd not be comfortable traipsing on and off trains, finding his way through crowds and hailing hackney cabs. What is more, he'd be no match for Riena's husband should he appear.

"I think not, mother. Dolly is a much better escort. He can cope with any emergencies."

"Indeed, I'm looking forward to the journey. While in London, I'll make inquiries about ships sailing to Canada." Dolly returned to his seat beside Kate. "Perhaps you'd like to come along with me to send Riena on her way."

That his brother would suggest such a thing set Douglas' teeth on edge. After seeing Riena embark, Kate and Dolly would be alone on the return journey from London to Winchfield. What was he thinking? Their mother would never approve. Kate's mother would never approve if she knew of such a plan. It was safe enough to escort Riena on her own there was a good reason for that. But not Kate. Not his Kate. She had no chaperone.

"Catherine remains at home, Dolly. She has promised to ride with me, and assist with planning the decorations for your party."

His mother sighed, and rose to her feet. "Very well, Douglas. You know what's best. There are chests of clothing in the box room in the right wing. Find a suitable valise or small trunk for Riena." With a curt nod, she left.

"Come with me, Riena, I'll see you back to my room or you'll be lost." Kate linked her arm through her friend's. "Where shall I meet you, Douglas?"

"At the top of the staircase." He saw them out, and watched while they walked across the entrance hall. A maid, feathery dusting brush in her hand, hurried from the dining room. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Riena.

"Oh!" She squealed, crossed herself, dropped the brush, scurried back into the room and peeked around the side of the door.

"'Tis all right, Millie. Our guest will not harm you. Would you care to meet her?" Kate and Riena paused at the foot of the staircase.

"Thank you, milord, but I'd just as soon not, I've me dusting to do." Casting a quick look over her shoulder, she disappeared into the dining room.

"She fears I am a witch, Lord Beckwith. I will stay out of sight until tomorrow."

"Perhaps that is for the best. Catherine will choose what you require." Douglas glanced at the grandfather clock standing like a well-turned out soldier in the alcove next to the library. "I'll meet you in five minutes, Catherine."

Douglas returned to the library. "Dolly, I thought your suggestion to have Catherine accompany you to London with Riena very unwise." Did he sound like a grouchy old codger chastising a misbehaving youth?

His brother stretched out his legs, and leaned back on the sofa. "Unwise? How unwise? I thought Catherine would enjoy seeing Riena embark on the bride ship."

"Unwise for you and Catherine to travel together unchaperoned."

Dolly hooted. "Did you think I'd run off with her? I'd not given it a thought, but now you've put the idea into my head, I might speak to her. It was you who said she could not accompany Riena and me. Catherine never said a word."

More sure than ever that Dolly and Kate had a tacit agreement to wed, Douglas forced a smile. "All the same, her reputation would be compromised if you two traveled alone. Better she remain here until you return."

Unable to bear the self-satisfied look on his brother's face, Douglas turned on his heel and strode from the library into the marble-floored hall.

Kate gazed down at him from the top of the staircase dreamily beautiful in her simple gray dress. Douglas put aside the pain in his heart. His anger at Dolly for daring to love Kate was ridiculous. Who could not love her?

"Riena is resting. The meeting with your family tired her. Seeing how fearful the maid was of her presence, did not help."

Douglas joined Kate. "Millie is a country girl. She likely has her head full of superstitions about gypsies. Riena will be the talk of Winchfield, and every hamlet within miles once she leaves us." He grinned at Kate. "When they see how we shall dress her tomorrow and Dolly assisting her into the carriage, there'll be no stopping the stories told around the cottage hearths."

Kate's blue eyes danced. "I can hardly wait to open the chests, and choose clothing for her."

Douglas slipped her arm through his and walked her through the right wing of the house to a room at the far end. "This part of the house is seldom used. We'd need a family of ten or more children with nurses and governesses and maids to bring this wing back to life."

"Children?" Kate asked, her voice quavered. "You plan to have ten children."

Douglas pushed open the door into the box room. "Not I. That will be up to Dolly. Don't you agree he'd make a fine husband and father?"

"He'd be the very best. I imagine him playing games with his sons, and treating his daughters like little princesses."

Kate with ten children? Why had he come out with such a foolish number? Four perhaps. Not ten. He'd speak to Dolly about how to prevent too many pregnancies. He'd not want his Kate big with child year after year. Douglas crossed the room and swept aside a green velvet drapery covering a large window. Sunlight streamed in. Dust motes danced in the air.

Kate. Big with child. His child.

Had he lost his wits? He swung around to find her staring at him her eyes wide, and hoped she could not read his mind. Loosening his shirt collar, Douglas cleared his throat. "Dust. Dust makes me cough." He coughed to prove his point.

"Which chest shall we start with?" Kate asked. "You open that one by the window first. I'll start the other side of the room." Damned if he was going to work next to her while his thoughts dwelt on making love to her, giving her his child to suckle at her breast. Her breasts, full, creamy white, nipples ready for the hungry little mouth.

Fully aroused, Douglas stalked across the room and opened the chest. Bent over to ease the ache in his groin, he rifled through the neatly folded clothing, old beaded gowns belonging to his mother mostly. Gradually the ache subsided. "There's nothing here." He called out. "Have you found anything suitable?"

"Widow's weeds. Perhaps your mother wore them after your father died. Come and look at them. They are very elegant. Do you think she'd mind Riena having them?"

Douglas breathed in a lung full of dust-laden air and promptly coughed. And coughed. Kate rushed over to him.

"Are you all right?"

He wheezed and pointed to the window. "Open it." Staggering like a drunk, he followed her. Kate threw up the sash. Douglas knelt beside the window and gasped for breath. He propped his elbows on the ledge and inhaled huge gulps of fresh air into his beleaguered lungs.

Kate slid down beside him, and put her arms around his waist. "Sit with me until you feel better."

He stretched out beside her, closed his eyes, and rested his head on her lap. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Kate leaned over him, her breasts all but touching his face. "I think you should lie quietly for awhile. I'll ease you down on the floor, and fetch some water for you to drink."

He opened his eyes to find her smiling at him. "Don't move, I'll be fine in a few minutes." The last thing he wanted was to leave the comfort of her lap. The warmth of her body through her dress. The revelation of the soft contours of her breasts swelling just above his head.

Kate laid a cool hand on his brow. "I will finish going through the chests when you are rested."

Douglas snuggled deeper into the nest between her legs. "I'll be fine. I breathed a lung full of dust that's all. We'll keep the window open while we sort through everything."

"You gave me such a fright. I thought you...I was afraid you might die."

"Would that bother you?" Douglas raised his head a notch to see her better.

"Of course it would. I've become fond of you." She leaned over and kissed him. On the lips.

"Don't Kate." He murmured. "Don't." Desire still smoldered deep in his gut, and threatened to burst into flame. He'd make a bed from linens stored in the chests. They'd make love. She'd be his Kate. She'd know his body. Take him deep inside her.

Douglas rolled sideways off her lap. One friendly little kiss from his companion, and he was close to taking her. Too close. Whether she wanted him or not.

Kate's gentle heart embraced everyone. His wheezing cough had frightened her. She'd taken him into her arms to comfort him. Still shaken from his reaction to her kiss, he clambered to his feet, his awkward left leg not as nimble as his right.

"Come. Let's finish going through the chests." He reached down and grasped Kate's hands. Drawing her close, he gazed into her eyes. "I am fond of you, Kate. I want you to think of Beckwith Manor as your home. Always." With his will power stretched to the limit, Douglas released her.

Kate remained standing in front of him, still as a statue. Her eyes searched his. "I hope you did not mind me kissing you. You seemed upset afterwards. I meant no harm. It just happened."

Douglas cupped her chin in his hands and grinned. "Being kissed by my companion when I am near choking to death pleases me." Throwing caution to the winds, he drifted a light kiss across her lips. "There, now we are even."

Kate threw her arms around him, and rested her head on his chest. "I'm glad I answered that advertisement in The Times. You and your family have become part of my life. I shall miss you when I leave at the end of summer." She stepped away from him. "We'd best get back to work or Riena will wonder what has happened to me."

Douglas knew what had happened to him. Already in love with her, he'd come close to forcing his attentions on his Kate. She'd have hated him. Gone running to Dolly for protection, and God knows what his brother might have done. Douglas had no wish to take on Dolly in hand to hand combat. They'd been a good match at one time, but with a poor substitute limb attached to his left leg and still recovering from battle scars, Douglas knew that leaving Kate strictly alone was much safer than antagonizing Dolly.

Kate struck gold in one chest. "Look at this. Two simple day dresses. One is brown wool. Perfect for keeping her warm on board ship. There's a brown coat to go with it, and a lovely shawl." She draped the shawl over her shoulders and pirouetted in front of him. "Isn't it grand?"

The green silk shawl, shot with gold thread, whirled with her. "Grand it is and suits you perfectly, perhaps you should keep it."

"Me?" Kate's eyes widened. "But it belongs to your mother. She might not want me to have it."

"I want you to have it. Mother will have no objection. Now let's find something less flamboyant for Riena. Here, this will do." Douglas turfed a dark red woolen shawl from a chest and handed it to Kate.

"Perfect. I think we have everything." Kate shut the window and drew the draperies being careful not to shake out the dust. "I don't want you choking again." She folded Riena's clothing and started out of the room.

"Oh look at this, Douglas." On a hat-rack off to one side, she lifted off a wide-brimmed, black straw hat with a fine black veil thrown over it. "Riena will be well disguised under this." Like a child playing dressing up, Kate settled the hat on her head with the veil hiding her face. "What do you think?"

What did he think? He thought her a most beautiful widow. Playing the game, he knelt at her feet.

"You are enchanting, my dear lady. Is your husband long dead? I desire to pay my respects."

"Why, sirrah. He has been dead these many months, and you are a devilishly handsome rogue. Have you come to court me?" She swept back the veil.

Douglas grasped her hands and kissed them. Rose to his feet and kissed her. A long, delicious kiss on her slightly parted lips. "You are a grieving widow in need of comfort. I am at your service, madam."

He bent his right knee in a deep bow, lost his balance and toppled on to the floor. Kate burst out laughing. He stared up at her, frowning.

"It is not comely for a widow to laugh so loudly, and draw attention to herself. I may withdraw my offer of service unless you assist me to my feet."

She offered him a languid hand. "I have never been acquainted with such an ungainly gentleman. Do take care not to take me down with you."

Douglas could not resist. He tugged her down on top of him. "Now madam. What do you say to this?"

Kate slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Take that, sir. You make too free. I shall scream for help if you do not release me."

"One little kiss, madam. After such a long drought, you must long for a kiss."

Kate removed the hat, placed it over his face and stood. "I have kissed many since my poor dear husband died. I do not suffer from lack of attention. Now, sir, I leave you, and return to my fourteen fatherless children."

Douglas swept the hat from his face. "Fourteen children! Then I bid you good morning, madam." Rising to his feet, he handed her the hat. "Your hat, madam."

Laughing together, they closed the chests. Douglas led the way back to their wing of the house.

"Just as well you did not leave me there, Douglas. I might have been lost forever. Centuries from now, some new owner might stumble across my bones huddled in a dark corner."

At her door, Douglas rested his hand on her shoulder. "I would have found you long before that. My lady companion has not yet worked out her three months. She has several more weeks of servitude."

Kate curtsied. "My lord, it is my pleasure to wait upon you. Good morning." With a saucy smile, she turned the door handle, and disappeared into her room.

Playful Kate.

Warm and loving Kate.

Kissable Kate.

So innocent. With no inkling how her kiss had affected him. He only hoped when she kissed Dolly before they wed, he'd have the strength of will not to take advantage of her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Riena's clothing bundled in her arms, the black straw hat clutched in one hand, Catherine leaned her back against the door, and closed her eyes. Why had she taken it into her mind to kiss him? He'd been surprised at her boldness, and tried to make light of the incident. The game with the black hat had been his way of bringing her to her senses without causing her undue distress. He'd not wanted to embarrass her.

"Catherine, are you coming or going or have you not decided?"

"What?" Catherine's eyes popped open. Riena smiled at her from one of the wing chairs.

"I asked if you were coming or going."

"Sorry, Riena, I was thinking about something else. Lord Beckwith and I found perfect clothing for you. Come look at them, and let me know what you think. I also have some undergarments folded into the dresses."

Catherine laid out her friend's traveling wardrobe on the bed. "You must try on the widow's weeds and the hat. You'll be so disguised no one will recognize you."

"Weeds? Am I to wear thistles, burdock and the like?"

Catherine slipped her arm around Riena's waist. "No thistles or dandelions, although you'd be beautiful no matter what you wore. Weeds means clothing, that's all."

"Then I shall try on my widow's weeds." Riena stripped off Catherine's blue dress and slipped on the black dress. Transformed into a young widow, she placed the hat on her head, and dropped the veil over her face. "What do you think?"

"You are perfect. Now walk slowly around the room and remember you are not a Romany girl. You are a young lady in mourning." Riena strolled back and forth, taking small mincing steps.

"Will I do?" She removed the hat.

Catherine giggled, and pointed at Riena's feet peeping from under the voluminous black taffeta skirt. "Your red boots are not quite the thing. We'll have to find some shoes or soft slippers to fit you."

Riena frowned. "I am causing so many problems. Let me go off on my own. I'll purchase what I require in London."

"You will do no such thing. Tomorrow you leave here dressed as a widow. I have two other dresses for you, a coat and a shawl. Try them on."

In the brown dress and coat, Riena's appearance changed again. Although still beautiful, the brown color subdued her natural sparkle. "Now all you require is a prayer book in your hands and a thoughtful expression on your face as though conversing with a favorite saint."

A sharp rapping on the door made them both jump. Riena sat down, hands folded on her lap and gazed at the floor.

"Catherine, it's Dolly. May I come in?"

Wondering what he might want, she crossed to the door and opened it. "I have a small trunk for Riena. It belongs to me but I can spare it. I brought it back from India."

"Come in then. Riena's been trying on her new wardrobe." Her friend stood and curtsied, as nice a curtsy as Catherine had ever seen.

"Thank you, Captain Delacroix. You are very kind." Instead of making strong eye contact in gypsy fashion, Riena lowered her gaze.

Dolly carried the trunk across to her. "I am pleased to be of service. The brown dress you are wearing gives you the appearance of a charming church mouse. No one will guess the mouse has a Romany heart."

Catherine looked from one to the other. Both seemed at a loss for words. "Dolly, I think you should put the trunk down before your arms tire, and you drop it on Riena's feet."

Dolly turned to Catherine. "Where shall I put it?"

"Beside the bed will do fine." Catherine watched him lower the trunk to the floor.

Had she imagined it? She had the strangest feeling that something had passed between Dolly and Riena. But how could that be? They'd never met until last night when Riena had arrived at the door, bruised and beaten. Yet in the library, he had scarcely taken his eyes from her. Whatever Riena wore, her exotic beauty would draw men to her like a magnet. Little wonder Dolly found her attractive.

With a last glance at Riena, Dolly bowed. "I bid you both good morning." He closed the door behind him.

"Anna will soon be here with our luncheon. Perhaps you had better change into my blue dress, and we'll pack up your trunk."

Like someone lost in thought, Riena did as bid. "Whatever is wrong with you?" Catherine asked. "Are you unwell?"

"Unwell? No, it's just that." She paused. "No, it is nothing. That's a very handsome trunk Captain Delacroix has given me. I'll be the envy of all the girls on the bride ship with such a trunk. The brass fittings and lock are very fine. "I'll place my Romany clothes out of sight at the bottom with my crystal but I want you to have this." Riena held up one of her brilliantly colored skirts, washed and ironed by the maids.

"Oh, Riena, I'd love to have it, but when would I wear such a beautiful skirt?" She knew better than to refuse the gift.

"Did you not say there's to be a party within a week or so? Wear it then. With this." Catherine could not believe her eyes. This, was a white cotton blouse, with a scooped neck, full sleeves, caught tight at the wrist and embroidered with flowers matching the colors in the skirt. She'd not noticed it when Riena had shed her wet clothing.

"Riena...I can't accept." She caught the look on her friend's face. "Thank you, I'll treasure these, and the gold earrings." Smiling she held the skirt and blouse against her and posed in front of the Cheval glass. "Imagine the stir at the party if I appear as a gypsy girl."

Riena's eyes sparkled. "Captain Delacroix said I looked like a church mouse with a Romany heart. Dressed as a gypsy girl, you'll be a Romany with a Gadji heart."

"Captain Delacroix seemed taken with you."

"Perhaps, but I paid him no mind. Now I'll finish my packing." Kneeling on the floor, she folded garments into the trunk.

Catherine hung the skirt and blouse in the wardrobe wishing she had the courage to wear the gypsy outfit at the party. But that was out of the question. Absolutely out of the question.

Riena seemed disinclined to discuss Dolly, and sensitive to the nuance in her friend's voice, Catherine did not pursue the subject. But off and on for the rest of the day, she puzzled over his encounter with Riena. At least that stopped her thinking about kissing Douglas. If she ever found her way back to the box room, memories of the hour spent with him would flood back. The dust. Her fear he might choke to death. Her arms around him. Kissing him! Whatever had possessed her to take advantage of him when he could scarce breathe.

Her own wicked need to taste him had overtaken her common sense. His lips felt just as she had imagined. Firm and full and altogether perfect. Her limited experience with young men did not go so far as sampling their lips. But she fancied Douglas's lips were just right for kissing.

Catherine tried to stem the tide of memories washing over her, and failed. Dismally. Something he had said confused her. She was to think of Beckwith Manor as her home. Always.

What an odd thing to say when he knew full well she'd be leaving at the end of summer. If she remained that long. Her mother would insist they stay, no doubt hoping a suitor for Catherine might emerge from one of the county families.

Late that night, with Riena safe in bed, Catherine disobeyed Douglas's instructions and opened the balcony door. A full moon crested the distant forest, and drenched the manor grounds with silvery light. Would Riena's husband return? She no longer feared him, but Catherine did not have her friend's absolute faith in vengeful crows.

Tempted farther out on the balcony by the beautiful summer night, she sat on the stone balustrade. She drew a pale blue shawl around her shoulders, and propped her back against the wall. The night, the warmth, and the landscape stretching below entranced her. She had never sat outside, and sketched moon shadows. There were so many places on the grounds that would be perfect to set up her easel, and draw the angles and planes of the stable. Or the orchard with its straight lines of trees and curving branches. Or out on the drive facing the manor.

In the mysterious moonlight, the colors of day disappeared into shimmering light and shades of black.

Inclined to fetch her easel and pad and sketch the scene Catherine stood. Off to the side, a movement caught her eye. In the shadow of the hedge a man moved silently towards the house. Fear gripped her. Not for herself. For her friend. It was him. Come for Riena. She had no time to call Douglas. If she hesitated he'd soon be close enough to climb the ivy-covered drainpipe and enter the house. Stealing into her room, she picked up the heavy brass poker and coal scuttle at the fireplace, and crept back to the balcony.

