Chapter Three

Catherine drew up her stockings and fastened them with a ribbon just above her knee. Despite the fire in the hearth, the room was chilly, and after her attempted foray outdoors she was eager to get dressed. Maggie had informed her that breakfast was being served downstairs in a private parlor. Her maid’s visit to the stables had been well spent, and she was able to share with her mistress that there were several guests taking shelter at the inn.

Maggie ticked them off on imaginary fingers as she knelt to slide on Catherine’s slippers. “You, Viscount Albury, Mr. and Mrs. Fotheringham and their child, Mr. Querol and his niece.”

“Who was the man you were gossiping with?” Catherine had briefly seen the neatly-dressed man with the battered face before he left to seek out his master.

“That’s Dodds,” she said, with a grin. “A bit of a head turner, isn’t he?”

Catherine wasn’t sure that was the right description for a man with a broken nose, but perhaps he had hidden depths. Maggie obviously preferred Dodds to other options—she had forsaken the groom who had first caught her eye.

“He’s Albury’s man,” Maggie went on. “The other guests don’t have the luxury of help, so they’ll be relying on the staff at the inn. And I think the inn is shorthanded because the weather has kept some of them at home.”

“It may only be a short stay,” Catherine said bracingly, although she didn’t really believe it. Last night when they had sought shelter at The White Rose from the howling winds and thick sheets of snow, it had felt as though they would be buried alive. The elements had quietened now, but the damage had already been done.

Maggie shot her a sideways look. “Viscount Albury is a fine-looking fellow. Have you met him? In London I mean.”

Catherine smoothed down her skirts. “I’ve met him. In fact, Winstanton warned me against him.”

Maggie thought that was funny. “Probably jealous. Albury’s the sort of man who knows what he’s doing when it comes to the ladies. They’re lining up for a night in his bed. At least that’s what Dodds told me.”

Catherine said nothing. She was remembering the way the viscount’s strikingly pale blue eyes had plotted her curves and the feel of his large hands pressed to her nearly naked skin. The sensations he had stirred up hadn’t gone away, and she wanted to squeeze her thighs together to ease the ache inside.

“You deserve a bit of fun,” Maggie said, as she arranged a cashmere shawl about Catherine’s shoulders. She turned her mistress toward the speckled mirror. “There, how could he resist?”

Catherine stared back at herself. Her looks had been her fortune when she was nineteen and her mother brought her three daughters to London to tempt wealthy gentlemen into marriage. They had succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. Catherine had married the Duke of Winstanton, which was considered an astounding accomplishment for a young, penniless woman of little importance. Astounding, it might have been, but apart from her son, the marriage had brought her no happiness, no joy, and certainly no pleasure.

“Do you think he’d be interested?” Her stomach felt full of butterflies.

Maggie took her by the shoulders and stared into her reflection’s eyes. “Of course he would! Trapped here in the middle of nowhere, you’ll be the perfect distraction. Flirt with him. A man like that is always ready for a flirtation. Enjoy yourself... for once,” she added under her breath.

That was always Maggie’s refrain: Enjoy yourself. And her maid had done so on numerous occasions. She did not believe in waiting for an invitation to a lover’s bed. What’s the point of dilly-dallying? Speak up, tell him what you want, or it will never happen.

“This is the chance you’ve been waiting for,” she went on now. “Albury is perfect for a night or two of debauchery. And once you realize how uncomplicated it can be, you can look around for someone more permanent. Your new footman at Winstanton, for instance, he’s a handsome devil.”

No, thank you.Maggie had probably already sampled him. But she was right when she said Albury looked like he knew what he was doing when it came to bed sport. She was a widow and he was a bachelor, and they would be hurting no one. Who was there to know or care? She could travel on to her estate and never see him again, and if she did happen to cross his path, she could smile enigmatically and walk on. One thing she had learned from her sister Sophia—in the polite world, if one was discreet, one could do as one pleased behind closed doors.

A night in Albury’s arms, his soft lips against hers, and his tall, strong body pressing her down into the mattress. She had dreamed of it for so long, she could not bear to let this opportunity pass her by simply because she was a little bit anxious.

