Chapter 35

"Oh, Cathy," Beatrice said, gazing at her friend, blinking rapidly. "What has happened to you? Where have you been?"

Catherine blushed, taking a sip of her champagne. She and her best friend were standing at the edge of the marquee, talking quietly together. She had greeted Oliver and Patrick—she had even greeted Patrick's wife in a friendly manner, even though the lady had stared at her quite coolly—but she had quickly dragged Beatrice away from the crowd. She needed to talk to Bea privately for a moment.

"What do you mean?" Catherine laughed. "I did not leave the country, Bea. Or even the city. I have been at our townhouse in London this whole time."

Beatrice shook her head impatiently. "You know what I mean," she pressed, fixing her friend with a stern look. "I have not seen hide nor hair of you since the Dowager Duchess' ball. What have you been doing?"

Catherine took another sip of her champagne, gazing at her friend coyly. "My husband and I have been getting to know one another better," she replied then paused. "Much, much better."

Beatrice gasped, grabbing her arm and squeezing it so tightly that Catherine yelped.

"Are you saying what I think you are saying?"

Catherine smiled, looking down at the ground. "Yes, I believe that I am," she replied. She looked around, lowering her voice. "I am no longer a maiden, Bea."

"Oh!" Beatrice put a hand to her face, looking stunned. "I knew it! I could just tell that something had happened. You have this glow about you that I have never seen before." She lowered her voice, as well. "What is it like?"

Catherine sighed. How could she put into the words the ecstasy that she felt when she made love with her husband? The shattering joy that she had never known existed? Was it even proper to talk about such things with Beatrice, considering her friend was an unmarried lady?

"It is… unbelievable," she replied eventually, her heart skipping a beat. "Being so close to another person that you forget where you end and they begin is the most amazing experience." She hesitated. "But it must be done with the right man, Bea. I really do not think I could feel this way with any gentleman. There has to be that passion."

Beatrice blinked. "You were so dedicated to keeping him at bay, Cathy," she reminded her in a low voice. "You even managed to convince me that you could do it, even though I could see how strongly he affected you."

Catherine sighed again. "I wanted to keep him at bay so badly," she said slowly. "It seemed imperative. But the passion grew stronger than the fear. I had to take the risk."

"And now?" Beatrice stared at her. "Have you resolved those fears at last?"

Catherine bit her lip. She took a long sip of champagne before she turned back to her friend. "I must admit that the fears are still there," she began. "I do not know if they will ever vanish. They are so ingrained in me that it is hard to let them go, no matter how much I try."

Beatrice nodded. "You love him, then? You have fallen in love with him?"

Catherine's heart skipped a beat. "Yes," she admitted, shivering. "God help me, but I love him." She hesitated. "I still do not know how he feels about me though, Bea. He desires me, he likes me, he admires me… but I do not know if he loves me in the same way."

There. She had said it. It felt good to admit her love for him, but also to voice her fear that he could never feel the same way about her. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

"Oh, Cathy," Beatrice breathed, gazing at her. "I am sure he does! Or if he does not realize it yet, he will, in time. He cannot take his eyes off you. He is definitely infatuated with you."

Catherine frowned. It wasn't quite the reassurance that she needed. She had been hoping that her friend would tell her that Thomas was definitely in love with her, that it was so obvious as to be glaring, and that she had no need to worry about it at all.

Her frown deepened. Of course, Beatrice could not give her that reassurance. Her friend didn't know if Thomas truly loved her any more than Catherine did. The only person who could tell her the truth was him.

But she knew she could never ask him. She would surely die if he stuttered and couldn't look her in the eye before changing the subject. That would be the ultimate humiliation.

"Beatrice!"

They both jumped, swinging around. The Dowager Countess of Afferton was standing there, looking fearsome as always. Catherine's eyes were drawn to the lady's headdress—a large ostrich feather, dyed purple, that bobbed and swayed in the slight breeze.

Catherine inclined her head. The Dowager Countess swept into a curtsey, but her face was tight when she rose. Catherine knew that the old lady hated curtseying to her.

"What is it, Mama?" Beatrice asked in a tentative voice. "Cathy and I were just catching up…"

"I need you to come with me," old Lady Afferton interjected, as if her daughter hadn't even spoken. "There is a gentleman who is eager to make your acquaintance."

"Oh, Mama," Beatrice said, her face dropping. "Please, can I just talk with my friends for a while without this incessant matchmaking?"

The Dowager Countess looked affronted. "It is not seemly to talk in such a manner," she chided in a tight voice. "And you must do what you are told, Beatrice. I am your mother, and I want you to come with me." She glared at her daughter.