"You there." She called. "What are you doing?" She hurled a lump of coal at him. The coal caught him squarely on the arm. She swung the poker in whirling arcs over her head, ready to throw it. "Do not come one step closer or I'll cut you down with this." The poker glinted in the moonlight.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Trying to kill me?"

"Douglas?" Catherine gulped. "Is that you?"

"Of course it's me. You've all but broken my arm, and now you're threatening to break my head with that damned poker. What are you doing out on the balcony this time of night. I told you to stay indoors." He gazed up at her, his face half shadowed by the moon rising at his back.

"What are you doing out there, scaring me half to death?" Catherine demanded, as angry as he. "I thought Riena's husband was prowling." She'd been protecting her friend not trying to kill Douglas. Sick at heart, she sagged against the stone railing. Inches closer and the lump of coal might have struck his throat...

...might have injured him badly. And she'd almost thrown the poker. What if she had? The poker would surely have killed him.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought..."

He stepped closer to the walk under the balcony. "Never mind. I'm not dead, although you certainly did your best. You've a wicked aim when you put your mind to it. What were you doing on the balcony?"

Relieved to hear the amusement in his voice, Catherine's heartbeat returned to normal. She leaned over the balustrade to speak to him. "I needed a breath of air, and the moonlight drew me outside."

"Then come down and walk with me awhile. I am to keep watch at the front of the house. 'Tis a beautiful night. We'll stroll a short way down the drive and back."

"What of Riena's husband?"

"I've armed men scouting the grounds. He'll not show his face. Come with me, Kate. You don't sound a bit sleepy."

"But it's very late. I should be in bed."

"How can you think about going to bed after trying to kill me?"

Catherine sighed. It was a lovely night and if she tried to sleep she was sure to lie awake thinking how close she came to injuring him. She might not catch a wink of sleep. Sure that a walk in the moonlight would ease her mind, she nodded at him.

"All right. Because I tried to kill you, I'll make amends, and meet you at the front steps." She dismissed a twinge of guilt about the propriety of her actions, but she had to make sure his arm had not been hurt.

She lit a candle in a brass candlestick, and moving quietly, left her room. A few lamps glowed here and there along the hall lighting her way. Once outside the house, she blew out the candle.

"Douglas?" She set the candlestick down.

Off to one side, he stood watching her. She'd come to walk in the moonlight with him. Brave girl. He'd not take advantage of her.

"I'm here, Kate." He came to the foot of the steps and waited for her. In the silvery light, her hair gleamed.

"How beautiful everything looks, so different from the day." She dazzled him with a smile. "Before I saw you, and threw the lump of coal, I was tempted to take my drawing pad and pencils and come down to sketch."

"Another time. Although I am certain Riena's husband will not dare to return with my men guarding the house and grounds, this is not the night for you to be out sketching. Tonight you must soothe my frayed nerves with a companionable walk. Never before have I been attacked by a crazed woman with lumps of coal, and a poker."

"Then you'd best not be lurking under my balcony again lest I do you harm."

Kate drew her shawl tight around her shoulders, and under her elbows. Just as well, he thought, it kept him from taking her arm. Kept him from feeling her warmth through the sleeve of his jacket. "Come then, we shall walk down the drive until you tire."

"Tire? It is so lovely. I could stay out all night. The moon changes everything. Nothing looks the same as in the day. Everything is all shadowy and mysterious." She stopped and gazed up at him. "Let's not talk. I want to drink all this in and listen to the night sounds."

Her moonlight beauty intoxicated Douglas. He cupped her chin in his hand, bent down and kissed her. "You and the night are so enchanting, I had to kiss you." He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her to him. "Kiss me, Kate, then we shall walk on."

Seeming as helpless as he to resist the pull of the moon, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. A feathery light, lingering kiss, her lips slightly parted.

"Douglas, I think...I think that is enough kissing." She drew back a pace.

"Yes." But he did not release her. Could not, while the magic of holding her in his arms held him spellbound.

"Kate."

"Yes." She tipped back her head, and looked up at him, her eyes like dark pools. Unreadable. He tightened his arm around her waist and kissed her, a demanding lover's kiss. The shawl slipped from her shoulders, and she slid her arms around his neck, her body melding with his, returning his kiss.

A dog barked nearby. Startled, Kate sprang away from Douglas, and gathered up her shawl where it had fallen. The dog burst through an opening in the hedge lining the drive.

"Easy Gyp, it's not rabbits you're after this night." A man, rifle slung over his arm, tramped after the dog, and stopped in his tracks when he saw Douglas. He tipped his cap.

"Evening, my lord. Good evening, Miss Hartleigh." Kate nodded and fussed with her shawl.

Edgy, Douglas nodded at the young groom, wondering if he had seen Kate in his arms. What a fool he'd been for insisting Kate walk with him. She could hardly refuse and the last thing he wanted was her reputation sullied by gossiping servants. "Good evening, Tom. Any sign of the man?"

"No, sir."

"Be on your way then."

Tom glanced at Kate, tipped his cap and strode off after the dog.

"We'd best return to the house." Douglas had to apologize for his actions, for losing control and kissing her. She'd come for a walk in the moonlight with him, and he'd behaved like the worst kind of rake, taking advantage of her innocence.

Wrapped up tight in her shawl, staring straight ahead, she walked beside him. "Douglas, I do not think you meant to kiss me."

"Oh, I meant it right enough, and should not have done it. It's just that you..." He paused, searching for the right words, inadequate words to make things right between them. She was as good as betrothed to his brother, yet she had returned his kiss. Like as not, he reminded her of Dolly, the dark playing tricks with her senses.

He cleared his throat. "You looked so mysterious, and other worldly, not at all like my sensible daytime companion, that I was tempted to see if you were real."

"And was I?" She asked, her voice unsteady.

"You are all too real, and I regret kissing you. It was unforgivable."

"It was foolish of me to come walking in the moonlight without a chaperone."

"You came because I asked you. As good as compelled you to come. I made you feel guilty for hitting me with a lump of coal, and I failed to thank you for keeping such a close watch over Riena."

He wished he could tell her in plain, honest English that he loved her. If truth were known as she consented to join him he'd intended to kiss her before the night was out. And if Tom Jepson hadn't come along...

...No. Nothing would have happened. He would not have seduced her. Or would he?

Betrayed her?

Betrayed his brother?

What kind of hellish brute had he become?

"Douglas, I think we are all on edge because of the threat to Riena. What happened between us is best forgotten."

Her sudden cool demeanor jolted him. He'd been ready to get down on his knees, and beg her to forgive him, and she was behaving as though moonlight kisses were of no moment. Perhaps Kate was not quite the pure virginal creature he'd first thought. Perhaps she was practiced in the ways of luring men to kiss her. A tease. She'd not hesitated to take him in her arms in the box room and the kiss she'd bestowed on him then had all but stolen the last of his breath.

"Best forgotten? You are right, of course. A kiss between friends. A companionable kiss, wouldn't you say? You really are the perfect companion to take on a moonlight walk."

Although churning inside with guilt, doubt and irritation, he kept his voice under control. "I've taken enough of your time. Off you go to bed. I have to walk around and check windows and doors."

They approached the house in silence. Kate picked up her skirt, ran up the steps, and picked up the candlestick. She fumbled with the heavy brass knob, threw open the door and slammed it behind her. The hinges rattled.

Douglas stared at the door, half expecting her to come back, and wish him goodnight. She'd no business running off like that without a word. Hadn't he agreed to forget what happened between them? To put it down to fear for Riena's safety? He'd even teased her about being the perfect companion. He thought she'd laugh.

Douglas made his rounds, checking windows and doors, then returned to the front of the house. Kate had sat on the bench by the steps when he still called her Miss Hartleigh. He'd been rude to her then. Been rude to her from the start. Why had she not up and left? Not for love of him, that was a certainty.

Money. She required money. And still had to work out her servitude. Kate had come walking with him because she felt obliged to. Douglas threw himself down on the bench. Did she feel anything for him? They'd played a silly game in the box room when she pretended to be a widow, and he a suitor. They'd enjoyed each other's company. Perhaps when she held him to ease his breathing, her kiss had been perfectly innocent, meant to comfort him. Had he damaged their friendship with his crude attempt at...yes, he might as well admit it...seduction. Bending her will to his.

Dolly jog-trotted up the drive. "Still up, Douglas? I'm for bed. We've enough men prowling the grounds. They don't need us, and if I'm to be off early tomorrow with Riena, I'll need my sleep. Are you coming?" He ran up the steps and opened the door.

"In a few minutes. You go ahead. I'll lock up."

"Goodnight then."

Douglas sat with his head in his hands, wishing he could take back the night. Somehow, he had to make things right with Kate.

After Dolly and Riena left in the morning, he'd invite her to go riding. Better still, he'd ask her to come with him to escort the carriage to the station, and see them off on the London train. She'd like that.

Feeling more cheerful, he had one last look around. In a corner of the portico he came across Kate's shawl. Gathering it up, he breathed in the light scent she used. Whoever, Kate was, an innocent or a tease, he loved her. So why should Dolly have her? He'd not declared his intentions. Hinted only. Unless his brother spoke to him soon, and asked his permission to wed...to wed Kate, then he'd offer to marry her.

And Madeline?

Douglas stood, and followed Dolly into the house, Kate's shawl over his arm. He'd think about Madeline another time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

With the door hinges still rattling behind her, Catherine charged up the staircase, furious at herself for kissing Douglas, angry at him for his mocking remark about her being the perfect nighttime companion. She stumbled at the landing, banged her elbow against the banister, and the candlestick flew from her hand. It clattered all the way down, bounced on the marble floor below, and disappeared in the gloom.

A sob caught in her throat. Sure the noise would awaken the entire household, she held her breath waiting for someone to come and investigate, but the house remained quiet. Frustrated, hurt and ashamed, she tried to stem the tears threatening to fall.

In the dim light cast by a lamp on the newel post, Catherine made her way back down to pick up the candlestick, and escape to the sanctuary of her room. Her eyes wet with tears, she searched around, and found the candlestick, minus the candle, under a side table. Down on her knees, Catherine stretched out her arm, and reached for it.

The door opened. "Goodnight then." She heard Dolly's voice as he strode into the house.

Startled by his sudden appearance, candlestick in her hand, Catherine jerked up, and cracked her head on the table. Stifling a cry, she could not stop the tears trickling down her nose. They spilled on the floor.

"What the hell?" Dolly caught her around the waist, and lifted her up. "Catherine? What are you doing under that table, and why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying." She swiped the back of her hand across her face.

"You are crying. Here wipe your eyes." He handed her a handkerchief. Catherine snuffled into it. "Now tell me what you were doing under that table."

Dolly's comforting arm remained around her waist. "I...I was going upstairs and dropped the candlestick, and came down to find it."

"And you bumped your head. Poor Catherine." Dolly hugged her. "You should not be wandering about in the dark. I'll escort you to your room."

"That is not necessary, Dolly. I will see Miss Hartleigh safe to her room. It's close to mine."

Catherine slid from Dolly's embrace, and swung around to face Douglas. He stood in the open doorway.

"I do not require an escort, Lord Beckwith. If I do, then Dolly may assist me." She lifted her chin. "Thank you for your kindness, Dolly. Goodnight."

Candlestick in hand, head high, back straight, Catherine marched up the stairs. How dare he? How dare he patronize her? She stormed along the hallway, glared at his door as she passed, flew into the safety of her room and turned the key in the lock. The lamp glowed on her bedside table.

"Oh no." She wailed. "Where's my shawl?" What had she done with it? She couldn't remember. Had she dropped it on the stairs or under the table? No, she would have seen it.

Did Douglas have it? Too angry to see him properly, she'd not paid attention when he'd entered the house. She closed her eyes, picturing him in the doorway. Something light colored hung on his arm. It had to be her shawl. Her favorite shawl. She'd destroy it! Never, never would she wear it to reminder her of her folly.

Catherine kicked off her shoes, and threw herself on the bed. Why oh why had she welcomed his kiss? Indeed had encouraged him. And wanted more! What had persuaded her to go walking in the moonlight with him? Had she secretly hoped he'd kiss her? Secretly hoped for what? Not love.

Oh yes, she really had hoped for love.

She thumped the pillow. Stupid, silly girl. And the look Tom Jepson had given her. Had he seen her almost begging Douglas to kiss her? Arms around his neck, clinging to him like a limpet, feeling his hard body pressing against hers.

Shame overwhelmed Catherine. She had to escape from the dreadful pit she'd fallen into by her inexcusable behavior. She'd return home tomorrow. Leave Beckwith Manor behind. Determined to start packing, she jumped off the bed and stubbed her toe against Riena's trunk.

"Ouch!" She hopped around the floor, and fell into one of the wing chairs. Pain from her toe, pain from everything that had gone wrong, crushed her. The night had been a disaster from start to finish. Why had she allowed Douglas to make free with her? What must he think of his "lady" companion now?

Sniffling into Dolly's handkerchief, she pulled off her stocking to examine her toe and decided it wasn't broken. At least her toe was in better shape than the rest of her. Her soul hurt. Her heart ached. Her pride was in tatters. They'd take longer to mend than her toe.

She stood, undressed, wandered into the bathroom and bathed. She glowered at her reflection in the mirror and extinguished the lamp wishing she could wipe out the past hour as easily.

In the bedroom, she slipped into her nightgown, and paced the floor finally coming to a stop at the closed balcony doors. Through the glass she gazed at the moon. "Wretched moon." She whispered. "It's your fault for luring me outside."

Dogged by miserable thoughts, Catherine tossed back the covers on her bed, plumped up the pillows, turned down the lamp, and huddled between the cool sheets. Her thoughts churned. Her eyes refused to close. She propped her head on her hand when she heard Douglas walking along the hall. A slow walk, his stick tapping, not his usual swift, limping stride. Then nothing.

Minutes passed. Not a sound. He hadn't opened and shut his door she'd have heard it. What was he doing out there? Had he noticed something amiss near Riena's room? Was she in danger?

Forgetting her anger at him, fearing there might be something wrong, Catherine ran across the room, unlocked the door and opened it.

"Douglas?" He was leaning against the wall opposite. "Are you all right?"

"I've brought your shawl."

"My shawl." She echoed, at a loss for words.

"I found it under the portico."

"Under the portico." What was the matter with her? She sounded like a proper ninny.

"You dropped it when you rushed into the house." He shoved himself away from the wall, crossed the space between them and handed it to her. His fingers touched hers. Fiery tingles flared up her arm.

"Thank you for bringing it. I thought I had lost it." In the dimly lit hall, he could not see the blushes burning her cheeks.

"Goodnight, Kate. I'm sorry I upset you when Dolly offered his assistance."

Feeling as though she was dancing around the edge of an abyss, Catherine steadied her voice. "Upset me? Whatever made you think that? I was a little tired and regret my hasty remark when you offered to escort me upstairs."

She glanced down to avoid his eyes and realized she was barefoot, wearing only her nightgown, a filmy thing of silk, a gift from her mother on her last birthday. Afraid he might notice the swell of her breasts under the revealing silk she clutched the shawl up around her neck, and backed into her room. "Goodnight, Douglas."

"Will you ride with me in the morning?" His question caught her by surprise.

"In the morning?" There, she was doing it again, echoing his words. Had she lost her wits?

"I thought we'd escort Riena and Dolly to Winchfield and see them off."

Catherine bit her tongue. She had almost said see them off, and stopped in the nick of time. "That would be most enjoyable."

Selfishly concerned about herself, she'd all but forgotten her friend. Riena had to be dressed in the widow's weeds, and given a few quick lessons in proper deportment before she departed with Dolly.

"Once they've gone we'll have the rest of the morning to ourselves. You'll not have to worry about Riena's safety."

"I'll feel easier in my mind when I know Dolly has seen her on board ship."

This middle of the night, casual conversation with Douglas disconcerted Catherine. Mere minutes ago, she'd been furious with him and herself, ready to run away and never return. But here she was making plans for the morning as though nothing had happened between them on their moonlight walk. Perhaps the kisses they'd shared meant nothing to him. Perhaps Douglas thought her "easy" willing to let him do what he liked with her.

Painfully aware of how the kisses had affected her and determined not to show it, Catherine forced a tight smile. "Do you want me to read to you when we've returned from the station or have you other plans?"

"I thought we might ride over to George Pennyfeather's farm. My steward informs me we'll need extra help bringing in the sheep and lambs. George and his boys are excellent workers. I've not visited their farm since returning home from the Crimea. It's time for me to pay a visit. If I recall rightly they've three or four border collies. They are the best I've ever seen working the sheep."

Catherine brightened. "Why I know Mr. Pennyfeather. He gave me a lift in his wagon to your front gate when I arrived, and was locked out. A kindly gentleman. He worried about me being caught out in the storm. I'd very much like to see him again."

"Then it's arranged. I'll have cook pack us some food. After we've seen Tom, I know a perfect spot to have a picnic.

Catherine shivered. Not from fear. From thinking about spending hours alone with Douglas and sharing a meal. What if he kissed her again? She'd not allow herself to be so foolish a second time. The moonlight had played tricks on her. It had made her forget her place in the Beckwith family.

She raised her brows, hoping to appear coolly distant. "A picnic sounds like a splendid idea. I look forward to it."

Douglas took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Goodnight, Kate."

All her good intentions fell by the wayside. Instead of snatching her hand away, she allowed him to kiss it. Her knees weakened. The shawl slithered down her arm, and tangled between her hand and Douglas's. Catherine swept up the shawl to make a hasty exit into her room, but a fringe snagged a button on the sleeve of Douglas's jacket.

"Oh drat!" She tugged at the fringe, and tried to keep the shawl from sliding down. Her breasts had reacted to his touch. They'd swelled against the flimsy white silk, and her nipples had hardened. Dreadful showy little peaks! Why were they doing this to her? Embarrassed, Catherine prayed he'd not notice, and crossed one arm over her brazen chest to hide the shameful display.

"Here, let me." Douglas gathered up the shawl, and loosened the fringe.

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry at her predicament, Catherine grabbed her shawl, and backed into her room. "Goodnight." Heaving a thankful sigh to be out of danger she closed the door.

Douglas heard her key click in the lock. Just as well. With Kate behind a locked door, he was safe from making a fool of himself. In her revealing nightgown, Kate's seductive curves had left nothing to his imagination. And his imagination had run riot. Her usual simple dresses were not cut to reveal her breasts. He'd become all too aware of her dark nipples crowning the soft mounds revealed in all their glory under the white silk. Was all too aware of the silk whispering to him when he handed her the shawl.

Whispering. Make love to her.

Douglas let out the breath he'd been holding. Whether in her day dresses, riding habit or that erotic nightgown, Kate tempted him. Tempted him into doing something he'd regret. He crossed the hall to his suite. Pickens had left lamps burning and laid out his nightclothes.

Douglas studied Kate's framed drawing hanging on his bedroom wall. Had he maintained his sour outlook on life, Kate would have departed long ago and returned to London. He'd not have fallen in love with her. But falling in love with his lady companion had made him want to live.