“I’ll do it.” She smiled gamely at Maggie, and her maid grinned back.

Then Maggie’s grin faded and her grey eyes were suddenly serious. “Although, it would be a mistake to believe yourself in love with him, because he will never love you. He is the sort who chooses a lady, beds her, and then walks away.”

Catherine knew her maid thought her too soft-hearted, but she wasn’t a fool. It was obvious Albury wasn’t the sort of man any woman should fall in love with.

“There is no fear of me doing that,” she said with complete confidence.

Satisfied with her appearance, Catherine went downstairs to the private parlor. As she lingered outside the door, the memory of the viscount’s warm hands on her returned in full force, and with it the fire in his eyes as he mapped her body through the thin nightdress. Her skin tingled, and hot blood coursed through her veins. It was a reminder that despite her solitary existence she was a young woman, one who longed for the sort of gratification others took for granted. Maggie was right, she needed to speak up and tell Albury exactly what she wanted.

She opened the door.

The room was warm and a little stuffy. A fire roared in the fireplace and the small panes in the window were fogged from the cold air outside while the head of an animal with antlers overlooked the scene from its position above the mantle. The parlor consisted of one large rectangular table and a smaller round one, and the former was already occupied with guests. It appeared that everyone wanted to partake of a hearty breakfast despite having nowhere to go.

A loud, overbearing voice drew her attention to a red-faced, frowning man who was complaining to a serving maid and pointing at his plate, while the buxom younger woman beside him stared at her lap in what could have been embarrassment. Or, Catherine thought, noting the curl of her lips, amusement. A couple with a child sat conversing quietly over their meal. The child, a boy, had a bored droop to his mouth but when he saw Catherine enter the room, he perked up and gave her a grin.

He reminded her painfully of Jack as she smiled back, at the same time asking herself: Where was Albury? Another glance about the parlor showed her that she had been right the first time—Albury wasn’t here. Disappointment washed over her, but she lifted her chin and refused to let it sway her. Now she had made up her mind, she wanted to act immediately.

As Catherine made her way into the room, the others introduced themselves. The complaining gentleman and his younger companion were Mr. Querol and Anthea Querol, his niece, traveling to Scotland. Although Catherine had her doubts. There was something arch about Miss Querol’s smile, and something nervous about the way her uncle cleared his throat and tucked his napkin into the top of his waistcoat when he introduced her.

The family of three were the Fotheringhams, and their son’s name was Benny. “Benjamin actually,” he said importantly. “Only my family and friends call me Benny. You can, too, if you like.”

“Benny,” whispered his mother, with an anxious glance at Catherine.

“It would be my privilege to call you Benny,” she assured him gravely. “I have a son, too, not much older than you, and his name is Alfred Algernon Jonathon, but we call him Jack.”

“Is he here?” Benny looked about hopefully. “We could make a snowman together.”

“No, he’s not,” Catherine tried to keep her smile. “He’s at home.”

There wasn’t time for more. The serving maid was quick to direct her to the smaller table, and poured her a cup of coffee, placing the cream close by. She promised that Catherine’s meal would be with her directly but had barely left the room when the door opened again and a tall fair-haired gentleman stood surveying the room.

Sebastian, Viscount Albury, had changed from his outdoor clothes into a brown jacket over a white shirt, the necktie casually knotted about his throat. Fawn pantaloons and boots polished to a mirror shine completed his outfit. He wore his fashionable clothing well, and he had a comfortable charm that, despite his title and breeding, allowed him to fit into any situation with ease.

Albury was looking about him in much the same way Catherine had done, and when his gaze found her, those blue eyes narrowed with satisfaction. With nods and smiles to the other guests, he made his way unhesitatingly to her side.

“So you are the duchess everyone is whispering about?” he said in a low, teasing voice, as he sat down. He had shaved, the stubble she had noticed earlier was gone, and his skin was smooth. Catherine wanted to nuzzle against him like a cat.

Those butterflies in her stomach were now flitting about in other parts of her body. She smiled as she pretended to busy herself arranging the napkin on her lap. “I don’t know why everyone is whispering about me. But yes, I am the Dowager Duchess of Winstanton.”

