“Her color is fine,” he remarked.
Alva Vanderbilt Belmont, Hermione’s friend, scowled at the physician. “How can you say such a thing? Clearly, Mrs. Parrish has had a health crisis!” She turned and fixed Catherine with a menacing stare. “We want only the best for our daughters, and yet they brush off our efforts!”
“Ohhh...” Hermione moaned.
“You see?” Alva, a formidable woman in any circumstances, leaned over so that her face was mere inches from Catherine’s. “You must do your duty, child, and trust your mother to know what is best for you.”
Catherine felt as if she might be sick. She hurried from the palatial bedchamber, back to her own rooms, and huddled near the fireplace in the wing chair where she had spent so many happy hours reading. How could she ever extricate herself from this terrible coil? Even her hopes for Adam Raveneau had been real only in her romantic imagination. Today he’d made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her. He wouldn’t even take pity on her and engage in a flirtation! Catherine had been flicked aside like an annoying mosquito.
A knocking came at her door and Alva Belmont entered. “I must say that I am shocked that you would run away without even a word of reassurance for your dear mother. Are you not aware that her very life is in your hands?”
“Dr. Frank didn’t seem to be very concerned.”
“You are shockingly impertinent. Dr. Frank realized that your mother is much worse than he thought. He has warned that one more scene between the two of you could be fatal!”
“This is absurd. Would you sacrifice me in marriage to a man I don’t love just to rouse Mother from her sickbed?”
“You would be the Duchess of Sunderford,” she replied coldly. “It is a title to rival that of my daughter, Consuelo, Duchess of Marlborough.”
A chill ran down Catherine’s spine as she remembered the stories she’d heard about Alva’s campaign to force poor Consuelo to marry the duke. Since Consuelo had another suitor, Alva at one point threatened to shoot her daughter’s true love, declaring that Consuelo would then be responsible for her mother’s trip to the gallows! There had been an assortment of other ploys and, in the end, Alva Vanderbilt Belmont had gotten her way.
“Perhaps, my dear Catherine,” she said more sweetly, “you might try to think of others, rather than yourself. Not only have you your mother to consider, but there are countless people you’ll be able to help once you are a duchess. Have you considered the social services you will be able to perform?”
“No. I hadn’t.” She had to get this woman out of her bedchamber. “I’ll try to improve my outlook, Mrs. Belmont.”
“You will?” She blinked as if startled that it was going to be so easy. “Well, then, that’s good. Of course, until this matter is resolved, it won’t be possible for you to have callers. You’ll want to sit with your mother and pray for guidance, hmm?”
“Of course.” Smiling, Catherine rose and walked over to open the door. “I am grateful for your advice.”
“The duke is still waiting in the Gothic Room to speak to you, you know.”
“I shan’t keep him waiting another moment.”
Alva’s face puckered as if she didn’t quite trust the girl. “Have you heard the latest tidbit of news about the Viscount Raveneau? Your mother confided to me that you are a bit infatuated with him.” She put a finger over Catherine’s mouth when she tried to protest. “Of course you are, my dear. Perfectly natural. But he’s a notorious black sheep in England. No person of breeding would let his daughter near Lord Raveneau. And, word has it that he was recently embroiled in a love affair with a married woman...”
Catherine feigned horror. “Oh, my!”
“I’m sorry. But, that should make it easier to forget about him, hmm? I’ll go back to reassure your mother that you have gone to meet with the duke.”
“Yes, do tell her that.” As they parted and Catherine headed toward the stairway, her mind was going a hundred miles a minute. What a predicament! Not only must she reshape the events of her own future, but also avoid the clutches of her mother and Alva Belmont. They meant to keep her prisoner in her own home!
Just before reaching the Gothic Room, Catherine slipped into the rococo- style library. There was a cellaret in one corner, and from it she removed a bottle of Napoleon brandy, pulled the cork, and took a few burning sips. Her father was fond of saying that brandy gave him courage and she hoped it would replenish her own supply. The liquid coursed through her veins like fire, then her eyes felt blurry and her nose got warm. Was this courage? Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter very much.