He could not imagine being without her. Could not imagine how empty the house would feel without her. His mother seemed determined to have Kate stay over the summer months, even to the point of having Lady Jane Hartleigh join them. Douglas had never known his mother take to anyone as she had to Kate. She'd be delighted when Dolly declared his intentions to make her a permanent member of the family.

He tried not to think of his brother taking Kate to bed, and making love to her, but like a knife thrust in his heart, the thought persisted. Even the loss of his damned leg was nothing compared to losing Kate to Dolly. Try as he might to make the best of it, she'd still be living at the manor, he'd see her children growing up, but did not want to think about how those children were conceived.

Dolly taking her virginity. Hearing her cry out when he entered her for the first time. Dolly kissing her breasts. Kissing every part of her. Thrusting into her. Spilling his seed.

His body in turmoil, Douglas undressed, and tossed his clothes aside. Damned fool. Stop thinking about Kate and Dolly. Think about something else. Think about hiring George Pennyfeather and his boys to bring the sheep in. Think about sending Dolly off to escort Riena to London. Think about having Kate to himself.

Douglas drew a cool bath, and sank gratefully into it. He'd survived the Crimea. Survived the agony of having his leg blasted apart. Survived the screams of his dying horse. He'd survive losing Kate to his brother.

~~~

Catherine paced the floor, stopping now and then to cup her breasts in her hands. Her nipples, still hard, were plain to see through the silk. Why was her body doing this? She'd never had this problem before. Never. But let Douglas touch her and strange sensations ruled her. Her breasts, unpredictable. Her nipples, out of control. And quivery little feelings in her private parts.

What if Douglas guessed? Had an inkling of what was happening to her? She'd surely die of shame. Well brought up young ladies should remain calm under all circumstances, unless they decided to have the vapors to call attention to their weak female natures.

Catherine protested she did not have a weak nature, and flung herself on the bed. Except she seemed unable to refuse Douglas's requests. Ride to the station to see Riena and Dolly off on the London train. Ride over to the Pennyfeather farm. Ride to a favorite spot, and picnic with him.

What if she changed her mind? Told him she thought it best for her to leave. Then he'd demand to know why. How could she tell him the truth? That she loved him. That being near him, touching him, kissing him, had weakened her will? How he'd laugh. His lady companion in love with her employer? And him betrothed to another? Did she not understand when he teased her?

Catherine shook her head. She had to stay and make the best of it, but she would refuse to spend the summer months at the manor. Even her mother's disappointment at missing such a treat would not make her change her mind. She'd promised to assist Lady Beckwith arrange the party decorations, and after the party she'd be free to leave. Well, almost free to leave unless Douglas insisted she complete every last day of her contract.

Buried up to her chin under the comforter, Catherine settled down to sleep. A breeze rustled the curtains at the open window across from the bed. The balcony door creaked. Sitting bolt upright in bed, her heart thumping, Catherine stared into the dark at the outline of the French doors. She had locked them. Was someone out there trying to break in? She had to find out.

Shivering, she crept from bed and crossed the room. She checked the lock. It held fast. In the moonlight, a silent shadow swept past the balcony. Not a crow. Crows did not fly at night. Nearby an owl hooted. Likely out foraging for food, and she pitied the little creatures out foraging for food soon to be a meal for the night hunter.

Riena no longer feared the man bent on killing her, but Catherine was not so sure. The night sounds of the countryside, the cry of an owl, the bark of a fox, familiar from her childhood, sent a cold chill trickling down her spine. The hunter and the hunted. Had Riena not found refuge at the manor, she might not be alive.

Back in bed, Catherine propped a pillow behind her back, and sat up. How trivial her concerns were when she thought how Riena had suffered. If all she had to fret about was being close to Douglas, fearing he might kiss her, then she truly was a light-minded girl.

Tomorrow, the next day and the next, until her time was up at Beckwith Manor, she'd remember Riena, and the courage it had taken to escape from her abuser.

Catherine slid down under the comforter. Douglas did not menace her! How could she contemplate being nervous around him? After the first few meetings, he'd been very amiable, even had gone so far as to say he liked having her as his companion.

She smiled into the darkened room. Loving Douglas was the problem. Her problem. Not his. When she reacted to his touch in unexpected ways, she'd ignore it or think of it as a pleasant diversion. For it was very pleasant. His kisses...

...no, she'd not have a wink of sleep if she remembered his kisses. Shared kisses in the box room. Out in the moonlight. Or she might dream again. Dream about dancing with him, half-naked except for her gypsy skirt and swirling shawl.

Catherine closed her eyes, tight. If she kept them shut she'd go to sleep and stop thinking about Douglas.

Was she lovesick? Her eyes popped open. That might account for the heated blushes when he gazed at her in a certain way, and the warm quivery feelings pleasuring her female parts when he kissed her. 'Twas like being delirious with a fever. Fevers were curable.

Once away from Beckwith Manor, she'd soon regain her normal health. Lovesick indeed! She'd not fall into a decline over a love she could not have.

~~~

Douglas tossed and turned in bed. What was Kate doing? Sleeping soundly, he supposed. He'd lain awake, heard his mantel clock strike one, then two, and still sleep eluded him. Images of Kate bedeviled his thoughts. In his arms, not Dolly's. Making love to her. Entering her for the first time. Hearing her moans of delight when she learned the arts of love.

Aroused, he was tempted to cross the hall, and demand to see her. To insist his lady companion make love with him. He almost laughed aloud at such lunacy. Perhaps the moonlight had affected his mind. Lunatics and lovers. Not much to choose between them. One way or another, both were out of control.

Being slightly mad did not give him the right to kiss Kate whenever and wherever the opportunity arose. Tomorrow he'd behave with perfect aplomb. Friendly but not too friendly. He'd do nothing to spoil their time together.

The clock struck three. Damn it. He'd not be fit company tomorrow if he didn't get some sleep. He'd stopped drinking brandy to help him sleep. Nightmares no longer plagued him. 'Twas dreams of Kate that disturbed his rest. A pleasant prospect. He closed his eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Catherine wakened, and sat up in bed. Bright, early morning sunshine streamed through the windows. She'd slept soundly with no unruly dreams to disturb the night. Out of bed, she stretched, put on her robe, crossed the sun-filled room, and unlocked her door. No sign of life from Douglas's suite for which she was thankful. Hurrying along to Riena's door, Catherine knocked and waited to hear the click of the lock. When she entered Riena turned to greet her. Dressed in her widow's weeds, she nodded, a slight smile on her face.

"Ah, Miss Hartleigh, I am pleased you have come. As you can see, I am sorely grieved, and greatly troubled. When will breakfast be served? I am close to fainting from hunger."

Catherine collapsed on the floor, laughing. Riena strolled over and nudged her arm. "Where are your manners, Miss Hartleigh? This is not the kind of behavior I expect from a young lady of quality."

Shaking with laughter Catherine hugged herself. "Stop! My ribs are aching."

Riena grasped Catherine's hands and drew her up. "Will I do then?"

"Do? You are perfect. How did you become such a wonderful mimic?"

"I learned very quickly by watching, and listening to ladies. But you were my first teacher. I used to entertain the camp pretending to speak like you. I've a good ear. No one on the bride ship will guess I'm a Romany."

"Come along to breakfast, Mrs....what will you call yourself?" Catherine linked her arm in Riena's, walked her along the hall to her room, and closed the door behind them.

"I shall be Miss Rose Stansfield from Dorchester when I book my passage. For now, I am Mrs. Rose Stansfield, grieving widow." She changed her voice. "Please dress, my dear. I cannot eat breakfast with you in your night attire."

Catherine curtsied, smothering her giggles. "I shall not be long, Madam. I know you long to be on your way to London."

Anna knocked and bustled into the room, carrying the breakfast tray. "Oh, excuse me, Miss Hartleigh, I did not know..."

She paused, set the tray down and stared at Riena. "Are you?" Flustered, she removed the silver covers from the sausages and eggs.

Catherine came to her rescue. "My friend is leaving for London this morning. Please leave the teapot. I'll pour the tea after I dress."

"Very well, Miss." She hurried across the room and cast a quick glance over her shoulder before closing the door.

Catherine headed for the bathroom. "Poor Anna, she doesn't know what to make of you. The bedraggled gypsy has been transformed into a proper lady."

Because she'd be out with Douglas escorting Riena and Dolly to Winchfield, Catherine dressed in her riding habit. Seated across the breakfast table from her friend Catherine gave her lessons in the proper way to hold her knife and fork. To cut her food into bite-sized pieces. To chew with her mouth closed. How to raise the teacup to her lips and sip daintily.

"You'll do very well. Watch how the other women on the ship behave, and you won't put a foot wrong."

Riena reached across and held Catherine's hand. "I will never forget what you and the Beckwith family have done for me."

Catherine swallowed hard, biting back tears. "And I'll not forget you. Promise to write, and tell me about Victoria."

A brisk knocking on the door saved Catherine from spoiling her friend's departure by weeping over her. "Come in." She called out.

Two young male servants bowed into the room. For seconds they stood, seeming paralyzed. One of them finally found his voice. "We've come for the trunk, Miss. Orders from Lord Beckwith. He says the carriage is waiting."

Catherine pointed at the trunk. "'Tis there by the bed. Inform Lord Beckwith we'll be down directly." The young men lifted the trunk, and blushing furiously carried it off.

"Time for us to leave. Lord Beckwith and I are riding to Winchfield with you."

"I'll just fetch my hat and reticule." She headed for the door.

Catherine called after her. "Walk slowly, Mrs. Stansfield, as befits your new role."

Returning, her hat firmly on her head, the veil covering her face, a black-beaded reticule over her arm, black lace gloves on her hands, Riena minced along the hall towards Catherine.

Solemnly acting the part of two grieving friends, they paced slowly down the stairs, and across the great entrance hall. Lady Beckwith and Francis waited under the portico to see them off.

"You look splendid, Riena. I am pleased my clothing fitted so well." Lady Beckwith offered her hand. Riena curtsied and touched her fingers.

"I can never thank you enough for your hospitality and your kindness, and shall never forget the help you've given me."

Francis bowed. "It has been a pleasure to meet you. May God keep you safe on your journey."

Douglas and Dolly waited by the carriage. Tom Jepson and another groom stood nearby with Misty and Prince, both horses saddled and ready. Catherine winced when she saw Tom, and a warm flush heated her cheeks. He held Misty's reins loosely in one hand. He would assist her to mount. If he had witnessed her moonlight folly, he'd not dare comment on her behavior nor even hint at it with a look or gesture. She'd act as usual with him. A friendly smile. A non-committal remark perhaps, about the weather.

"Come along, Riena 'Tis time to leave." Dolly strode up the steps to escort her to the carriage. Dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt and black tie, he had a black armband on his left sleeve. Riena nodded to him, took his arm and walked slowly to the carriage as befitted a grieving widow.

Like a queen, Catherine thought. Riena's exotic beauty had something regal about it as though from some mysterious coming together of royal gypsy blood. Wherever she went, heads would turn.

Dolly waved to his mother and Francis, entered the carriage, and sat beside Riena. The liveried coachman secured the iron step in place, closed the door, and climbed to his seat.

"Shall I wait for you to mount, Lord Beckwith?" He asked Douglas.

"No, you go on ahead. Miss Hartleigh and I will catch up with you by the gates." He turned to Catherine. "The groom will help you mount."

Catherine wished he had offered to assist her or, at least, had smiled. He'd not looked her way since she and Riena emerged from the house. Perhaps he regretted the night's foolishness as much as she did.

"Good morning, Miss Hartleigh." Tom tipped his cap and smiled. A knowing smile? Had he seen her clinging to Douglas?

"Good morning, Tom." She favored him with a cool glance. He linked his hands together. Wasting no time, Catherine placed her left boot in his hands, and mounted quickly. The mare nickered, and tossed her head. Not waiting for Douglas, Catherine gathered the reins, nudged Misty's flanks with her riding crop, and headed down the drive.

Within seconds, Douglas caught up with her. "Good morning, Kate. You are looking very well. I hope you had a restful night." He held Prince to a slow trot beside Misty.

Catherine gazed straight ahead unable to face him while memories of her dreadful behavior undermined her self-respect. "Thank you, I slept very well." To avoid further conversation, she flicked the reins over the mare's neck. "Come on, Misty, let's catch up with Riena and Dolly."

Douglas and Prince leapt ahead of her and streaked down the drive, kicking up gravel. Douglas looked back, laughing. "I'll race you to the gates."

Not one to avoid a challenge, Catherine spurred Misty to a full gallop. "It's not fair." She yelled. "You had a head start."

Forgetting her sullied reputation, she enjoyed the short race and slowed Misty when she came abreast of the carriage at the manor gates. "Douglas, you cheated. Little wonder you beat me. That was not a fair contest."

Like a dashing cavalier, he swept his hat from his head, and smiled at her. "Please accept my humble apologies. Next time, I shall warn you, but I am sure you are no match for me."

Catherine gazed at him. She had to respond to his light-hearted comment. A fatal mistake. His dark eyes, no longer smiling, searched hers, seeming to delve into her soul. Like a drowning swimmer, Catherine tried to stem the emotional tide washing over her. Under the jacket of her riding habit, her breasts swelled, and the pleasant quivery pulse thrummed in her secret parts.

Taking a deep breath, she filled her lungs with sweet summer air. "I am able to match you, if you play fair. No head starts. In fact you should have a handicap because Prince is bigger, and faster than Misty."

Dolly stuck his head out of the carriage window. "Are you coming with us or not? The train leaves within the hour."

Douglas waved them off, and took up a position on Riena's side of the carriage. "Kate, you ride beside Dolly. You won't be seeing him for a few days. No doubt you have things to discuss."

Catherine had wanted to speak with Riena while they rode to Winchfield. She'd nothing particular to say to Dolly, and wondered why Douglas thought otherwise. Trotting alongside the carriage, she ducked down to have a look at her friend. Although the carriage was roomy, Dolly and Riena sat close together, engrossed in conversation. He held one of her gloved hands in his.

Puzzled at this show of intimacy, Catherine straightened in the saddle. Surely Dolly was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of Riena's parlous state. She had not fully recovered from her husband's beatings nor his death threats, and might be vulnerable to Dolly's considerable charm.

On the approach to the station, Catherine noticed him shift to his side of the carriage. Concerned for her friend, Catherine swung around the carriage to the mounting block by the station.

"Here, let me help you." Douglas was out of the saddle, and beside her before she could dismount on her own. Grasping her around the waist, he lifted her down. Through a mist, Catherine heard the carriage stop. Heard the coachman jump down from his perch, lower the step and open the door.

"Are you all right, Kate? You've gone quite pale." Douglas steadied her, one arm snug around her waist.

Catherine swallowed hard, breathed deeply, and did not reply. She was not about to tell him how she felt with his hands on her waist, warming every part of her. "Do you think Riena is going to be safe?"

"Of course, she is." Dolly called out, and helped her from the carriage.

Riena came to Catherine, holding her black silk skirt from trailing on the dusty road. "Walk with me on the platform until the train comes."

Glad to escape from Douglas, Catherine clasped Riena's hand in hers. For minutes they strolled back and forth in silence. "I shall miss you. After not seeing you for so many years, I hate losing you so quickly."

"I know but I must board this ship. There'll not be another sailing for months, and I fear my father might try to find me, and take me back."

"Not your husband?" Catherine asked.

"He has not long to live. I will be free of him within weeks."

Catherine stopped and faced her friend. "How can you be so sure?"

Riena lifted her veil. "I am sure. Now kiss me good-bye."

Catherine could not stem the tears. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she kissed Riena. "Sorry for crying all over you."

Riena opened her reticule, and withdrew a fine, black-trimmed handkerchief to wipe her own teary eyes. "Dolly, I mean Captain Delacroix, gave me this in the carriage."

"What is between you and Dolly? I don't mean to pry but I saw him holding your hand on the drive to the station."

Riena lowered the veil. "He has been very kind, and sensed I was nervous about stepping out dressed as a widow. That is why he held my hand. To calm me."

Tempted to caution her not to fall under Dolly's spell, Catherine bit her tongue. If Riena believed their handholding meant nothing, so be it. Catherine had her doubts, but kept them to herself. She did not want to tarnish Dolly's reputation on such slim evidence.

The whistle sounded announcing the arrival of the train. It screeched to a stop, belching steam. Three passengers disembarked.

Riena hugged Catherine one last time and whispered. "Remember what I told you. Lord Beckwith loves you. I want your first baby girl named after me."

Breathless, Catherine watched Dolly help Riena into a first class carriage. A porter heaved her trunk and Dolly's valise into the goods van, the guard blew his whistle, waved to the driver, and the train chugged away from Winchfield.

Suddenly aware of Douglas standing beside her, Catherine's wretched heart fluttered in her chest. Riena's last words had shattered her composure, stirred her up inside until she didn't know how to get through the rest of the day. She had to ride with Douglas to the Pennyfeather farm, then picnic with him. In a secluded spot!

Perhaps he'd forgotten to bring food.

Perhaps she'd faint.

No, that would not do. He'd hold her in his arms, and might kiss her. And that definitely would not do.

"I think we'd best go along, Kate." Douglas walked her to the mounting block, helped her into the saddle, and tossed her the reins from the hitching post.

"Did you forget about the picnic?" Catherine hoped her voice sounded normal. It didn't to her. It sounded as though she was speaking from behind her head. Douglas had no saddlebags with him. All the better if the picnic had been canceled.

Up on Prince, Douglas swung him around to take the road home. "I had cook put us up some sandwiches, and slices of fruit cake. I had her put in a bottle of wine and pewter cups. We'll have a proper feast."

"But where is it?" She asked, trailing behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Come up beside me, Kate. I'll have a crick in my neck if I have to keep turning around to see you. Our picnic lunch will be waiting for us at the gatehouse at noon. We'll pick it up there after we've been to the farm, and had a good long ride. What a splendid day it is. The sun is hot for April. It feels more like June.

But she did not want him to look at her, not while Riena's final words blurred her senses. Douglas had a way of watching her, and reading her expressions. At times he seemed to be memorizing her face. If he guessed something was amiss, he'd want to know what troubled her, and would not take no for an answer. She'd best have a story to tell him because her nerves would be stretched to the limit by spending the better part of the day with him.

"A penny for your thoughts." Douglas edged Prince close to Misty. "You're frowning. Not worried about Riena are you?"

He'd thrown her a lifeline and Catherine clutched at it. "She has such a long journey ahead of her. I can't help but worry." But her parting words buzzed in Catherine's head. Lord Beckwith loves you. Promise to name your first baby girl after me.

Douglas leaned over, and touched her arm. "She'll be fine. The ships traveling around the Horn are sturdy. Seasickness might plague her that's all. She's a courageous young lady, well able to take care of herself."

"Thank you. I know there's nothing to be gained by worrying about her, but I am very good at worrying. It is one of the things I do very well."

Douglas laughed. "Then I must teach you not to worry. I don't want my companion beset by vague fears. I like my Kate to smile."