"I might go and talk to Patrick," Catherine said quickly. "We can catch up again later, Bea."

Beatrice nodded, looking sad.

Catherine felt a pang of pity for her. Old Lady Afferton was relentless in her efforts to find her daughter a husband. And Catherine knew it was only sheer luck that she had escaped such a fate. Her own mother had been exactly like Lady Afferton, after all.

She felt a pang of guilt, thinking about her late mother like that, but it was the truth.

The Dowager Countess dragged her daughter away without another word, leading her to another aged member of the ton. Catherine took a deep breath before approaching Patrick, who was standing on the edge of the marquee, sipping champagne.

"How are you, Patrick?" she asked in a guarded way, remembering the recent tension between them.

Patrick had been acting decidedly odd since she had gotten married. She couldn't deny the truth of that either.

"Cathy," he said, followed by a pained sigh. He gazed at her steadily. "I fear you are ignoring me."

She felt a pang of irritation. "I have approached you to talk with you," she pointed out, trying to keep her voice even. "How is that ignoring you?"

He smiled slightly. "It is kind of you to talk to an old friend. You have become different since you married him."

"Him?" She raised her chin. "I take it you mean His Grace, the Duke of Newden? My husband?"

He snorted. "Oh, yes, the Duke of Newden himself." He took a long sip of his champagne. "You have seen who he is talking with again, haven't you?" He looked over her shoulder.

Catherine turned around. Thomas was on the other side of the lawn with Kenneth, his best friend, and his other friend, the Duke of Oakdale, who she had met at the opera. And there were two ladies with the group as well. One of them she did not recognize, but she knew the other one only too well.

Lady Isabella Lyndon. Again.

Her stomach lurched. Hastily, she turned back to Patrick.

"What about it?" She knew her voice had an edge to it. "He can speak with whomever he likes. It is a party. We are here to socialize, Patrick."

Patrick laughed again. It wasn't a pleasant sound. He took a step closer to her, staring at her in a quizzical way.

"Surely you realize by now that he is having an affair with Lady Isabella?" His voice was low and urgent. "I did not wish to have to spell it out to you quite so blatantly, but you are being quite obtuse, Cathy."

"What?" She stared at him, her mouth dropping. "You are lying! You do not know any such thing!"

He took a step closer and took her elbow quite firmly, before leaning down and whispering furiously, "I am not lying. It is an open secret in certain circles. I kept my ears to the ground, made a few enquiries, and discovered the truth." He paused. "He is making a fool of you, Cathy. And you always knew he would. He has always had the reputation of a rake. Why are you so shocked?"

Catherine gaped at him. Her mind was whirling. She couldn't think clearly. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"No," she stammered. "No…"

"Yes," he insisted in a low voice. "For the love of God, Cathy, why are you defending him? No matter what he says to you, he is having an affair with that lady. Why else do you think she follows him everywhere like a pet dog?"

Catherine shook her head vehemently. But, to her horror, his words were making sense to her.

She had wondered herself why Lady Isabella always seemed to pop up wherever they went. She had seen them together in the village near Newden Estate. She had seen them on Bond Street. At the Dowager Duchess's ball. At the opera. And now, here she was again, reappearing like the bad penny.

It wasn't coincidence. It was deliberate. Their affair was secret, of course, but that didn't mean that Lady Isabella accepted that. She was clearly in love with Thomas and wanted to be near him whenever she could.

The lovers were hiding in plain sight.

Catherine tried to turn away, but Patrick gripped her arm tighter, leaning even closer to her face. He was so close that she could see the stubble on his chin and the slight sheen of sweat on his face.

"You should leave him," he whispered. "You should pack your belongings and go. It will not get better, Cathy. Once he tires of Lady Isabella, he will take another lover and then another. I guarantee it."

"No," Catherine moaned. "No…"

"Yes," Patrick hissed with a look of intense frustration on his face. "Why will you not believe me? You knew his reputation when you married him. As I said then, a leopard does not change its spots. I tried to warn you, but you would not listen."

Suddenly, she flung his hand off her arm, taking a step back. She was breathing heavily, looking around, not knowing what to do, only that she needed to get away from Patrick and from everyone.

Run. Run now.

She turned around, listening to her inner voice, and pushed through the crowd, looking around desperately. Her eyes landed on the maze at the very far end of the grounds. There was no one there at all.

She hiked up the skirt of her gown and took off. Her lungs were burning, but she was unable to stop. The urge to escape was so strong that she couldn't think about anything else. She didn't care if people were looking at her, wondering what on earth she was doing. She simply did not care.

He lied to me. He is just like my father. I was a fool to believe him when he told me he would never do that to me. And I was a fool to fall in love with him.