There was a set of double doors connecting the library to the Gothic room. Catherine pushed them open and, spying the duke sitting stiffly in front of the fireplace, called, “Hello! I’ve come, like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter.” The word ‘proverbial’ sounded slightly garbled to her own ears.
He stood up, looking embarrassed. His hair, which was already very thin on top, was slicked down with a lot of oil. “You Americans speak much more openly of private matters than we do in England.”
“I suppose so.” She smiled broadly. “Don’t you hate this room? It’s so dark and depressing.”
He pursed his lips. “The stained glass windows and the collection of Gothic crucifixes must be frightfully valuable. And the fireplace is magnificent, though one doesn’t like to think of such treasures being ripped from their ancestral origins.”
“Especially by vulgar Americans.” Feeling rather giddy, Catherine sat down in a hard Gothic chair.
The duke looked perplexed. “See here, if you think that I share some of the notions my countrymen have about Americans, you are mistaken. I think that you people have many good qualities.”
“Thank you!”
His face was flushed and he began to rub his hands together. “Which brings me to another matter. I— ah— believe that you and I might deal well together... .and I hope that I might make you a good husband.”
They were sitting half a room apart and his discomfort was so evident that Catherine got up and moved a few chairs nearer. “Your Grace, I am honored by your proposal, but I must beg you to be frank with me. Am I truly the girl of your dreams?”
He blinked. “What a question! No, of course not. One doesn’t marry for so frivolous a reason.”
“Do you find me at all appealing?”
He frowned. “I’ve never cared for short girls. And, I happen to prefer fair hair and blue eyes. Or auburn hair and green eyes.”
Catherine wanted to laugh. “Almost any combination but my own?”
“Not to insult you, of course.”
“And my manner and character? Do they appeal to you?”
“Well, of course, you are American.” He cleared his throat as if he needn’t say more.
“Your Grace, I’m not certain we would really suit. What is your honest opinion?”
He heaved a sigh. “Suit? If that’s what it were about, I’d’ve married a certain young lady in London.”
“One has to live with this arrangement a lifetime. Perhaps you ought to consider marrying that lady after all.”
“But, there’s Sunderford Castle to consider. It hasn’t got any heat or electric lights. The roof’s a veritable sieve. The grounds are overgrown and there’s only one gardener...”
“Mustn’t there be another way to solve those problems? Perhaps, at least, you might meet another heiress who is taller and fairer and quieter than I, someone who will make you a better lifetime companion.”
“That is possible,” he agreed, brightening.
“In the meantime, my mother is ill and we don’t want to shock her. Let’s pretend as if we’re going ahead with our plans and then, perhaps tomorrow, we can break the news gently.”
“I have planned a journey to Wyoming in two days,” Sunderford announced.
Catherine grinned. It was amusing to think that her would-be bridegroom had intended to go off to Wyoming so soon after becoming engaged. “You may still go to Wyoming, Your Grace. I’ll sort everything out before tomorrow evening, all right?”
“I’m looking forward to seeing some authentic red Indians in your Western regions,” he confided. “And grizzly bears and cowboys.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a much better time than you’ve had here.”
“No doubt,” he agreed, nodding gravely.
The echoing sound of the bell from the front door made Catherine pause on the stair-landing. She waited as the butler went to answer the summons. Dimly through the wrought-iron grillwork outside, she discerned the figures of Elysia VanGanburg and her maid. The butler was shaking his head, sending them away. The great door swung closed and the visitors departed.
Catherine realized that there was no time to lose. She went directly to Hermione’s room and perched on a velvet chair near her bed. “Mother? I have some news that may revive you...”
The older woman’s eyelids fluttered. “Did you speak to the duke?”
Fixing her eyes on a ceiling mural of cherubs, she answered, “Yes, His Grace and I had a very cordial conversation, Mother, and you’ll be glad to know we reached an agreement.”