"How can you teach me not to worry?" Happy to be free of treacherous thoughts like...Lord Beckwith loves you.

No, she'd not think of Douglas loving her. Not think it at all. But the more she tried not to, she did. Lord Beckwith loves you.

"I'll give you a lesson while we picnic."

"What? What kind of lesson?" Catherine stammered, then caught herself. "I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else." Lord Beckwith loves you.

Douglas slowed Prince. "Stop a minute. Are you unwell? You seem far away. Preoccupied. If you like, I'll go on to the Pennyfeather farm by myself, and we'll picnic another day."

Catherine forced a smile. A big smile to allay his fears, and thwart any awkward questions he might ask. She had to get through this day and the days to come until the end of May, when she'd leave Douglas and Beckwith Manor. In the meantime, she had to wipe Riena's words from her thoughts.

"I'm fine. It's just that..." She chuckled, a satisfying, hearty chuckle for his benefit. "It's just that I don't think you can teach me not to worry. You see, I can now worry about not being able to learn how not to worry."

"Kate, you are a delight, the best companion any man could have. Being with you is a tonic."

All but struck dumb, Catherine stared at him. What did he mean, she was the best companion a man could have? A paid companion? Or a real companion. A wife? Her head in a whirl, she nudged Misty. "Let's go on to the farm."

Keeping up a steady clip, they passed by the manor gates and waved at the gatekeeper's wife busy hanging snowy white sheets on a clothesline. As they rounded a bend in the road, George Pennyfeather, seated atop his empty farm wagon, came towards them.

"Whooah." His horses clip-clopped to a stop. A black and white border collie sat up beside him.

Delighted to see him again, Catherine trotted up. "Good morning, Mr. Pennyfeather."

He tipped his cap. "Why, you're the young lady as I gave a ride to. Miss Hartleigh isn't it?" Catherine reached up to shake his hand.

"Yes and I'm pleased to meet you again." Catherine glanced around to find Douglas beside her.

"Good morning, George."

Holding on to the iron rail beside his seat, the farmer stood and removed his cap. "Morning, milord, didn't notice you there for a minute. Pleased to see you up and around."

Douglas nodded. "We were on our way to your farm. I'll need you and your boys, and those dogs of yours to help bring in our sheep and lambs."

"Up in the hills are they, milord?"

"Aye. My steward went up to have a look at the flock. Seems we've a pretty lot of lambs ready for market."

The farmer scratched his head, and replaced his cap. "One of my lads has broke his arm. Damned fool. Pardon, Miss. Drank a bit too much scrumpy one night, and tried to ride our Hereford bull. Came a cropper, he did. Lucky the bull didn't gore him."

"Has the arm been set properly?" Douglas asked.

"The bone-setter's done a good job, said it wasn't a bad break. But there you are. Josh hasn't the sense he was born with." He ruffled the dog's ears. "Me and the other three, and Ben here, will be pleased to help, milord. Just send word when you want us to start."

"My steward will come by tomorrow to make the arrangements, and George, keep an eye on young Josh. If he has trouble with his arm, I'll have my doctor look in on him." Douglas turned to Catherine. "Would you like to see the flock? They're up in the hills."

She nodded. A ride into the hills to view sheep would keep her at a safe distance from Douglas. "I'd enjoy that." She smiled at George Pennyfeather. "Thank you again for giving me a ride. You were a gift from heaven."

He touched his cap. "Come visit my farm when you have time, Miss. I've told Mrs. Pennyfeather about you. She was that worried about a nice young lady, like yourself, being caught out in the storm."

The day was turning out better than she'd expected. It really was unusually hot for early April. The sun beat down on her. A visit to a local farm would be a pleasant diversion when Douglas was otherwise occupied. "Good morning, Mr. Pennyfeather, and thank you for the invitation."

Douglas started off down the road and called over his shoulder. "We'd best be off, Kate." He pointed to the east where a line of dark clouds edged the horizon. "They might drift off but this time of year the weather can be unreliable. With this heat there might be thunder in the air. We'll picnic if the weather holds."

Catherine nudged Misty and trotted up beside Douglas "Perhaps we should turn back." She'd no desire to be caught out in a storm with him sheltering under a tree or in a shepherd's hut.

"We'll be fine. It's a long way off. There's a grand view from up top. Let's go." With a loud whoop, Douglas gave Prince his head, and raced down the road. Catherine snapped the reins over Misty's neck, and set out after him.

Mad. He's quite mad. Must think he's on a cavalry charge. Doing her best to keep up, Catherine saw him swerve into a lane, and disappear from view. Misty slowed to make the turn. The narrow lane, bordered by high hedgerows, climbed gradually in a series of sharp twists. Catherine heard the clatter of Prince's hooves up ahead, and urged Misty on.

Wretched fellow, leaving her behind. Catherine wanted to keep her distance from Douglas, but he had no business rushing ahead. Bending low over Misty's neck, Catherine stroked her flanks with the riding crop. "Come on, Misty, let's show him what we can do."

The ribbon holding her curls in place flew off. Feeling like a bird on the wing, hair flying, her skirt billowing, one with her horse, she tore around the bends, climbing steadily. Suddenly the lane ended at a grassy meadow. Ahead was a barred gate. Open. Douglas sat on it. Prince cropped grass off to the side.

"What took you so long?" He quirked one dark eyebrow, and grinned at her. A wicked self-satisfied grin.

"Oh you! You cheated again." Catherine threatened to hit him with her riding crop. "No, I'd better not knock you off the fence, I might have to carry you home." She tilted her head. "On second thoughts, I could drag you down that lane. It would serve you right for not playing fair."

Douglas held up his hands. "I surrender. Mea culpa. I promise not to cheat again."

Catherine's heart welled with happiness. She loved being with him. He was such fun, always finding a way to tease her into laughing. "Now what do you have in mind to do next, my lord? I shall keep a close watch on you if you try any more tricks."

Douglas slid off the fence, and came to her. "Let me help you dismount. We'll walk awhile, and rest the horses."

Before she could object, he grasped her around the waist, and lifted her down. For a flustered moment, Catherine feared he might kiss her. He hesitated before releasing her. His eyes claimed hers, and his mouth, so close, tempted her. Douglas cleared his throat, and freed her. Not a minute too soon for she was on the verge of making a fool of herself.

"Can you walk without your stick? The ground is uneven." Catherine strove for a semblance of calm, although her heart paid no attention to orders from her head, and drummed against her ribs.

"I'll hold your arm. If you fall, so shall I."

This was not what she wanted at all, but could hardly refuse. Arm and arm, in brilliant sunshine, they walked to the top of the rise. Catherine gasped with pleasure at the scene below. A wide valley stretched for miles. Hundreds of sheep like round white puffs grazed in the lush spring grass. Lambs bleated, tiny tails wagging as they butted under their mothers to suckle.

"How peaceful they all look." Catherine sighed, and rested her gloved hand on his. "Nothing to worry about. Nothing to think about. No way of knowing their fate. Eat, drink and be merry."

He slipped his arm around her waist, and knew immediately he should have resisted temptation. Desire stirred. Hard, hot and wanting. His unruly member pressed against his breeches, and he prayed to God, Kate would not notice anything amiss. He'd be shamed if she recognized the signs of his raging libido. He'd promised, again, to keep his hands to himself, and not touch her.

Poor innocent Kate, his future sister had rested her hand on his, and all his good intentions had gone for naught. Last night, they'd kissed, drawn together by the moon. In broad daylight, he had no moon to blame if he kissed her.

"'Tis restful up here but I think we'd best head back. Your nose is already pink from the sun. I'll fetch a hat from the house for you before we picnic."

Douglas turned away from temptation, and whistled for Prince. Both horses trotted up. He helped Kate into the saddle, and mounted Prince. "We'll go back a different way, and take some fences if you like."

"Lead the way, and don't go off like a streak of lightning or..."

Douglas laughed and kicked his heels into his horse. "Or what?"

"Or I shall catch up and whack you over the head, that's what!" Kate raced alongside him, her golden hair flying. Down the meadow they raced. Douglas knew every track and every fence. He signaled Kate to turn left. Ahead was the first jump. Prince sailed over it with Misty close behind. Kate handled the mare perfectly. Douglas led them over two more fences until the track careened almost straight down a hill.

"Slow down, this is a nasty slope." Prince held back testing the footing. Misty swerved past, and Kate waved at Douglas.

"Beat you to the bottom."

Don't be a damned fool." He shouted. "There's a bog at the bottom. You'll..."

Not looking back, she sped full tilt away from him. Furious with her, he kicked Prince into action. Kate didn't know the area. Didn't know about the treacherous bog. If she missed the path around it...

Halfway down the track, his big horse slipping and sliding under him, helpless to save her, Douglas watched the scene below unfold like a bad dream. Misty dug in her forelegs at the edge of the bog. Unable to keep her seat, Kate pitched headlong into its dangerous swampy depths.

Prince swerved to a stop at the bottom. Douglas threw himself from the saddle, cursed his awkward leg, and waded in after her. His boots sank deeper and deeper into the sucking, brown muck She was face down, and fighting to raise her head from the unforgiving bog.

He grabbed her legs, pulled her towards him, squeezed his hands around her waist, and flipped her over on her back. Coughing and spluttering, she tried to sit up.

"Kate, don't move or you'll sink." Douglas yelled. He was up to his knees, and struggling to find solid ground on the slimy, muddy bottom,

"Kate! Listen to me! Lie still. I'll get you out. I have to turn around. I'll hold on to your legs, and drag you out. Do you understand? I have to drag you out."

She nodded, turned her head sideways, and coughed up muddy water.

"All right." He turned, almost went down when his left leg buckled, straightened up, felt behind his back, and spread her legs around him. To give him purchase on her boots, he wiped clammy ooze from his hands on the shoulders of his jacket, and fastened his hands around her ankles. Inching his way to the edge and safety, he stumbled, and lost his grip.

"Douglas!" If he turned around, his damned leg might give way, and endanger them both. Wiping his hands again, he wrestled her mucky boots from the sucking bog.

"Douglas, help me. I'm sinking, my skirt is pulling me under."

"Then I'll damn well grab your skirt, and your legs because I'm damned if I'm going to let my idiot companion die in the damned bog!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Douglas twisted her skirt over his arms, spread-eagled Kate's booted legs around his waist, and felt for firm ground with his good right foot. Black muck seeped into his boots. Muddy grit burned into his stump. Taking a deep breath, he dragged Kate free of the deadly, greedy bog, and dumped her on the path.

"Why in the name of God did you do that? Racing down that damned hill like a bat out of hell. You could have died in that damned bog."

Fatigued, he dropped down beside her. Kate crawled away from him. Black water trailed behind her.

"Now where the hell are you going? If you fall into the bog again, I'll..." He bit back the tirade. Why was he yelling at her? She hadn't known about the bog. Not trusting himself to stand, he crawled after her. "Kate. I'm sorry."

She turned around and without a word crept into his arms and settled on his lap. Her face was filthy, her golden hair matted with smelly ooze and her clothes sodden. She shivered, and huddled against his chest.

"My own dearest Kate, you are safe now." He could have lost her in that quagmire. Lost her forever. Life without his Kate? He rested his cheek on her messy hair. "I love you. I'll always love you."

She whimpered raised her head rubbing dried bog from her eyelids and opened teary eyes. "I'm sorry, Douglas."

"It's all right. You scared the hell out of me, that's all." A tired smile cracked her muddy lips. Douglas kissed her. Even the mud tasted good. She sighed, closed her eyes, and huddled closer. Wet from her clothes seeped into his breeches. Soon he'd be soaked through. They'd have to move but for a few minutes, he'd let her rest. He liked the feel of her nestled in his arms. When her breathing steadied, he roused her.

"Kate, listen to me. We can't stay here. Your clothes are soaked. I have to get you home, and into a hot bath. Do you think you can walk or ride Misty? We're but a mile or so from the manor."

She shifted on his lap, sat up and retched. Vomit splattered on his breeches. "I'm all shivery. Maybe if I walk, I'll get warm."

"See if you can stand." Weighed down by her muck-saturated clothes, she tottered to her feet. Douglas forced himself up, and clamped his teeth together against the blistering pain biting into his stump. He'd not be able to walk far. Maybe Prince could carry both of them.

"Kate, take off your jacket"

"My jacket?"

"Yes, your jacket. Wear mine. It's only damp where you leaned against me. You must keep warm."

"But what about you?"

"Just do as you're told! You've had a bad fall. I'll not be cold."

She picked at the buttons. "Help me with them. My fingers are sticky."

Any other time, he'd have been delighted to undress Kate, but not now. Fumbling with the tiny buttons, he worked them through the holes, and slipped the jacket from her shoulders. The gypsy amulet hung over her white silk shirt.

"So this is your lucky charm." He rested it on the palm of his hand.

"You're not to touch it." She snatched it from him and thrust it under her shirt.

What ailed her? Upset because he'd touched a bit of carved wood on a leather thong? "It's not brought you much luck has it? Didn't keep you from tumbling into the bog."

"That was my own fault. Don't blame my amulet. It's just something special to remind me of Riena when we were children."

He shrugged, and bundled her into his coat. Even now, his Kate had a ready reply. He rolled up the over long sleeves. "There. Now wrap it around you and keep warm."

"Mmm. This is nice and cozy. I hope you won't suffer."

Relieved to hear her sound reasonably normal, Douglas whistled for the horses. Trying not to limp, he slipped his arm through hers. "I can't walk too far nor can you in those wet boots."

Kate took a few steps, then stopped, frowning. "Your leg is hurting, isn't it?"

"A little."

"My fault, and I'm sorry." She stood on tiptoe, and kissed him. "Thank you for my life. You should have let your stupid companion sink."

He cupped her chin in his hands, and returned the kiss. "My companion is an idiot at times, but..." Prince trotted up and nudged him.

"But what?" Kate asked, her blue eyes brilliant in her dirty face.

"But I think I love her, even though I've aged years since she became my companion."

Kate rested her head on his chest. "Even though it's been very difficult to put up with your ill-humor, I think I love you. No doubt I have acquired a few gray hairs since daring to be your companion."

Had she meant what she said? That she loved him. Or was she blanking out the horror of the past minutes. Shock might be playing tricks with her. She'd come close to dying in that damned bog, and he'd come close to not wanting to live at the thought of losing her.

"What shall we do about loving each other?"

She backed away from him. "I don't know."

Catherine's knees wobbled, and she wondered what to say or do next. Her stomach churned. Was he teasing when he said he loved her? And why had she dared to say what was in her heart. Now he wanted her to answer an impossible question.

What should they do about loving each other? If she said, she'd be happy to marry him because Riena had foretold it, and they'd name their first girl after her, he'd fall about laughing. Why did he tease her so, making her so uncomfortable? He was betrothed.

How could he love her when he was soon to wed? Lady Madeline was coming to Dolly's party with her parents, no doubt to make final arrangements for the marriage.

Did Douglas want her for his mistress? The thought sickened her. He could not love her and Madeline.

A sharp pain stabbed the back of her neck. She really felt awful, and Douglas was not helping, especially when he was looking at her in that certain way he had. That look that made her all funny inside. "I don't feel very well, but I think I can ride. Will you help me mount?"

He held her hands. "I asked you a question, and you've not answered. What shall we do about loving each other?"

"Do? We can't do anything. You are betrothed, and I'm your companion." A roiling nausea gripped her stomach, and a fierce headache pounded behind her eyes. She gritted her teeth. She wanted to sit down and die quietly.

"You love another?"

"Please don't tease me."

"I'm not teasing. Do you love someone else?"

Sick with pain, she could not fathom his question. Why was he quizzing her? "I don't know what you want. I'm sorry I said I loved you because I won't ever say it again. and I'm sorry I did. I will not be your mistress when you marry your precious Lady Madeline. Please take me home. I'm sick and wet and shivery and tired."

Douglas rested his hands on her shoulders. "Where did you get the ridiculous notion I wanted you for my mistress?"

Unsteady on her feet, Catherine inched away from him, and squelched towards Misty. "What else can I think? You say you love me, but are promised to another. No honorable man would suggest such an arrangement. And no decent young woman would agree. Will you inform your fiancée before your wedding of your intention to keep a mistress?"

Douglas came after her, turned her around, and held her at arm's length, his dark eyes shooting sparks. "Now listen to me, Kate Hartleigh. Madeline and I made a foolish commitment before I went to war. She realizes it now, the same as I. We will settle matters between us when she comes down for the weekend of the party, then..."

Something happened to Catherine's legs. Everything went black. The path crumpled under her feet. She slumped to the ground, retching. Douglas dropped down beside her, and held her until the heaving stopped.

"My poor Kate, I'll take you home. Prince will carry both of us." He drew her up. Keeping one arm firmly around her waist, he walked her to the horse.

"I'll mount first, then put your foot in the stirrup, and swing up behind me. Can you do that?"

Catherine nodded. Tired to death, her head splitting apart, she waited for him to mount. "Give me your left hand. Put your foot in the stirrup."

Dazed, she leaned against Prince. "I can't. My head hurts."

Douglas stretched down, grasped her shoulder, and shook her. "Kate. Give me your hand!" He rapped out the order, and like a sleepwalker, she raised her arm. "Now put your foot in the stirrup."

She slowly placed her left foot where he told her. Douglas anchored his right boot in the offside stirrup, and using all his strength, heaved her up. Somehow, she managed to slide her legs astride the horse.

"Put your arms around me!" Limp as a rag doll, she flopped against his back.

"Kate!" She paid no attention. Alarmed at her lack of response, he grasped the reins in one hand, twisted back, and shoved his fingers under the waistband of her skirt. Holding tight, he kicked Prince into action. Misty trotted behind.

Even with his horse walking slowly, Douglas had a hard time hanging on to her. His arm ached from the strain. Blood seeped from the palm of his hand where it sawed back and forth against the buttons at her waist. Nearing the stables, Misty cantered on ahead. Pip Jones, out front cleaning tack, tossed his polish aside.

"Mr. Parsons, come quick. Misty's back without Miss Hartleigh." He ran towards Douglas.

The head groom hurried from the stables. "What's happened, milord?"

Fatigued, sweat dripping into his eyes, Douglas eased his stiff fingers from Kate's waistband. She lurched sideways. He caught her before she slipped off the horse. "Get Tom and young Lennie out here. Tell them to fetch a blanket."

Parsons bellowed through the stable door. "Tom! Lennie! Fetch a blanket. On the double!"

Douglas wiped sweat from his eyes. "Parsons, you and Kip lift Miss Hartleigh down, and be careful. She's been hurt."

They eased her limp body from behind Douglas, and lowered her to the ground. Dismounting quickly, he knelt beside her. Brown water dribbled from the side of her mouth. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing ragged.

"What happened to her, milord?" Tom asked. He and Lennie spread the blanket on the ground.

"An accident. She fell in the bog, and must have swallowed that filthy water."

He could hardly speak. Guilt ravaged him. He'd been teasing her about the amulet, and bullying her into saying she loved him and all the while she'd been trying to stay on her feet, and pretend she was fine. Then she'd collapsed.

