Before Catherine could reply, Hermione Parrish came into view on the arm of the Duke of Sunderford. The pearl combs in her blue-gray hair shone in the sunlight and her eyes were keen as she assessed the situation. “Well, Lord Raveneau, we couldn’t help overhearing your confession.”
Sunderford looked sleepy. “Nothing I didn’t already know. Surprised you dared to show your face among these beacons of American society.”
“Just so, Your Grace.” Adam gave him a fleeting glance that spoke volumes. “I don’t fit in at all. I told Byron so, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“We are not so inhospitable as you surmise, my lord,” Hermione said in starchy tones. “You are our guest for luncheon, are you not? I have seated you beside Miss Pembroke, who has expressed an interest in becoming better acquainted with you. Shall we join the others?”
Adam wished it were easier to get back to shore. Avoiding Catherine’s intent gaze, he stroked Alice’s brow. “Lead on, Mrs. Parrish.”
“Ah, my lord, I’m certain you’ll understand that we aren’t able to accommodate that animal in the dining room. Space is limited, and I would fear that one of the stewards might not see it and trip.”
“In that case, she and I will wait here.” His expression was grim.
Watching him, Catherine thought that Adam, not Alice, was the animal. There was a wildness about him that seemed even more pronounced today, in the sunlight and salt air. “Couldn’t one of the servants stay on deck with Alice?” she suggested.
“No, thank you,” he replied. As Hermione glided past him, nose elevated, he added, “Alice and I prefer this open air to the stifling pretension in the dining room. No doubt your menu is handwritten in French, even though none of the guests is French - ?” His tone was a deft rapier. “Petit poulet grille au cresson, possiblement?”
Hermione’s mouth puckered, but she said nothing until the duke had led her inside the saloon. “That man is odious! I wish he would disappear!”
That afternoon, Hermione Parrish got her wish. By the time Catherine and the other guests had finished their crepes belle angevine and dispersed to relax on the deck or return to shore, Adam and Alice had gone. Nor was there any sign of him when they went later, by carriage, to the obligatory polo match.
Back at Beechcliff, Catherine decided on a bath before tea. Isobel warned her that Mrs. Parrish and His Grace were expecting her to join them on the terrace, but she could not face them and their scrutiny.
“Tell my mother that I am very dusty after watching polo. I’ll try to join them later.”
Her private bathroom was magnificent. Painted shell-pink to match her suite of rooms, it boasted a floor of inlaid Italian marble in varying shades of pink, a pedestal sink carved of marble, and a massive bathtub perched on claw feet. Isobel had run the bath while Catherine undressed, and the entire room smelled invitingly of violet bath salts.
“I used the rainwater,” Isobel said. “It’s soft and lovely.”
She was alone then, lounging in the tub that looked out tall windows over an expanse of blue ocean. Her toes came up to play with the array of taps. She could choose from seawater, hot or cold, piped from the ocean to a tank in the attic, or pure rainwater, collected in cisterns under the terrace. It was just one more extravagance that was commonplace for Catherine.
Yet, she knew better than anyone that money didn’t bring happiness. No amount of Worth gowns or jewelry from Tiffany’s could bring the sort of joy she’d felt standing next to Adam Raveneau in the tea house. That fluttery feeling commenced again in her stomach as she remembered the low sound of his laughter as he called her Cathy, and the simple pleasure of drinking from a bottle that had touched his chiseled, sensual mouth...
She knew that he was trying to scare her away with the talk of his gambling and disgrace. The good girl in her was a little frightened by such revelations but the woman in her wanted him more. From the first moment she’d seen the reckless, laughing pirate, she had felt vibrantly alive. How could she return to the empty existence she’d led before Raveneau?
As the water cooled, she reflected that it was folly to imagine that such a man could choose a mousey girl like her... but she did have something he needed.
Just then the door swung open and Hermione Parrish appeared. “I’ll have a word with you, my girl! Dry yourself immediately. I will wait in your bedroom.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she proffered a towel to her daughter and made her exit.