“We have met.”

She looked up with pleased surprise. “You remembered?”

“You were about to be married to Winstanton. I thought it an unfortunate choice.” There was a pinch between his fair brows.

Catherine didn’t know what to say. She tried a smile, but his eyes were cataloguing her features. She was used to being stared at, but there was something about Albury’s focus that was different. His gaze remained on her lips for longer than was polite before his eyes returned to hers with heat shimmering in their depths.

Her voice had a breathless quality, as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. “We should not speak ill of the dead.”

“My condolences, although Winstanton must have been of quite an advanced age.” He cocked an eyebrow.

Was he implying something about the disparity in their ages? He looked innocent enough, but she felt a prickle at the back of her neck. He probably thought her a fortune hunter, and he would be right. Her mother had set her daughters before the gentlemen of the ton like sweets in a confectioner’s shop.

“You are traveling to Winstanton?” he said, when she did not speak. He was still watching her, this time like a puzzle he was trying to solve. “It is not far from my father’s estate, but they were never friends. The duke was not a gregarious man.”

“He was a scholar. A collector.” And Catherine had been his prize exhibit in that grim, walled fortress.

“I remember. I would have thought you’d return to live in London as quickly as possible now you are a widow. Surely there is nothing to keep you at Winstanton?” His hand was resting on the table, his long fingers half curled, one of them tapping upon the surface.

Catherine wasn’t about to tell him the details of her husband’s will. “There are reasons why I must remain there.”

“It seems cruel to keep a beautiful woman locked away like that. I thought so when we first met, and I still do. It must be a lonely life. Do you not crave... company?”

He had moved closer to her, keeping their conversation private, and Catherine could see the question in his eyes. This was the moment. She took a steadying breath.

But before she could speak, the servant returned with their meals. Flustered, she agreed to the addition of toast, and then there was the business of buttering it, and pouring tea for Albury and more coffee for her.

Finally, the girl left them alone again but perhaps Catherine’s moment had passed, because when Albury next spoke it was to offer mere polite chitchat.

“You have sisters. I am acquainted with one of them. Sophia.”

Catherine swallowed her impatience and made herself smile. “Everyone who is anyone in London knows Sophia.”

“And you have another sister?”

“Ellis. She is the youngest.”

He had remembered the full story now—she could see it in the speculative look he sent her—and maybe he no longer wanted to discuss her craving for company. “And the three of you are all duchesses?” His mouth gave a wry twist. Fortune hunters, mercenaries, opportunists, adventuresses, grubbers... They were just some of the names they had been called.

“Once I married the duke, our mother decided my two sisters must also marry dukes.”

“A determined woman. Did you have no say in this?”

Catherine didn’t want to talk about the past. At the time it had seemed like a dream for the poor girl she had been, until it became a nightmare. Some people found the thought titillating—a young girl and a much older husband—and if Albury was one of them, then perhaps she should rethink her plan.

“I have offended you,” he said, his deep voice apologetic. “It was not my intention.”

Her voice was cool. “I am not offended.”

“I don’t care who you married, Catherine, and I am selfish enough to be pleased about your widowed state.” The mischievous twist to his mouth was all the warning she had. “Perhaps you know of my reputation? I would think a beautiful woman, locked away in that hideous castle, might want to take advantage of my expertise.”

Startled, hopeful, her eyes met his. There was understanding in them rather than derision. Catherine licked suddenly dry lips, and his pupils flared. Desire. Oh yes, Albury wanted her.

“You are right,” she began, her voice too low to be heard by anyone but him. Her heart was beating furiously. “I am in dire need of your... expertise, Viscount. Can we discuss this further? The two of us. Alone.”

He studied her in silence and then he smiled, his teeth white and straight. “I would very much like that, Duchess.” He leaned in closer, and his breath tickled her ear. She could smell him, citrus pomade and clean male. If I turn now I could brush my lips against his. Catherine was shocked at how difficult it was to refrain, despite knowing the parlor was full of people. “An intimate interlude before we resume our journeys.”

A moment later he was cutting into his meal.

“Eat up, Duchess. You will need your strength.”