"Help me put her on the blanket. We'll take her to the house." That done, he turned to Pip. "Run on ahead. Find Mrs. Paige, our housekeeper. Have her alert Miss Hartleigh's maid. Have her inform my mother there's been an accident. Tom saddle a horse and ride to the village. I want Dr. Boothby here as soon as possible. Parsons, you and Lennie assist me."

Ignoring his blistered stump, and his bloodied hand, Douglas grasped two ends of the blanket by Kate's head while Parsons and Lennie took hold of the ends by her feet. In a swaying walk, they started towards the house.

"In the back door, Parsons. There are men in the kitchen area to help me. You'd best return to the stable, and see to Prince and Misty."

Mrs. Paige waited by the open door. One look at Kate, and she flew into action, giving orders. "Ben. Pip. Arly. Lewis. Come here!" They rushed from the kitchen into the back hall. "You're to carry Miss Hartleigh up to her room, and mind how you go. I'll start on ahead with Lord Beckwith." She eyed Douglas.

"You're tired, milord. Let these strong lads take over. I've sent Anna and two of the maids upstairs. They'll see to Miss Hartleigh."

"Aye, I am a bit weary, Mrs. Paige." Glad to be relieved by fresh arms, Douglas limped up the back staircase with the housekeeper.

"What happened, milord?" She threw open the door to the upstairs hallway, and held it for the men following with Kate.

"An accident, Mrs. Paige, a bad accident, she was thrown from her horse, and fell into the bog."

The housekeeper gasped. "Not the black bog. Why it's not long since one of the sheep went in there, and never a trace did the shepherd find of it."

A dead sheep in the bog? He'd been shut up in his rooms, and not heard this story. Fear gripped Douglas's heart. Why hadn't he warned her about the bog? She'd not have gone hell bent for leather down that damned hill if she'd known the danger.

Kate had swallowed some of that muck. What if...what if she sickened and...

She'd not die! He'd not let her die. She had to live.

Mrs. Paige hurried on ahead. "I've sent word to Lady Beckwith. I'll just make sure everything is ready for Miss Hartleigh, and will remain with her to supervise the maids. Have you sent for the doctor, milord?" She opened the bathroom door.

"One of the grooms has gone to fetch him." He saw the men take Kate into the room. He wanted desperately to look after her, but that was out of the question. Idling outside his suite, he waited for the men to leave.

"My lord." Pickens tapped him on the shoulder. "You'd best come inside, and let me see to you."

Douglas sagged against his valet. "You heard what happened?"

"Yes, my lord. I'm right worried about her. Such a nice young lady, she is. Always has a bright smile, and a cheery word. Now sit you down, and let me have those boots. They're in a sorry state."

Tears blurred Douglas's eyes. He'd not cried since he was a child, but he was close to it now. He felt around for a handkerchief in his jacket pocket, but he had no jacket. He'd wrapped it around Kate. Freed of his boots, he bit back a sob, and stumbled into the bathroom.

"Lay out my clothing, Pickens. I'm going to bathe." He closed the door, and sat on the edge of the tub, head bowed. A few tears escaped and trickled down his cheeks.

"Kate, my own love. You'll not leave me. I promise not to bully you again. Or tease you. Or do anything to hurt you."

He smiled through the salty tears, remembering how beautiful she'd looked that first time he had really seen her. Captured in a beam of sunlight, she'd stolen his heart.

He dried his eyes, undressed, and tossed aside his clothes. They stand of bog and vomit. He ran water into the tub and sank into it, talking to himself. "So you see, Kate. You're not to die." He bit back the word. He would not think it. "You're to cough up all that muck you swallowed, and be ready for Dolly's party next week. I want to waltz with you."

He examined his inflamed stump. Kate might be ready to dance but he might not. His artificial leg was a mess and would need a good cleaning. Until his stump healed, he'd use crutches. The hot water soothed him into feeling better. "Pickens!"

His valet opened the bathroom door. "You called, milord."

"Go across, and ask after Miss Hartleigh."

He returned in minutes, his face pinched with concern. "Your mother is with her. Seems the young lady is not doing well."

Douglas heaved out of the bath. "Fetch my crutches. I'm going to see her." He hobbled into the bedroom and dressed.

"Pickens, take my soiled clothes away. I doubt if they can be salvaged. Have one of the kitchen lads clean up my damned leg." Taking a few minutes to compose himself Douglas crossed the hall, and tapped on Kate's door. Anna opened it. Her uniform sleeves were pushed above the elbows and her cap askew.

"How is she?"

"Not too good, milord. We've bathed her, and put her to bed."

"May I see her?"

Anna frowned. "I'll have to ask your mother, milord."

"Ask her then." God in heaven, why did the woman have to be so bloody formal? He didn't intend to jump into bed with Kate.

Anna turned on her heel. "My lady, his lordship is asking to see Miss Hartleigh."

"Come in, Douglas."

His mother sat on a chair beside Kate's bed. Tears glistened in her eyes. "She's burning up with fever. There's a basin with cold water on the table there. Fetch a wet cloth so I can wipe her face."

"Let me do it, mother." If all he could do was wring out cold cloths and wipe Kate's face, then he'd not leave her side. Sitting on her bed, he laid a cloth over her forehead, fetched another and very gently dabbed cool water on her cheeks.

"Kate, my love." She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Douglas?"

"Yes, Kate."

She pushed the cloth off her forehead and frowned. "Why are you washing my face?"

Relieved to hear her sound like her usual self, he dared to smile. She still had her wits about her. "I'm not washing your face, I'm cooling your skin. You have a fever."

His mother stood, and peered at her. "Thank goodness, she's come round. Catherine, my dear, Dr. Boothby is on his way. How are you feeling?"

She blinked at his mother, and stared, wide-eyed, at Douglas. "But I'm not sick. Why is Dr. Boothby coming? Why am I in bed?"

Douglas rested his hand on her forehead. "Don't you remember falling in the bog? You've been vomiting bog water. I had to bring you home on Prince."

She squeezed her eyes tight. "'Twas my fault."

"You are not at fault, Catherine." His mother perched on the bed beside Douglas. "That bog should have been fenced years ago. You've had a shocking experience. Douglas had no business taking you there. Now you are to rest until the doctor comes. He'll know how to bring your fever down." She tapped Douglas on the shoulder. "Wring out another cloth. I'll see to Catherine."

Amused at his mother blaming him for Kate's accident, he wrung out a cloth, and gave it to her. Picking up his crutches he moved to the other side of the bed. Damned if he was going to leave until he knew Kate was all right. She was still flushed.

"How are you feeling?" He sat beside her. His mother glanced at him, her eyes curious.

"I've a pounding headache, and my stomach hurts."

"What's that, Miss Hartleigh?" Dr. Boothby rushed into the room, flung his hat on a chair and snapped open his bag. "Had an accident, have you? Let me have a look at you." He bustled Douglas out of the way. "Please leave us, my lord, while I examine the young lady."

Douglas cast a look at Kate and left. He limped up and down the hallway, paused at Kate's bedroom door, saw her maid go into her bathroom, and emerge with Kate's riding costume.

"Anna."

She curtsied. "Yes, milord."

"I think Miss Hartleigh's costume is ruined. Do you have a measuring tape?" She nodded. "Then measure her costume. The waist, shoulders, sleeves, length, whatever a dressmaker would require to make up a new riding costume for her."

He'd have one made to order in London. In blue, to match her eyes. "And measure her bonnet. She'll need a proper hat."

"Very good, milord. I know what to do." A smile cracked Anna's usual somber face. "She's on the mend, is she, milord?"

"She is indeed. Just needs to rest." He'd not think otherwise. Kate had to dance with him at Dolly's party.

Anna curtsied again. "I'm that pleased, milord. Gave me quite a turn when they brought her upstairs. Never thought to get her clean. Her pretty hair in such a state..."

"Thank you, Anna." She hurried away leaving him to his restless thoughts. Why was Boothby taking so long? Kate's bones weren't broken. She was conscious, and talking. He propped himself against the wall opposite her door. And waited.

Kate had stood there. When? Two nights ago? One? Her shimmery silk nightgown had clung to her breasts. Her golden hair had cascaded over her shoulders. Remembering that meeting, desire teased his loins.

Her door opened. Boothby beckoned him in, and motioned him over to Kate's bed. "How long where you and Miss Hartleigh out in the sun to-day, my lord?"

"Sun? Why several hours, I suppose. Why?"

He fingered his watch chain. "She tells me she did not wear a hat. In my opinion, she is suffering from sunstroke. She has a very fair complexion, and must be careful in the sun. I've given her a sleeping draught for her headache and a powder to bring the fever down. She should be fine after a day's rest."

"But the bog water, Dr. Boothby. She swallowed some of that when she fell. Isn't that why she's sick?" The doctor's lack of concern angered Douglas.

"No, sir. It's sunstroke, but keep an eye on her. It might take a week or so for what she swallowed to make her sick. Filthy muck in bogs. No telling what's in it. If she takes a bad turn, send for me at once. I might have to give her an emetic to clear out the poisons or bleed her, if worst comes to worst."

Kate pushed herself up on one elbow. "Not leeches! I'd rather die than have them on me. Don't let him do it, Douglas!"

He grasped her hands. "Kate, you're going to be fine. No leeches, I promise. If Dr. Boothby wants to bleed you, I'll take your place. Seeing leeches sucking away at me will cheer you up."

"Lord Beckwith, this is no laughing matter. If bleeding is required, then I shall bleed her." Dr. Boothby snapped the lock on his black bag.

Douglas winked at Kate and she smiled back. No leeches. He mouthed.

"Miss Hartleigh will sleep now. Have her maid stay with her. She'll be thirsty when she wakens." The doctor picked up his hat. "Good afternoon, Lady Beckwith. Lord Beckwith." He bowed stiffly. "I'll see myself out."

Douglas sat on the chair his mother had vacated. "I'll stay with her."

"No, that would not be proper. Anna will return in a few minutes."

He glanced at Kate. She seemed asleep. Her eyes were closed and her breathing regular. "Then I shall sit with Anna to be here when Kate wakens."

His mother studied him. "What is between you and Catherine? What does this 'Kate, my love' mean? I heard you say that. Have you compromised her?"

He raked his fingers through his hair. "Surely you don't think I'd harm her? Kate is a teasing name I have given her."

"Really, I don't know what to think. Catherine is a beautiful young lady, and I am responsible for her well being. You and Dolly vie for her attention like a pair of..." Smiling, she rested one hand on Douglas's shoulder. "No, you are not like that...you are both perfect gentlemen."

Anna hurried into the room. "I've come to stay with Miss Hartleigh, milady."

Knowing better than to embarrass his mother by insisting on sitting with Kate, Douglas stood. "I'll be in my rooms, Anna. If Miss Hartleigh wakens, inform me at once."

"Yes, milord."

His mother linked one arm through his and walked with him to his suite. "I've not finished what I have to say."

Douglas settled her in a comfortable chair, and lounged on the window-seat. Sunshine warmed his back. "Well, mother?"

"It's about you and Dolly and Catherine. You are betrothed so it has to be Dolly."

Douglas frowned, wondering what his mother was trying to say. "What has to be Dolly?"

"I hope you'll not think me silly, but I've become very fond of Catherine, and would welcome her as a daughter if she were to marry Dolly."

"Marry Dolly?" A tight band clamped around Douglas's chest. "Has he spoken to you?"

"Of course not. You're head of the family. He'd come to you first." She leaned forward. "Do you not think she'd make a splendid wife for him? He is very fond of her. I can tell by the way he gazes at her."

Throwing caution to the winds, Douglas cleared his throat. "I am very fond of her, as well and agree with you, she'd be a splendid wife."

His mother rose to her feet. "I'm much easier in my mind now we've had this little talk. I know you care for Catherine. How could you help it? She's a sweet, lovely young lady."

She paused at the door. "When Dolly returns home will you ask him what his intentions are towards her? Make opportunities for them to be alone together. And, Douglas, it might be unwise for you to refer to her as 'Kate, my love', especially not in Dolly's hearing. He might find it offensive."

His mother swept out the door, leaving him stunned. He was supposed to act as a marriage broker between Dolly and Kate. Arrange trysts. Force Dolly to declare himself. Damned if he would. Let Dolly manage his own affairs, he'd not lend a hand.

Douglas sank into a soft chair. If Dolly had not declared his intentions before the party, he'd be free to ask Kate to be his wife. Free, that is, when he and Madeline agreed their betrothal had been a mistake, and informed their parents.

Until then, he'd bide his time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Catherine sat on the terrace, sketching pad in her hand. She'd tried to concentrate on her work, but worries about Riena intruded. Five days had passed since she and Dolly had boarded the London train, and he'd not returned. What if her husband had tracked them down, and taken Dolly by surprise? The man had not come back to haunt them with his horrible rattling gourd, and dead crow. Even a man as big and strong as Dolly might fall victim to a surprise knife attack. And Riena?

No. She'd not fall prey to her fears and tried to put them out of her mind. To think of something else. To think of someone else.

She'd seen little of Douglas since her accident. Busy on estate business, he inquired about her health first thing in the morning and after dinner at night.

"Useless." She muttered aloud. "I'm useless to him." Again and again, Catherine asked herself why she stayed on at Beckwith Manor. Douglas was unfailingly polite, teased her a little, but never asked her to meet him in his study nor to stroll around the grounds. Yet whenever she suggested leaving, he insisted she remain. Why?

Snippets of memory danced like restless butterflies around the edges of thought not lingering long enough for her to capture them. Mostly at night, just as she was dropping off to sleep something from the day of the accident popped into her mind. Always the same snippet teased her. Douglas had said he loved her.

An impossible dream probably caused by sunstroke.

She remembered little of that day except the horror of falling into the bog, and Douglas dragging her to safety. Her riding habit, beyond salvaging, had been burned with the trash.

Catherine sighed. For the remainder of her stay at the manor, she'd not be riding Misty or any other horse.

She retied the ribbons of the big straw hat Lady Beckwith asked her to wear when she ventured outdoors on sunny days. Lady Beckwith and Francis fussed over her. Morning, noon and night, they asked how she was feeling. The bog water she'd swallowed might make her ill, and Catherine was told to report any symptom, no matter how small.

A familiar sound notched her heart up a beat. She recognized his footsteps. The tap of his cane. Hoping not to look overwhelming pleased to see him, she turned, and smiled. "Good afternoon, Douglas." He carried a large, paper-wrapped box, and a smaller, square one, on top.

"Good afternoon, Kate. I've something for you."

"For me?" He removed her sketchpad, and handed her a large box. She studied the script on the upper left-hand corner. Amott, Brothers. No.'s 62 & 63 St. Paul's Churchyard, London. And there was her name, neatly lettered, and addressed to her at Beckwith Manor.

Amott, Brothers meant nothing to her. "What is in it?"

Douglas pulled up a chair, and sat beside her. "If you keep staring at it, you'll never know. Let me break the string."

Bewildered by his sudden appearance with two mysterious packages, her silly heart danced a jig in her chest. When Catherine removed the wrapping she discovered another box inside. A blue box with Amott, Brothers, scrolled in gold lettering across the top. Fingers shaking, she removed the lid.

Inside...she held her breath. Something made of blue velvet."What is it?"

He lifted out a riding jacket cut in the latest military fashion. Brass buttons down the front and gold braided epaulets at the shoulder. "Since you insisted on tumbling into the bog, and ruined your riding habit, I decided you must have a new one. There's a split skirt for you to ride astride, and a silk shirt."

Like a conjurer, he opened the smaller box, and handed her a black riding hat. "There, that's to save you from sunstroke."

"But Douglas, I can't accept."

"This is a gift from mother, Francis and me. You must accept it or hurt our feelings."

Lowering her gaze to hide the tears threatening to fall, Catherine willed herself not to cry. She'd not embarrass Douglas by weeping.

"Hold up the skirt, and tell me if you like it."

Like someone in a dream, she obeyed. "It's so beautiful. Who chose the color? I thought maroon was all the fashion for ladies riding in London parks."

"I chose it. I knew maroon would not suit you as well as blue, so blue it had to be." Frowning, he gazed up at her. "Don't you like it?"

"I love it but isn't the color a bit light? Won't it dirty quickly?" Why was she asking such stupid questions?

Douglas leaned back, and chuckled. "Only if you keep falling off your horse into bogs."

Catherine folded the skirt into the box and, her legs unsteady, perched on the arm of her chair. "How did you know my size?"

"I asked Anna to measure your old costume, and the inside of your straw bonnet. I sent the measurements up to Sam Amott, ordered the color and material I wanted, and told him to set his seamstresses to work. It arrived by the afternoon post."

"You did all that without me knowing. How can I ever thank you?"

"Just smile and say, thank you."

Catherine swallowed the lump in her throat. "Thank you, Douglas. You chose well."

"Try on the hat. I want to know if it fits properly. Don't want you fainting again." He handed it to her. Catherine's fingers, all thumbs, fiddled the ribbons under her chin, tangling them into a knot. "Can you untie these?"

"Stand up then so I can see what I'm doing." On his feet, he clasped her hands, and drew her up.

Savoring his nearness, she watched his face while he concentrated on the knot. "There." He removed the wide-brimmed straw hat, and tossed it aside.

Rooted to the spot, Catherine's legs refused to move. "I've missed you."

His hand drifted up, touched her cheek, and tucked a curl behind her ear. "I've been neglecting the estate, and have had to spend hours with my steward planning the work, discussing the men we'll have to hire." He paused. "I've missed you, too, my lady companion."

If lightning had threatened to strike her down, Catherine could not have stopped herself although warning blushes warmed her cheeks. "Will you kiss me?"

"Kiss you?"

"I would like you to kiss me." Her cheeks must be flaming crimson.

"Kate, you don't know what you're asking."

"I know exactly what I'm asking. I'm asking you to kiss me." Had she lost her wits? Lost all her common sense. Begging him to kiss her.

He cupped her chin in his hands. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, gazed into hers. "This is not a good idea."

"You kissed me after I fell in the bog. Was it a good idea then?" Embarrassed, Catherine clamped the riding hat on her head.

"That was different. You could have died there. I didn't want to lose you."

"So you kissed me back to life."

He dropped his hands and grinned at her. "You could say that."

Wishing a lightning bolt had struck her down before she'd tried to force him to kiss her, Catherine gathered up her straw hat, sketch book, and the box with her riding habit.

"I'm sorry, Douglas, I didn't mean to trouble you, but you did call me, your love, after you rescued me. I didn't dream that. I just thought...I thought I'd like you to kiss me again."

Turning on her heel, she ran across the terrace, dashed through the French doors into the ballroom, side-stepped a maid carrying a tray of wine glasses, and shot across the entrance hall, up the stairs, and made it to the safety of her room.

She locked the door, and leaned against it to catch her breath. What had she done? Spoiled everything between them. She could not look him in the face ever again. Not after begging him to kiss her. And he'd refused! That was the worst part.

She'd fall ill. Stomach pains. Headache. Insist on returning home to her mother. She'd miss Dolly's party, but that was fine since she'd nothing to wear, and had not intended to show up wearing one of her companion dresses.