Clearly, Isobel had been dismissed, which was an ominous sign. As Catherine dried off, she steeled herself for an argument.
She found her mother pacing in front of the cold fireplace. In a tone that brooked no argument, Hermione said, “At long last, His Grace is ready to propose marriage to you, Catherine. You will dress and meet him in the Gothic Room and, of course, you will graciously accept.”
Chapter 5
Suddenly, Catherine was freezing cold in the July heat. Shivering, she clasped her arms around her slim body. “Sunderford proposing? Mother, you can’t be serious.”
“I have never been more serious in my life. As you well know, this is the goal toward which we have worked for many years. Quite frankly, it has taken all my patience these last weeks to jolly His Grace along and your attitude has been no help at all!”
Her legs were shaking, so she dropped down on the edge of a Louis XIV chair. “But, Mother, I have told you that I don’t care for him in the least.”
“Catherine Beasley Parrish, might I remind you that you are speaking of His Grace, the Duke of Sunderford?”
Was it all a terrible nightmare? Catherine stared at her mother, who was impeccably clad in a tea gown of lace and velvet. At her throat, she wore sapphires set with pearls the size of filberts. Hermione Parrish’s first priority was an impressive appearance, brushing off whatever might be hidden beneath the surface.
Catherine knew a sense of doom. “Just because he’s a duke, that doesn’t mean he’s better than other men.”
“Of course he is. Sunderford is one of only twenty-seven English dukes, and his title dates back to Tudor times!” Her face was set as she bore down on her daughter and bent near. “Catherine, you are not thinking properly. Have you forgotten how magnificent Sunderford Castle is? And that, as a duchess, the king and queen will be in your social circle? You’ll wear ermine at coronations and have a crest engraved on your writing paper! It’s one thing to go out and purchase grand things, as we do, but quite another to know that one has a right to them by blood. Your offspring will have that right. Your own son will be a duke!” She gripped her daughter’s cold hand. “You do understand now, don’t you?”
“And what about Sunderford himself, Mother? He’s hardly grand.”
“He is English,” Hermione said dismissively. “He’s been brought up to pretend to be aloof, but he’s merely saving his displays of affection for his duchess. Don’t you see?”
“And for whom is he saving his displays of intelligence?” She knew she shouldn’t go on, but the floodgates were open. “Do you know that he believes the Civil War was fought between North and South America? Clearly His Grace is hopelessly dull, pretentious, tactless— and physically repellant!”
Hermione took the chair facing her daughter and her face was white and frozen. “I did not raise you to insult your betters, my dear. Furthermore, might I remind you that you are hardly a great beauty. What right have you to expect to marry a man who is not only a duke, but also a paragon of good looks and intellectual prowess?”
“Is it so wrong to dream of marrying someone who can make me laugh, and be my friend— and perhaps make my heart flutter when he kisses me?”
“Don’t be nonsensical. Your heart might flutter for a few weeks, and then you’ll find that the husband of your dreams is turning portly and tedious and you’ll wish that you had a marriage founded on real substance— a title, estates, and social position!”
Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes as she realized that nothing she said could penetrate her mother’s armor. “I have always given in to you, Mother, to keep the peace, but this time the stakes are too high...”
Suddenly, Hermione lifted her pince-nez and stared. “It’s that Raveneau person, isn’t it? You are nurturing some ridiculous fantasy about that libertine.”
“I barely know the man.” But she could feel the blood rushing into her face as she spoke.
“Ungrateful!” She averted her face. “To inflict such a wound on your own mother who has dedicated her life to you and your welfare—” Wincing, Hermione put her hand over her pouter-pigeon bosom. “It hurts so desperately. Send for the doctor, child!”
“The doctor?” she repeated in disbelief. “You aren’t serious, Mother...”
“Indeed I am serious! It is my heart! I may be dying!”
An hour later, Catherine hovered uncertainly near her mother’s bed.
Dr. Frank felt Hermione’s brow again, waggled his thick dark eyebrows, and gave a curious sigh. “Mrs. Parrish, can you hear me?”
Her lids fluttered but she did not speak.