Dolly had not returned, and his party was in two days. Overnight guests were expected to arrive tomorrow. Maids had been scurrying up and downstairs with fresh linens, preparing the rooms in the right wing.

Catherine hung up her beautiful new riding habit. She'd never be able to wear it. Why take it to London when she didn't own a horse?

"Kate, come back!" Douglas called after her, but she'd not heard or pretended not to. He'd hurt her. And why? She'd asked him to kiss her. That was all. A simple kiss. And he'd refused.

Refused.

Because kissing Kate was not simple. One kiss would lead to another, and another and within minutes, seconds even, he'd be telling her he loved her that he wanted to marry her, wanted her to bear his children...three, possibly four. No more than four.

Not given to dreaming of impossible futures, he replaced it with an immediate problem. How was he to make her understand his dilemma without saying anything more to distress her? He'd be welcoming party guests tomorrow. There'd be little time to speak with Kate alone. And where the hell was Dolly? If he'd been here, none of this would have happened. Dolly would have been keeping her company.

He stalked off the terrace and met his mother in the entrance hall. "I have had a letter from Dolly by the afternoon post. He's coming in on the evening train. Will you arrange for a carriage to pick him up? I have to speak with Mrs. Paige about which guests should go where." She raised her brows. "What happened to the two packages addressed to Catherine? Did you give them to her?"

Douglas nodded. "Yes. I'll arrange for Dolly's carriage." He put one foot on the first step hoping to escape further questions.

"I'm curious. Catherine has very little money, and the large box came from Amott, Brothers, a very expensive establishment."

A wry smile on his lips, he shook his head. "You look exactly as you used to when I was a lad trying to pull the wool over your eyes. I ordered a new riding habit for her and a hat. It was my fault she fell in the bog, and ruined her clothing."

"And Catherine accepted clothing from you? I am surprised."

"I told her it was a gift from you, Francis and me, and she had to accept or hurt our feelings."

"Really, Douglas, you might have told me. I would have advised you on style and color." She tilted her head. "What color did you choose?"

"Blue. Blue suits her."

"Was she pleased?"

Pleased enough to ask me to kiss her. But he didn't say that. "She was very pleased. I may ask her to ride with me after tea."

His mother brightened. "Why not ride to Winchfield with the carriage, and meet Dolly's train? I'm sure he'll be delighted to see Catherine."

Douglas shrugged and started upstairs. "I'm sure he will. I'll ask her."

But what if Kate refused to speak to him? Walking slowly along the hallway, he planned his approach.

Knock on her door. Ask to see her. She'd open it, glaring at him, no doubt. Kate, he'd say. I'm sorry I didn't kiss you...No, that didn't sound right. She might say, kiss me now. It would be just like her. Hands on her hips, daring him. And he would kiss her, and to hell with Dolly and Madeline. He'd sweep her into his arms and...

He stopped at her door and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Douglas."

"Go away. I do not wish to speak with you."

"Kate."

"Don't call me, Kate! Call me Catherine."

"Catherine, open up so I don't have to yell. I've something to say to you."

The key turned in the lock, and she opened the door. Chin held high, her eyes wide, she stared at him. "What do you wish to say?"

"I'm sorry I..." He drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry I didn't kiss you. I wanted to, but kissing you is risky."

"Risky?" Her mouth softened into a slight smile.

"I'm betrothed. Until that changes, I'd rather not kiss you." He gripped one hand on his cane, the other in a tight fist to stop from dragging her in his arms, and letting all hell break loose.

"Changes?" She asked.

"I can't answer that. Not now." He was making a fine mess of this conversation, and shifted away from danger. "By the way, mother asked how you liked your riding habit. I said you loved it. She suggested you and I ride over to Winchfield after tea. I'm ordering a carriage to meet Dolly. He's coming on the evening train. He'll be pleased to see you."

"And I'm anxious for him to return. I've been worried about him and Riena."

"Then we'll ride to Winchfield. You'll dazzle him in your new habit." Douglas tempted fate, and clasped her hand. "And dazzle me, as well."

She withdrew her hand. "I'll not dazzle you, Douglas. You are impervious to dazzle." And very quietly closed the door and very quietly locked it.

Catherine held her breath. If he knocked again she'd refuse to see him. She had to think. Why was it risky to kiss her? Did he fear to compromise her in some way? Perhaps that was it. And what did he mean by changes to his betrothal? Had Lady Madeline urged him to set a marriage date? She puzzled over the woman he'd promised to marry. Except for one visit, she'd not set foot at Beckwith manor. Now, if she were betrothed to Douglas, she'd spend every waking hour with him. And the night hours?

Wickedly sinful thoughts danced in her head. Lie with him before they married?

Silly girl, she scolded and bathed for tea. But the wicked thoughts persisted as she dressed. She buttoned up the collar of her simple gray dress. It reminded her of her role as his companion, and a modicum of composure returned. She heard Douglas leave his room, waited awhile, and then made her way downstairs. She'd not want him to guess her wicked thoughts.

Before leaving the table after tea, Lady Beckwith unfolded two long sheets of paper, and spread them on the cloth. "I have the guest list for the party. So far seventy people have accepted. Thirty of our London friends will stay the night. I've arranged rooms in the right wing."

She turned to Douglas. "I've put Sir Arthur and Lady Fairfax in one of the suites. I thought you and Madeline might like to meet there to make plans."

"Madeline Fairfax?" The words escaped before Catherine could stop them. "I didn't know she was your Lady Madeline, Douglas."

"You know her?" Douglas asked.

Catherine swallowed hard. "She's older than I, and one of the reigning London beauties. I didn't move in her set." In fact, Madeline Fairfax had cut her more than once as though she were an insect, not worthy of one of her smiles.

Catherine remembered some gossip she'd heard. Madeline did not have a disposition to match her lovely face. Her maid had told another maid who'd told another maid, who'd told the maid of a friend of Catherine's that Madeline Fairfax had a fierce temper. Threw dishes at the wall when she was angry. Kicked her maid when the water was not right for her toilette. Screamed at her parents.

Poor Douglas. Why was he betrothed to a beautiful harridan? She'd make his life a misery. What was the saying? A devil in the house. A saint outside.

Douglas stood. "Thank you for arranging a meeting place, mother. Madeline and I have much to discuss." He drew out Catherine's chair. "You had better change. The train is due in forty minutes. I've ordered the horses saddled."

He walked up the stairs with her. "Kate what was that about?"

"What do you mean?"

"The look on your face when you realized you knew Madeline?"

"What look?" She played for time to arrange her thoughts.

"You don't like her, do you?"

"I don't know her very well, and what does it matter whether I like or dislike her. You are marrying her, not me." She tried not to sound like a shrew, but she felt very shrewish.

"Thank you. You've told me what I want to know."

Catherine opened her bedroom door. "Then don't ask me another question about Madeline Fairfax. I'll avoid meeting her while she's here."

"That's not possible, Kate. You'll be dining with us. Attending the party. Dancing."

Catherine angled through the door. "I'll not be at the party nor will I meet your guests."

"You will!" He grasped her arm, and pulled her towards him. "I want you there."

Catherine stiffened. "I'm your paid companion. Is that how you will introduce me? I may know other of your London friends. They will have a wonderful time spreading gossip about me back home. I don't care, but my mother will be shamed."

"Do you think me such an insensitive boor? You'll be introduced as a friend of the family. Mother and I have discussed this. She already thinks of you as the daughter she never had."

"But my clothes? I've nothing fashionable."

"You are beautiful no matter what you wear." Douglas grasped her fingers, and kissed the tips. "Smile your dazzling smile, and no one will notice your clothes."

Catherine knew he was wrong. Men did not notice, but every woman in the room would. "I'd better change or we'll miss Dolly."

Dressed in her new blue habit, Catherine admitted that she did look very nice. Fashionable from head to toe. The military cut suited her. She swaggered around her bedroom, enjoying the swishy soft feel of the velvet.

Douglas knocked. "Are you ready?"

"Coming." She settled the hat on her head, hurried across the room, and opened the door. "What do you think? Did you choose well?"

Douglas eyed her up and down. "I'll say this once, maybe twice, maybe several times before the evening is over. You are absolutely stunning. When we ride with our guests, the men will be fighting over who rides beside you. Who helps you mount. Who helps you dismount. It will be a circus. Watch their hands, though. Tell me if one of them takes liberties."

Catherine giggled. "If someone takes liberties, I shall whack them with my riding crop."

"That's my Kate. Come we'd best be on our way."

The ride to the station through the soft, evening air entranced Catherine. Feeling very queen-like, she thought every flower nodded as she passed. Every bird sang. All for her to see and hear. Meeting Madeline Fairfax tomorrow was for tomorrow. This evening was for her to enjoy with Douglas and Dolly.

Douglas assisted her to dismount. He held her a trifle longer than necessary. He savored the feel of her waist in his hands. A stab of jealousy reared its ugly head. He'd make sure none of the young bucks made her uneasy by too obvious flirting.

As they waited for the train, he wondered how Dolly would react when he saw her. The blue velvet simply made her more glorious. More desirable.

Kate's opinion of Madeline did not trouble him unduly since marriage to Madeline was out of the question. Even before he'd fallen in love with Kate, he'd known the betrothal was wrong. Madeline had suitors by the dozen waiting in the wings. Perhaps she'd bestow her favor on one of the men invited to the party.

The train whistled, and screeched to a stop. In one smooth motion, Dolly threw open the carriage door, dropped his valise on the platform, leapt from the train, gathered Catherine in his arms, and kissed her.

"How splendid you look. Is this a new outfit for the party?" He held her at arm's length. "You will drive every woman wild with envy."

Delighted to see him, Catherine hugged him back. "You must not turn my head with your compliments, but I'm glad you like my new habit. Douglas chose it."

Douglas grasped Dolly's hand. "Good to have you back. I expected you sooner."

Dolly threw an arm over Douglas's shoulder, and walked between him and Catherine to the waiting carriage. "Riena had a little trouble booking her passage. Seems one of the chaperones traveling with the group suspected she was a gypsy. So next day, I trotted along with her, posed as her brother, gave them a piece of my mind, and threatened to speak to the church authorities if my dear sister, Rose, had further trouble."

Catherine chuckled. "I can imagine how you enjoyed that."

Dolly climbed into the carriage, and put his valise on the floor. "Then Riena and I went about the shops for two days for her to buy trinkets, ribbons, and the like to sell in Victoria. I advised her to pick out items for men, as well, and helped her make appropriate choices."

Douglas helped Catherine to mount, then climbed into the saddle. "Dolly, I'm taking Prince for a run. Catherine will keep you company on the way home. I'll see you at dinner." He waved and left.

The coachman turned the carriage around. Dolly poked his head out. "What's wrong with Douglas? Looks cranky as an old bear."

Catherine shook her head. "Tired, I think. He's been very busy with estate business."

Dolly grinned at her. "I'll wager he's not looking forward to seeing Madeline tomorrow, not when he has you as his companion."

"Never mind Madeline Fairfax. How was Riena when you saw her off?"

Dolly beamed. "Splendid. Nervous, of course, but she fitted right in with the other young women boarding the bride ship. A sorry looking lot, some of them, out of charity homes, needing good food to put meat on their bones."

Chatting happily about Riena, Catherine was surprised to arrive at the manor gates so quickly. Douglas had disappeared.

Riding Misty around to the stable, she was pleased to have young Lennie hold the mare's head while she dismounted. He removed his cap, and tucked it under his arm.

"Glad to see you better, Miss. Gave me a right turn when Lord Beckwith brought you home."

"Thank you, Lennie. Will you see to Misty?"

He bobbed his head, blushing under his freckles. "Yes, Miss."

Catherine walked quickly towards the house. Why had Douglas dashed off like that? It was not like him to be so cool towards Dolly. They were genuinely fond of each other.

Puzzling over Douglas's behavior, she heard the clatter of a horse coming towards her, and stepped off to one side. Douglas reined in Prince.

"Didn't Dolly come to the stable with you? I'm surprised he let you out of his sight."

Taken aback at his gruff tone, Catherine stared at him. "I don't understand. Why would he come to the stable with me when he was anxious to see your mother? He went straight indoors."

"But you'll be meeting him later."

"Douglas, what is the matter with you? Of course I will meet him later. So will you, your mother and Francis. Why did you dash off like that at the station? Dolly expected a more friendly greeting from you."

"Did he then? He seemed more interested in you. I thought it best to leave you alone with him. You hadn't seen each other for five days."

"And neither had you. This is ridiculous. Dolly and I talked all the way home about Riena. I thought you might have been the slightest bit interested in what happened to her, but you had to dash off on your own, did not have time to greet your own brother."

Thoroughly disgusted with Douglas, she walked away. Prickly as ever, he'd hinted something was wrong, but just like him, did not say right out what was the matter. She paused, turned on her heel, and caught up with him before he reached the stable. He had to stop doing this to her.

"Douglas, if I have wronged you in some way, said something to upset you, will you please tell me what it is? You are angry with me and I don't know why."

"I'm not angry with you. If that's what you think." He removed his hat, and thrust his fingers through his hair. "I've a lot on my mind right now, and shouldn't be taking my ill-humor out on you and Dolly."

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, next time you're out of sorts, warn me, and I'll go into hiding."

"That's not like my Kate. She'd stay and fight." His mouth relaxed into a teasing smile. "Come along to the stable with me. You can tell me about Riena on the way back to the house."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Catherine tossed and turned during the night. The day to come loomed over her like a black cloud. She did not look forward to meeting Madeline Fairfax. Not because she was betrothed to Douglas, although that pained her, but...but she might not believe the story Lady Beckwith had concocted to account for Catherine's presence in the house.

While they had drank coffee in the library after dinner, Lady Beckwith had sought to put Catherine at ease. "I shall tell anyone who asks that your father and my husband had business interests at one time, and our families became acquainted. When I heard you'd been feeling poorly, I asked you down to spend a month or two in the countryside to regain your health."

"And if anyone quizzes you about the family connection, and your imagination fails, I will come to the rescue." Dolly thought it would be great fun to act as her knight in shining invisible armor.

But Catherine had her doubts, especially where Madeline Fairfax was concerned. She'd not take kindly to Catherine being a house guest.

Many of the Londoners coming to the party were familiar to her, but she had lost touch with most of them since her father's death. Douglas's quiet encouragement had stemmed some of her fears. "You'll be fine. Our friends are too well-mannered to question mother."

Even Francis volunteered to be her constant escort. "If need be, I shall hover at your side."

With all their promised help, she'd manage.

She wakened early puzzling over what to wear? Madeline and her parents would arrive in time for luncheon. A first impression was important. Catherine sorted through her wardrobe, and decided on a white silk, long-sleeved blouse, and her gray silk skirt. Tempted to fling Riena's shawl over her shoulders, she opted instead for the one Douglas had given her in the box room. Emerald green silk shot with gold thread, it did wonders for her simple outfit.

Her stomach in knots, she had breakfast in her room, and spent the morning reading on the balcony. Trying to read, that is, since her ears were tuned to sounds of carriage wheels.

At twelve o'clock, she bathed her face, tidied her hair, and made her way to the terrace for drinks before luncheon. Dolly and Francis greeted her.

"You look splendid, Catherine." Dolly clasped her hands. "Not nervous, are you?"

"Yes I am."

"Then have a drink to bolster your courage." He handed her a glass of sherry.

She sipped the brave-making drink. "Has Douglas gone to meet the train?" Dolly nodded and gloom descended on her. Would he be kissing Madeline the way he'd kissed her after he'd rescued her from the bog? Her memory had returned. She even remembered him saying he loved her. But maybe she'd dreamed that or begun to hallucinate from the pounding headache.

Francis patted a place beside him on the love seat. "Come here by me until Douglas returns. I'll whisper sweet nothings in your ears, and you'll be all silly and giggly when our guests arrive."

She was neither when Lady Beckwith escorted Sir Arthur and Lady Fairfax on to the terrace followed by Madeline and Douglas, her arm tucked through his. Little green jealousy devils danced behind Catherine's eyes. With a supreme effort, she forced a smile.

Lady Beckwith introduced Catherine with the consummate skill of an actress. Totally in control of the story she even had Catherine half-believing it was true.

Madeline looked her up and down, appraising every stitch of clothing for flaws. "Why, Catherine, how pleasant to see you again. I am sorry we've lost touch. She is looking very well, is she not, Douglas?"

The sherry had gone straight to Catherine's head. "I am extremely well, Madeline, and have regained my health. Douglas and I have had splendid times together. Why just the other day, we rode for miles over the estate, and had to shelter from a storm in a shepherd's hut. Douglas had brought a picnic lunch so we stayed there until the storm passed." She batted her lashes at him.

"He is so sweet and thoughtful. He remembered to bring wine but forgot the goblets. We had to pass the bottle back and forth, but he cheated, and drank more than I did. That was such fun, was it not, Douglas?"

He raised his brows. "Indeed, but you had more than enough to make you unsteady. You very nearly fell off your horse on the way home."

Madeline's mouth froze in a tight line. If looks could kill, Catherine would have died instantly. And died happily. She'd bested Madeline at her own game.

Dolly stepped into the breach and held out his hand. "I'm Randall. We met very briefly in London."

Madeline shifted her attention to Dolly. "I regret not spending more time with you, Randall. Do you not visit the city often?"

"I've been serving in India for the past three years, and find the London scene stifling."

In full flirtatious mode, she dropped Douglas to concentrate on Dolly. "Come tell me about India, Randall. I've always longed to visit exotic places." Taking his arm, she walked him to side by side chairs, and settled down to charm him into submission.

Douglas re-filled Catherine's sherry glass while his mother introduced Francis to her guests. With practiced ease, he cupped his hand under her elbow, and moved her away from the others.

"What was that about, Kate?"

She gazed at him over the rim of her glass. "Your Madeline gave me such a look, I could not resist adding to the story."

"What kind of look? I thought she was being very agreeable, all things considered. Finding a beautiful house guest in residence must have come as a surprise."

Catherine sipped a little sherry. Mindful that alcohol loosened her tongue she set the glass on a table. She'd not upset Douglas, and spoil the day for him. "I'm sorry. I...I really wanted to..."

She'd tell the truth. Well part of the truth. "I really wanted to put her in her place because she cut me several times in London. I was not part of her set, and did not want to be part of her set. They were older than me and..." She'd gone too far. "I'm sorry, Douglas. I'll not embarrass you again."

He picked up the glass she'd set aside, and drained it. "It's not like you to bear a grudge. You really do not like Madeline, do you?"

Catherine lowered her gaze. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me. I don't think the others noticed."

"Then I promise to like her." She raised her eyes to find him smiling at her.

"Kate, you are such a delight. No more stories, please. Do not take Madeline too seriously. She means well, I am sure."

Catherine swallowed that with a grain of salt. From what she'd heard about Madeline Fairfax, she meant well to no one but herself. How could Douglas love her?

The butler stepped on to the terrace. "Luncheon is served, my lord."

Catherine joined in the casual conversation around the table and tried not to care when Douglas gave his attention to Madeline.

"Will you be riding in the afternoon, Douglas?" Catherine asked, diverting him in her direction.

"I've business to attend to, but I'm sure Dolly would enjoy your company."

"Dolly?" Madeline frowned. "Who is Dolly?"

"Why Randall, of course. We all call him, Dolly. It's a family pet name, goes back forever, is that not so, Dolly?" Catherine bit back a smile. Another direct hit at Madeline.

"I do love pet names." Madeline gazed around the table. "My parents used to call me their little princess, but I begged them to stop when I turned fourteen. Father insists I'll always be his princess."

Sir Arthur peered across the table at his daughter. "What's that you say about a princess, Maddy?"

"Poor Papa." Madeline cooed. "The train journey has tired him. He'll need to rest after luncheon."

Dolly turned to Catherine. "I'd be pleased to ride with you. Will you join us, Madeline?"

Had he been closer, Catherine would have kicked him under the table.

"Thank you, Randall, but I expect to spend the afternoon with Douglas."

Catherine's heart sank into her shoes. They'd be discussing their marriage. And if she did not mind her manners, Douglas would turn against his rude lady companion.

With luncheon over, Catherine donned her riding habit, and rode out with Dolly. She'd managed to cope well with the most difficult guest, Madeline. Her parents were very pleasant. Sir Arthur had courteous manners and Lady Fairfax, a faded beauty, had flirted outrageously with Francis.

Douglas asked Madeline to join him in his study. He envied Dolly going off with Kate, but he'd not rest easy until he'd settled the betrothal problem with Madeline.

She sank into a chair. "Well, Douglas?" She picked up a copy of Punch, flipped through it, and tossed it aside.

He propped his elbow on the mantel. "I'll be honest with you, Madeline, I know you'd expect that. I think our betrothal was a mistake. My fault. I rushed you into it before leaving for the Crimea."

"And you want to marry someone else. Is that it? Your pretty little house guest, perhaps?"

Douglas did not like Madeline's tone or bringing Kate into the discussion. "No, I'll not be marrying, and find your reference to Miss Hartleigh discourteous. We are discussing our relationship."

She thinned her lips in a tight smile. "It's not been much, has it? You holed up in the country when I particularly wanted you to stay in London as my escort."

"I have told you often enough, I do not care for city life. I've put my London house in the hands of an estate agent. I expect it to be sold within the month."

"You'll have no residence in town?"

"I've leased a suite of rooms in the Breckenridge. Mother enjoys a visit to the city, and I might stay there from time to time when I have to consult my banker or solicitor."

Madeline raised her brows. "You don't expect me to live here, do you? I'd die of boredom in the country."

"When we marry, this is where we'll live. My work is here."

"Then you'll have to live without me." She stood, and walked over to him. "If this is your final word, then I will speak to father. He'll put a notice in The Times to inform our friends of the change."

"I'm sorry, Madeline. I hope you're not too disappointed."

Her eyes brightened. "Not in the least. There's beaux aplenty in London anxious to replace you in my affections."

"Then let us enjoy Dolly's party. Save me a dance or two."

"Can you dance with that? With that...that artificial thing?" She stared at his feet.

Douglas gritted his teeth. "I'm damn well going to try."

With as courteous a manner as he could muster, he escorted her to the drawing room, and left her with his mother and other ladies.

Returning to the study, he closed the door. Brandy decanter in hand, he poured a good measure into a crystal glass, and sipped slowly. Little by little, he regained his composure. Shocked by her cruel remark about his leg, Douglas wondered why he'd been so blind to her faults. She'd irritated him in so many ways, but honorable fool that he was, he'd planned to go through with the marriage, and make the best of it. After falling in love with his beautiful lady companion he knew he could not survive a loveless marriage with Madeline.

He drained the glass and leaned back in his chair. It was quiet here. He'd stay awhile longer before returning to his guests. Kate wasn't with them she was off riding with Dolly.

"Well, Catherine, what do you think of Madeline?" Dolly asked After an hour's fast ride they'd dismounted by the swan lake, and sat on the hillside enjoying the sight of a mother swan and her seven cygnets.

"I don't think anything. She's betrothed to Douglas. What I think is of no concern."

Dolly fell backwards on the grassy slope, and burst out laughing. "Come now, be honest, I'll not tell a soul."

Catherine drew up her knees, and rested her chin on them. "I don't know her very well. She's reputed to have a wicked temper. She visited once when I first came here. I never met her, only heard her voice when she scolded Douglas for not coming up to London. Truth to tell, I did not like the way she spoke to him. I wondered why she did not stay here, and keep him company. Then your mother would not have had to hire me."

She poked a finger in Dolly's ribs. "Now what is your opinion of her?"

"Can't abide her. I think she and Douglas may come to a parting of the ways while she's here."

Catherine turned to gaze at him. "I thought they'd be planning their wedding."

"I doubt it. Douglas knows their betrothal was a mistake. He hopes to convince Madeline to free him. She's made it clear she will not live at the manor. A real party animal is Madeline. London is where she belongs, not here."

Hardly able to contain her joy, Catherine jumped to her feet. "Come, let's ride on, and see the bog where I nearly met a sticky end." Douglas had kissed her there, and unless she dreamed it, had said he loved her. Her memory of the accident had dimmed. If he and Madeline broke their engagement then...

What if Riena was right?

Catherine shivered thinking about it.

Thinking about their baby daughter...Lady Riena.

Dolly led the way since she'd no idea how to find the bog. They approached by a different track, not down the steep hill. Catherine reined in Misty. "Why it's been fenced in."

"Aye, last night. Douglas told me about your accident, said he'd had the bog fenced. You scared him half to death, and he doesn't scare easily. He thought he'd lost you."

Feeling all warm and loved, Catherine turned Misty towards home. "Let's go back. I want to thank him for the fence."

But she'd no time. When they returned to the manor, more guests had arrived, and Douglas was too busy to pay her much attention. Many were county people come from a fair distance to spend two nights at the manor. Introduced all round while still in her riding habit, she could not help but notice the admiring glances cast her way by both old and young men.

After tea, Beckwith carriages rolled to Winchfield station for guests arriving from London. Catherine avoided meeting them until just before dinner when drinks were served in the drawing room. A few of the new arrivals were familiar to Catherine from when her father was alive and she, a wealthy heiress. They'd dined at her home. One or two of the young men, now married, had sought her hand, but soon dropped her when they learned she had no dowry. They'd married well, she supposed, not recognizing their wives.

Lady Beckwith's story about Catherine's connection to the family was not questioned. Not even by a raised eyebrow or a quizzical glance.

After dinner, a tired-looking woman from one of the county families sought her out when the gentlemen retreated to the library for coffee and brandy, and the women to the music room.

"You are uncommonly pretty, Miss Hartleigh. My husband has an eye for a pretty girl like you. He tends to flirt, but do not take him seriously, it's just the way he is."

Catherine had not noticed her flirtatious husband. She'd been too preoccupied with thoughts of Douglas and Madeline, and trying to read their faces for hints of whether they'd broken their engagement or not.

Madeline, all charm and chatter, had a group of admiring women hanging on her every word. She gave no hint of a broken heart.

Catherine smiled. "Thank you for your concern. I'm not given to flirting so I'll pay no attention to your husband. Now tell me about your children. I heard you speak of them at dinner."

She loved children, but after hearing about eight perfect offspring, all wonderfully accomplished, she pleaded a headache, and escaped to her room before the men re-appeared.

Tomorrow was the party. Already the house thronged with people, and more to come. She wished it was all over, with Madeline back in London, and she'd have Douglas all to herself.

Bathed and in bed, Catherine lay awake for hours. She heard him coming along the hall, and was sorely tempted to find an excuse to speak with him. None came to mind. She thought about asking him to kiss her goodnight. But that would not do. That would keep her awake until dawn! His door opened and closed.

She surprised herself by sleeping the night through without waking once to think about Douglas. She'd asked Anna to bring a breakfast tray. Promptly at eight o'clock she knocked and entered.

"More guests have just arrived, Miss Hartleigh. I've to run back down and give the maids a hand."

"Off you go then." Catherine carried the tray out to the balcony. She'd while away the morning here. Ride after luncheon, and wait for the festivities to begin. Dancing was to start immediately after tea. A small orchestra from Winchester, expected by the morning train, would provide the music.

Catherine munched on some toast, and contemplated the extent of her party wardrobe. The blue gown she'd brought from London? She disliked the gown, and had not worn it since she'd come to the manor. Besides Madeline would be sure to recognize its unfashionable cut.

What then? Catherine set the tray down. Would she dare? Dare to wear her gypsy clothes? Smiling to herself, she dared, at least in the privacy of her room.

She tried on the colorful blouse over her shift but that didn't look right. Her shoulders had to be bare. Removing her shift, she slipped the blouse over her head, and let it dip over one shoulder.

Feeling very bold, she cinched the skirt around her waist, and gazed at herself in the Cheval glass. Next the gold earrings. Entranced with her new image, Catherine danced barefoot around the room.

What would Douglas think if she went barefoot? Would he kiss her?

Silly girl! Catherine scolded herself. Could she think of nothing else, but kissing Douglas? What if he and Madeline had patched up their differences? Her spirits sagged. Madeline and Douglas? She did not want to think about them. Not together.

The morning stole by. She changed into her gray companion dress for luncheon. It would have to do for tea as well. She made her way downstairs hoping for a chance to speak with Douglas. Searching around, she found the spacious downstairs rooms occupied by guests. The tables in the large formal dining room and the smaller dining room were laden with a magnificent array of food. Small tables had been set up in the ballroom.

Blewett paced through the guests, announcing luncheon. As gentlemen and ladies made their way through the dining rooms, footmen and maids offered them their choices. Since she was supposed to be part of the family, Catherine waited until the last guest had disappeared into the ballroom before she ventured in to survey the delicacies.

"Hello, Kate." She turned to find Douglas standing behind her, biting into a small, pickled crab apple. "Have a bite, but don't take too much, this is the last one."

Her heart dancing, she tried to nibble at the apple while he held it. "Let me hold it or I'll dribble down my dress."

"Promise not to eat it all."

"I promise." She giggled, and nipped at the apple. "Mmm, this is very good. What will you do if I eat all of it?"

"I will take you outside and..." He frowned and tilted his head. "And make you promise to ride with me this afternoon."

Without hesitating, Catherine, popped the last of the apple into her mouth, and ate every bit, seeds and all. "There. Now I must pay for my crime. I will ride with you."

Douglas grinned. "Fill up a plate, and come out on the terrace. I've hardly set eyes on you since yesterday morning."

Thinking she might die of happiness, Catherine filled her plate, found a small dish of the pickled apples at the far end of the table, and carried them outside. Although the April sun beamed across the terrace, a slight breeze cooled the air.

"Are you warm enough? Douglas asked. He sat beside her on the love seat. "I'll send one of the maids to fetch your shawl."

Warm enough? She tingled everywhere. Little fires flared down her skin straight into her heart. "I'm fine. Look what I have for us, pickled apples!"

Douglas set his plate on the table in front of them, leaned across, and kissed her. On the cheek. She turned to face him, hoping he'd kiss her properly.

"Wine, my lord?" A footman placed two glasses on the table.

"Thank you, Emmett. You may leave the bottle."

"Very good, milord."

Catherine waited until the footman was out of earshot. "Douglas, we can't drink a whole bottle of wine between us, not if I'm to ride this afternoon. I might take another tumble."

"Well, you'll not fall into the bog again. I've had it fenced to protect you, and my sheep from coming to a nasty end." The teasing smile left his eyes. "That bog is a hellish place, a real sinkhole, we should have enclosed it years ago. I might have lost you."

Compelled to do something, to make Douglas feel less responsible for her foolishness, Catherine rested her hand on his. "I endangered both of us. You could have gone down with me."

"Didn't give it a thought. I was not going to lose my companion."

"Your idiot companion." Catherine raised his hand to her cheek. "You called me that, along with a few choice oaths, but I forgive you because you saved my life." She kissed his palm. "Thank you."

Douglas shifted an inch or two away from her, and withdrew his hand. "Kate, there's something I have to tell you."

She knew what it was. He and Madeline had set a date for their wedding. She'd made a fool of herself again. Douglas was right, she was an idiot. What had possessed her to kiss his hand? Her appetite gone, she sipped some wine. "It's about you and Madeline, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's about her and you and me."

"Me? I've nothing to do with Madeline. When are you to wed?" Unable to sit still another minute, Catherine stood, and immediately regretted it. Her knees wobbled.

Dolly came charging up the terrace steps. "I hope I've not missed luncheon. Been out with the gardeners directing them where to set up for croquet. We'll have three games going, and two nets for shuttlecock. That'll keep everyone occupied this afternoon."

Catherine could not eat a bite. "Have mine, Dolly. I've not touched it. Are you riding with us?"

"Sorry. I'm in charge of games." He gazed at her then at Douglas.

"What's wrong with you two? This is supposed to be a party. You both have long faces more fit for a funeral than my welcome home."

Catherine waited for Douglas to give Dolly the news about his wedding, but he just sat there. She forced a smile. "Douglas should be happy. He and Madeline have decided on a date for their wedding."

"We have what?" Douglas shot out of the love seat, and stood nose to nose with her before she could say another word.

"Made your wedding plans?" Catherine squeaked, and backed away.

"And who told you that?" Douglas came after her.

"You did! You said you had something to tell me. I knew exactly what it was because Madeline came down for the party especially to make the final arrangements."

Douglas thrust his fingers through his hair. "So that's what you think, is it? Without me saying a word about weddings or the like, you knew exactly what I was going to say before I said it."

"Isn't that what you were going to say?" She swallowed hard.

"If you had stopped long enough to listen I would have told you that Madeline and I are no longer betrothed."

"You're not?" Was she supposed to say something? Like she was sorry to hear it, and hoped his heart was not broken, and she'd help mend it if it was.

Dolly burst out laughing. "Now that's all clear, I'm off to the dining room to cast my eye over the cakes. Coming Catherine?"

Feeling slightly numb, and definitely not in her right mind, Catherine let Dolly take her arm, and walk her off the terrace towards the dining room.

"He's not betrothed. Is that true?"

"I hope so. Douglas is too fine a man to waste his life with someone like Madeline."

Catherine stopped at the dining room door. "Excuse me, Dolly, I'm going back to speak to him."

Luncheon over, guests flowed from the ballroom to the terrace. Douglas moved among them, directing the more active ones to the croquet greens and the shuttlecock courts. A lushly curved young woman sidled up to him.

"Are you riding this afternoon?" She asked. "I'd very much like to join you."

Catherine had noticed her last night. She was very pretty, but a little plump. She'd feel squishy if he embraced her. A daughter of one of the county families, her breasts had swelled over the bodice of her gown, and whenever she breathed, they came close to popping out. When she, and other young ladies and their mammas, learned Douglas was eligible, they'd be setting their caps for handsome Lord Beckwith.

Catherine greeted Madeline and her parents, all remarkably cheerful. Madeline was on the arm of a distinguished looking gentleman whose name Catherine could not recollect. She'd met so many people. He had something to do with the government.

The curvaceous young woman stood directly in front of Douglas, her bosom displayed in all its glory in a low cut dress of rose silk.

Catherine drifted over to him, slid her arm through his, taking advantage of her status as an old friend of the Beckwith family. "Excuse me, Douglas. I'm sorry to interrupt, but when shall we be riding? I'm so looking forward to some exercise. All this wonderful food I've eaten is sure to make me plump."

He quirked one dark eyebrow, and patted her hand. "Dear Catherine, I'm sure I mentioned two o'clock, but you tend not to listen. A family failing, Emma. I have to remind her constantly about her bad habit of jumping to conclusions. Is that not so, Catherine?"

"Douglas, you never fail to remind me of my many faults, but I promise to do better. I'll meet you at the stables at two o'clock." Her heart soaring with happiness, she nodded to him, smiled at Emma, whose last name she'd forgotten, and sauntered off the terrace.

Douglas was not betrothed. She sang it inside her head, whistled it under breath and...

But what chance had she of winning him? She had no dowry. Nothing to offer. Only herself. His lady companion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Catherine sought the quiet of her room after tea to think about the day. She'd seen very little of Douglas except for those few brief moments on the terrace when she'd maneuvered Emma Charteris away from him. The afternoon ride, with just a few men, and the lovely Emma, had been refreshing, but Douglas had been too busy with his guests to pay particular attention to Catherine.

She'd expected something. What? He'd take her aside, declare his love, and make her an offer of marriage? Why did she think he loved her? Because he'd been shocked into saying so after rescuing her from the bog? Because he'd wanted to kiss her? There was no risk in kissing her since he and Madeline had parted company.

But what were a few stolen kisses? For her, they'd set her body afire, and she'd longed to stay in his arms forever. But for Douglas? Perhaps men were different. Perhaps a kiss or two meant nothing to him.

She sighed. Like it or not, she had to change her clothes, and take part in the festivities. No time to sit around and mope. There were young men aplenty who'd cast flirtatious glances her way. She'd not be a wallflower.

Catherine tried on her blue gown. It was definitely a wallflower gown, not to be compared with some of the day dresses worn by the female guests, especially the pink silk worn by Emma earlier. She imagined how beautiful the women would look in party gowns, and her in the dreary blue thing.

The blue would not do, but would she shock everyone by dressing as a gypsy? The bright colors would cheer her up. No bare feet though. She did not want her toes crushed by an awkward male partner.

Catherine tossed the blue gown aside. Tossed her shift aside. And transformed herself into a gypsy. She looped back her curls and secured them with three different colored ribbons. Gold hoops in her ears, she twirled in front of the Cheval glass, one shoulder enticingly bare, the gypsy shawl thrown carelessly over one arm.

Suddenly nervous, she paced the room. Dare she do this? She sucked in a deep breath. Why not? She'd nothing to lose. Douglas might even notice her.

Music drifted up through her open windows. The dancing had begun.

Head held high like a real gypsy she walked boldly along the hallway, past the armored knight and her courage almost failed.

She hesitated at the top of the staircase. Below, Douglas stood with a few guests, his back to her. As though sensing her presence, he turned. Like a sleepwalker, she floated down to him. He met her at the bottom step and held out his hand.

"Kate." Speechless, he feasted his eyes on her. His own beautiful Kate.

"Do you want me to change? Have I shocked you?"

Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it, lingered over her fingertips, and tempted to kiss her palm, thought he'd save that until later...later when he'd ask her to be his wife. Dolly had not approached him. Until he did, may the best man win...unless Kate loved his brother.

He didn't want to think about that while his glorious gypsy beauty stormed his heart.

"You are perfect. Every man will be asking you to dance, and the women will die of envy."

"Excuse me, Douglas." A hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned around. Geoffrey Charteris inclined his head, and smiled at Kate. "May I have this dance, Miss Hartleigh? You are a vision. Quite the most beautiful young lady at Dolly's party."

As graceful as any queen, Kate offered him her hand. He was Emma's brother. She'd ridden with him earlier. "Thank you, Mr. Charteris." He started to lead her away.

Although ready to dismember his old friend for interrupting his tete a tete with Kate, Douglas resisted temptation. "Promise to save a waltz for me, Catherine." My dearest Kate, he added under his breath.

She glanced over her shoulder, her deliciously bare shoulder. "Certainly, Douglas."

"By God, Douglas, your Miss Hartleigh is an appetizing morsel."

Perfect host or not, Douglas very nearly took his fists to Jack Tarnock. "I don't like your use of words, Jack, and I'll thank you not to refer to Miss Hartleigh in those terms again. Is that clear?"

Color rose in Jack's already flushed face. "Didn't mean any harm. She's a dashed pretty girl." He drained the wine in his glass. "Sorry if I offended you."

"Then we'll say no more about it." Leaving him behind, Douglas sauntered through the various reception rooms making sure drinks were served to those not dancing. A few played cards. Francis had captured an old acquaintance for a game of dominoes.

He found his mother sitting with a few friends in one of the ballroom alcoves. "Catherine has left her shawl with me. Doesn't she look splendid?"

"Yes, she is lovely."

His mother slanted her eyes at him. "She's having a wonderful time. See how Dolly looks at her. He sought her out the minute Geoffrey relinquished her, but Dolly has had to allow other young men to dance with her."

The small orchestra struck up a waltz, and Douglas pushed his way through the crowd to reach Kate. "May I have this dance?"

Her smile weakened his knees. Not good, when he had to try waltzing with one not so steady leg. She melted into his arms, her right hand snug in his. He'd once been a very good dancer, part of a gentleman's accomplishments. His mother had insisted he and Dolly learn what to do with their feet. She had taught them herself.

"Ready, Kate?" She swayed with him in time to the music, and he swept her into the waltz. His leg hurt like hell, and he didn't care. With Kate in his arms, nothing else mattered.

I've something to ask you." They did a wide turn around several dancers.

"Yes?" She gazed into his eyes, and he lost the beat, stumbled slightly, and willed himself not to lose the rhythm. If his damned leg gave out, he'd end up on the floor with Kate on top of him.

"Later. I'll ask you later. I can't talk, and dance at the same time."

Kate giggled. "Neither can I. I like the music to work its magic."

Too soon, the waltz ended, and Douglas escorted her to where several young ladies preened themselves at the edge of the dance floor waiting for partners. He bowed over her hand, and drifted a kiss over her warm skin. Kissing her bare shoulder would have been much more interesting. Maybe later. When she agreed to marry him.

Dolly strode up. "May I have the next dance, Miss Hartleigh? You are so ravishing in that outfit, I find you irresistible."

Douglas gritted his teeth. Damn Dolly, why didn't he speak plainly of his intentions. Well, he'd take the bull by the horns, and make his feelings plain to her later. One way or another, he had to know, and tonight was the night.

Miss Hartleigh is very unusual, Douglas." Emma Charteris flicked her fan shut, and tapped it against her bosom, leading his eyes to admire her splendid breasts. With a slight wriggle of her shoulders, she let her gown slide down just enough to expose a nipple to his startled gaze. And almost before he could react, she opened her fan, and covered her bare breast.

"I'm rather unusual, too, but you've never taken notice of me."

"Of course, I've taken notice of you. You're a beautiful young woman." He glanced around. The other girls had found partners and were dancing.

"Am I desirable?" She flicked the fan aside, a quick gesture for his eyes alone. Both her breasts were exposed.

He'd no desire to bed Emma, but he'd reacted to her, and she knew he'd reacted. Only a dead man would not, and he was anything but dead. Dancing with Kate had heated him. Emma had stoked the fire.

"Cover yourself before someone sees you. This is not the time or place to play seductive games."

"Where then?" She wriggled into her dress, and lowered the fan.

"Not here, Emma." He loosened his collar. From the corner of his eye, he saw her mother approach. Not in the mood to deal with Mrs. Charteris, he bowed to Emma, turned on his heel, and escaped outside to the terrace. Fairy lights glowed in the dark illuminating the garden paths. Couples walked arm in arm. Music drifted from the house. It was a pretty evening. One or two stars appeared in the sky.

Douglas savored the quiet and strolled down one of the paths. Ahead, a couple, silhouetted against the lights, embraced. Golden hair gleaming, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed the man.

Dolly and Kate?

Kate kissing Dolly?

Douglas strove to calm the turmoil twisting his heart. Kate had kissed him. Several times. Had said she loved him. Why, when she did not mean it? Was she nothing but a scheming tease?

He strode towards them. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

"Douglas, you'll never guess. Dolly has something to tell you." Treacherous Kate smiled at him.

He clasped Dolly's hand. "As head of the house, I expected you to speak to me first, but I'll not stand in the way of your happiness. Shall I announce your intentions during the party?"

He paused, and looked hard at Kate. "Perhaps we'd best wait until all the family members have been informed. What do you think?"

A puzzled frown creased her brow. "That would be best, but that is up to you."

Dolly interrupted. "Sorry I didn't speak to you earlier, I've only just made up my mind, and Catherine is delighted."

"I'm sure she is. What young lady would not be delighted to win your affection." He bowed over her hand, and nodded at his brother. "I must return to our guests. I've promised to dance with Emma."

Catherine watched him limp down the path. His leg was not up to dancing reels, and if he intended to dance, she wanted to be in his arms. Emma's revealing gown left nothing to the imagination. There was a lot of Emma on show.

"He did not seem very pleased to hear your news."

Dolly shrugged. "He might have been put out because I'd not confided him earlier about my plan to join her in Canada."

Catherine linked her arm in his to return to the house. "Thank you for telling me. Little wonder you fell in love with her, she is so beautiful."

"She's promised to be my wife. Legally or not, we'll be together."

Catherine sighed. "I knew something had happened between you and Riena when she was here. Sparks crackled in the air when you looked at each other. I could feel it."

Dolly escorted her into the ballroom, bowed and excused himself. "I must share my dancing talents with some of mother's friends. They're casting glances in my direction. Douglas has neglected them."

Catherine could not see Douglas and Emma among the dancers. Feeling thirsty, she made her way to the dining room where a cold supper had been laid out. As she passed the open door of Douglas's study, she heard his voice.

"You've teased me enough."

"Kiss them, Douglas. I know you want to. I'll lower my dress. I...ah!" A moaning cry escaped from the woman.

Emma Charteris!

Douglas was kissing Emma's breasts! A red haze blinded Catherine.

Douglas!

Her Douglas.

She grasped the door handle. "At least have the decency to close the door."

And slammed it.

Hard.

Holding herself together against the storm tearing her apart, Catherine passed through the guests, greeted this one and that, and her back straight, made her way up to her room.

Pain wracked her. Douglas did not love her. He'd been toying with her, pretending she meant something to him, and all the while...all the while he'd been waiting for Emma to come to the party. To make love to her.

Head in her hands, she slumped in a chair. She'd made such a fool of herself, and like a silly ninny she'd simpered when he'd said how beautiful she looked in her gypsy clothes. She could not stay. Not now. She'd leave a note for Lady Beckwith asking for Anna to pack her trunk, and have it sent on to London.

Time dragged on. Knowing sleep was out of the question, Catherine changed into her gray dress, and pulled on her stout walking shoes. Her clock chimed one.

Two.

And still she'd not heard Douglas pass by her door. He'd taken Emma to bed!

Angrier than she'd ever been in her life, she paced the floor, vowing vengeance. If only she had Riena to cast a spell. She'd haunt him with crows. Circling crows, their raucous cries deafening him whenever he ventured outdoors.

But Riena would not do such an evil thing. Nor could she. And she'd not give him the satisfaction of knowing how he'd wounded her.

At first light, Catherine put on her coat and bonnet, and made her way through the silent house to start the long trek to Winchfield. Heavy clouds darkened the sky by the time she reached the station. She'd enough money in her purse for a ticket to London, but would have to walk home from Waterloo.

An early train rattled in, and screeched to a stop. She huddled in a corner of a third class carriage. In a few hours she'd be safe. Safe from more hurt.

If only she'd enough money for a passage to Australia or Canada or Timbuktu, for that matter. She'd escape from England, as far away as possible from Lord Beckwith.

When she arrived at Waterloo, a noisy throng crowded the platform, jostling her this way and that. A drizzling rain greeted her when she left the station. With misery dogging her footsteps, Catherine set out for home. Bessie answered her knock.

"Why, Miss Catherine, whatever are you doing here?" She stepped aside to let Catherine enter.

"Is my mother home?"

"Indeed. Her Ladyship is in the small parlor having a cup of tea. Let me have your coat and bonnet. I'll dry your coat in the kitchen. Now run along, and warm yourself by the parlor fire. I'll fetch a fresh pot of tea."

Catherine heaved a sigh, walked slowly to the parlor, and stealing herself for what was to come, stepped inside. "I've come home, mother." And promptly burst into tears.

"Catherine? Is it you?" Her mother had been dozing in her chair. "Whatever is wrong?"

"I've left Beckwith Manor. I can't stay there any longer." She dropped to her knees by her mother's chair. "I had to come home."

"You're not in trouble, are you?"

"No. I cannot stay there."

"But Catherine, I was to spend the summer at the manor. I've told all my friends."

Catherine stood. Not a glimmer of sympathy from her mother. "I'm sorry about your plans, but we'll be spending the summer here in London."

"Tell me what's driven you to this. I'll write to Lady Beckwith and explain."

"Please don't. There's nothing to explain." She walked to the window, and stared out at the dreary rain.

Bessie bustled in with a tray. "What do you think, Miss Catherine? Your brother is returning to England. Your mother had a letter just yesterday, didn't you, milady?"

Catherine whirled around. "Is he really coming home? What did he say?"

"Do stop asking questions. You come running home for no reason whatsoever, and I'm in such a state I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels." She frowned at Catherine. "He's returning to London within the month. He sent me a bank draft for twenty pounds. I planned to take it to the bank to-day."

"Then you must let me have some of the money. You must! You'll not miss me once Johnny comes home. I'm going to book passage on a ship to Canada."

Douglas staggered to his room, and fully clothed, fell into bed. God he felt awful. He'd wakened in his study, a foul taste in his mouth. What had he been doing with Emma? Fondling her breasts? That he remembered.

Then Kate had slammed the door. She'd sounded madder than hell. What did it matter to her whom he bedded? But he'd not bedded Emma. Kate's angry voice had shocked sense into him. He'd apologized to Emma, and escorted her to the ballroom. Later when his guests began straggling up to their rooms, he holed up in his study, and finished the brandy in the decanter.

"My lord." Pickens tapped him on the shoulder.

"Go away." A throbbing headache battered his skull.

"Your mother has asked me to wake you, milord."

Douglas forced his eyes open. "Why? What time is it?"

"Almost ten o'clock."

Thinking he might die on the spot if he moved too quickly, Douglas sat up and immediately regretted it. "I'm sick, Pickens. I'm going to die."

"Yes, milord. You are a bit green about the gills."

Slowly, with Pickens' help, Douglas undressed, and tottered to the bathroom. With a reasonably steady hand, he shaved without drawing blood. As consciousness pushed into his aching head, Kate's betrothal to Dolly added to his woes.

"I've some coffee for you, milord."

Clothed, and in what passed for his right mind, Douglas drank two cups, and knew he'd live. Leaving his suite, he glanced at Kate's bedroom door. She'd be downstairs with Dolly, all happy smiles. His mother would be delighted.

The hall thronged with departing guests. Sheltering from the rain under the portico, Dolly and his mother were seeing them off. Forcing himself to be cheerful, Douglas joined them.

"You've missed the London people. They've just been driven to Winchfield to catch the train." His mother waved at a departing carriage. "Catherine did not come down for breakfast. I hope she's not ill."

"I expect she's tired from so much excitement." Douglas said, nodding at friends, wishing them well, and trying not to think about Kate. Perhaps she'd spent the night in Dolly's bed.

"I lost sight of her after we came in from the garden. Never had another chance to dance with her." Dolly bestowed a kiss on old Mrs. Wilson.

"I suppose you've told mother about your betrothal to Catherine."

Dolly frowned. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not betrothed to Catherine. Where did you get that damn fool notion?"

Hammers thudded in Douglas's temples. "I saw you kissing her in the garden, and she said you were betrothed."

Dolly propelled Douglas down the steps and force-marched him away from the house. Rain drenched them.

"Have you lost your mind? Catherine said nothing about being betrothed. She and I were talking about Riena."

"But she kissed you."

"You know how Catherine is. She was so happy to hear about Riena and me, she kissed me."

"You and Riena?"

"I'm in love with her. We'll marry in Victoria."

"Then, Kate...Catherine doesn't love you?"

"God in heaven." Dolly blinked rain from his eyes. "She's in love with you. Only a blind man would fail to see it."

"Then where is she?" Douglas grabbed Dolly's arm. "I've got to see her. Tell her I love her. Ask her to marry me." In a limping run, hanging on to his brother, Douglas reached the house, waved at the last few guests, and headed upstairs.

"Kate!" He banged at her door. Anna flung it open.

"My lord, Miss Hartleigh is not here. Her bed's not slept in. There's a note pinned to her pillow, addressed to your mother."

"Let me have it." His hands shaking, Douglas unfolded the paper. Dear Lady Beckwith. I'm sorry to leave in such a hurry. Please have Anna pack my trunk and send it to my home in London. Thank you for being so kind to me. Catherine Hartleigh.

What must she think of him? She'd seen him in the study with Emma. Sick at heart for wounding his beloved Kate, Douglas limped across to his rooms, and stared out the window into the rain. She'd left him.

Dolly strode into the room. "Well, has she forgiven you for being such an idiot?"

Douglas handed him the note. "She's gone. Must have..." He didn't want to think what he'd done to her. "She must have walked to Winchfield."

"Well, are you going after her or not?"

"She'll never want to see me again."

"Is this my big, bold brother giving up so soon? Get yourself to London, and beg her forgiveness. I'll wager, Catherine is not one to bear a grudge." He shook Douglas. "Change your clothes. You're wet. Have Pickens pack a small valise. I'll drive you to Winchfield to catch the next train."

A glimmer of hope brightened Douglas's wretched brain then promptly disappeared. "The late afternoon train will reach London too late for me to call on her."

"Then stay overnight and see her in the morning."

The glimmer of hope beamed again. "The morning will be better when she's not tired." He gave the note to Dolly and a rueful smile touched his lips. "Give this to mother. Explain what's happened. She's always wanted a daughter. Tell her I'm going to marry Kate." If she'll have me.

Catherine's head ached from listening to her mother's complaints about her behavior.

"You gave me every reason to suppose you were happy at Beckwith Manor. You leave for no reason I can discern, and now have some ridiculous notion about going abroad. You'll never make a good marriage carrying on like this. I really do not know what to do with you."

At least her mother had been persuaded to part with ten pounds. Likely glad to be rid of her headstrong daughter.

If a bride ship were leaving within the next week or so, she'd outfit herself for the journey, and present herself to the authorities charged with sending young women to Victoria.

"Mother, I'm going down to the docks to see what ships are sailing."

Lady Jane pursed her lips. "You'll be the death of me. Never had a mother so much to put up with. First Johnny, now you. Why can't you be like other young ladies?"

With her mother's words ringing in her ears, Catherine slipped from the house, and engaged a hackney to take her to the dock area. Frightened at being on her own in the rough and tumble of the docks, she paid the hackney driver an extra shilling to wait for her.

"I'll not be more than thirty minutes." That should give her time to scan the shipping notices.

Dodging between men loaded down with boxes on their backs, stepping aside to avoid swaggering seamen with young women clinging to their arms, Catherine wished she'd not come. The noise, shouts, and leering glances of sweaty stevedores set her teeth on edge.

Sidling as close as possible to the sheds with shipping notices tacked to them, she stopped in front of one offering assisted passage to Canada.

"Hello, Kate."

She whirled around. "What...?" Eyes closed she sagged against the weather-beaten boards behind her. He wasn't there. Couldn't be there. But only Douglas called her Kate. No one else.

"Kate, will you marry me."

Her eyes snapped open. Douglas stood right in front of her asking her to marry him. "How did you know where to find me, and why do you want to marry me?"

He clasped her hands and drew her into his arms. "I called at your home. Your mother told me where you'd gone." He drifted a kiss across her lips. "I love you, Kate. Will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?"

"Forgive me for making a fool of myself with Emma Charteris. I thought you loved Dolly and...I didn't know what I was doing. I thought I'd lost you."

Bewildered at his talk about her loving Dolly, she tried to focus her thoughts. One thing she had to know. Had to ask the one question she did not want to ask, but had to know the answer. "Did you take Emma to bed and make love to her?"

Douglas cupped her face in his hands and gazed into her eyes. "No. The only woman I'll ever make love to is you, my own Kate. Say you'll be my wife."

She threw her arms around his neck, and parted her lips for his kiss. "I love you." She murmured against his mouth. Locked in his arms, he kissed her. Not once. Over and over until Catherine's head spun in dizzying circles.

Loud clapping startled her. She and Douglas swung around.

Grinning dock workers surrounded them. Blushes rose hot and furious up her throat.

One tattooed giant slapped his thigh. "Congratulations, guv'ner. Your lady's a real beauty, she is. Going to wed, are you?"

Douglas recovered quickly and bowed. "Thank you. We've set the date for early May. Is that not so, my love?"

Catherine smothered a giggle. "Yes, indeed. Now we'd best be on our way, and let these gentlemen return to work."

Douglas handed a few pound notes to the tattooed giant. "Buy a round of beer for your mates."

Roaring with laughter, they tossed their caps in the air, and returned to their work.

Douglas tucked Catherine's arm in his, and walked her away from the docks. "Wait a moment." She paused at the curb where the Beckwith carriage awaited them. "Your mother has been kindness itself to me, but will she be happy having me as a daughter?"

The coachman lowered the step and opened the door. Douglas handed Catherine into the carriage and joined her on the thickly padded red velvet seat. "Mother is delighted. Francis is delighted. Pickens is delighted. Mrs. Paige is delighted. Your maid, Anna, is delighted. You will be welcomed back with open arms, but first we must call upon your mother. I will ask her for your hand in marriage. Do you think she'll agree?"

Catherine suppressed a giggle. "I am sure she will agree, and will have the announcement in The Times within days. She had given up on finding me a suitable husband especially after I ruined my reputation by accepting paid employment..."

"...As my lady companion." He murmured into her ear.

The coachman closed the door, and Douglas drew the curtain across the window. "Now, my dear lady companion, I shall kiss you the way I have always wanted to kiss you."

Catherine melted into his arms.

EPILOGUE

Douglas, Lord Beckwith, Earl of Winchfield and Catherine Hartleigh, only daughter of Lady Jane Hartleigh and the late George Hartleigh were married on May 5th, 1855, at St. Margaret's Church, London.

Their first child, a girl, was born on June 10, 1856. The child was christened Riena Jane Marie-Louise Delacroix, and will be known as Lady Riena.