Rachael was delighted to
see him, her warm smile welcoming, but Catherine eyed him warily as he seated
himself comfortably on a chair near her mother's bedside.
The reactions of the two
women were characteristic; to Rachael, Clive presented his most charming
manner, and she thought of him as the pleasant young man who had been her late
husband's godson; but Catherine guessed that there was another side, a dark,
skillfully hidden side, and she avoided him.
During the past few years,
he had come to call several times at Hunter's Hill, when he had been visiting
in Melton Mowbray. But Rachael had been the one to see him, for Catherine
always remembered some errand that took her from the house on that day.
Clive suspected that she
purposely evaded him, and as he covertly watched her move uneasily about the
room, an unpleasant gleam flickered briefly in his eyes, gone so quickly that
Rachael, chatting idly to him, never saw it.
Catherine had seen it
though, for she had never taken her eyes off his face, and suspicious of his
affability, she held herself stiffly aloof. Consequently, she was considerably
surprised when after a few minutes of polite conversation he left. After the
door closed behind him, her slim brows drew together in a black scowl.
Rachael, seeing her
expression, couldn't help smiling to herself, although she was mystified as to
why both her children viewed Clive with such violent antipathy. Curiosity got
the better of her, and she asked, "Why do you dislike him so? He's a
handsome enough young man, and I must say he looked very elegant this
afternoon."
Moodily, Catherine stared
at her before admitting coolly, "He's fairly handsome, if one prefers that
type of looks."
Rachael, an amused
twinkle
in the blue eyes, asked, "Do you really know
what kind of looks you like? You sound very certain of your views!"
"Well," Catherine
began doubtfully, "I've never given it much thought, but I don't suppose
that one's physical features are
that
important. Of course, one
wouldn't want a truly ugly husband! But a man can be extremely handsome, yet
be
mean
inside, and I'd rather have a man who had a
kindness for me than one like Clive, who'd mistreat a woman."
"You don't know that,
darling, and you judge him unfairly; Clive has always, to use your own words,
had a kindness for you. The day you were kidnapped, he was almost as frantic
and grief-stricken as your father and I.
No one could have searched
more diligently than he. You have, I'm afraid, always misjudged his every real
affection for you."
Catherine avoided her
mother's serious look and muttered, "That may be, but
nothing
will ever convince me that Clive cares for anyone other than himself."
Wisely, Rachael let the
subject lapse, for opposition only made Catherine dig in her heels and cling
more adamantly to her own ideas. Rachael once again encouraged Catherine not
to stay by her side. This time Catherine gave in, guessing that her mother was
in some discomfort and probably wished to be alone.
But
before Catherine left, Rachael, remembering their earlier conversation, asked,
"You really won't do anything to upset your aunt, will you?"
Catherine sent her a saucy
grin and walking out the room said over her shoulder, "I promised not to
bother Aunt Ceci, but I didn't say a
word
about Elizabeth!"
Giving a small moan of
vexation, Rachael fell back against the white satin pillows, knowing there was
no stopping Cat. She was guiltily aware of how little control she really
exercised over her spirited daughter.
Catherine, meanwhile,
smiling and humming happily to herself, ran lightly down the stairs on her way
to the small library that Ceci had grudgingly set aside for their use.
Catherine had fallen in love at once
with ,the
library's quaint, comfortable air, for it was the only room that reminded her
of Hunter's Hill. One wall was lined with fine leather-bound volumes, while
opposite was an ornately carved marble fireplace. A desk sat at one end, and in
front of the fireplace was an old-fashioned couch of brown mohair.
She had barely shut the
door behind her and taken but a few steps into the room when she heard the door
opening again. Expecting one of the servants she turned, the questioning smile
on her lips dying abruptly when she saw that her intruder was none other than
Clive Pendleton.
For a second they eyed one
another, Catherine's hostility very obvious from the expression of disdain on
her beautiful face. Clive was wearing his most urbane smile, but it aroused no
welcoming response from Catherine.
"You followed me,
didn't you?" she asked bluntly.
Clive, making a
depreciatory gesture with his hands, replied smoothly, "Could I help it?
You avoid me otherwise, and this seemed like too good an opportunity to pass
by."
"For
what?
Do you think that a few moments alone with you will overcome my aversion?"
His smile thinned ever so
slightly at her scornful words, and for a moment the ugly expression she had
seen earlier flickered in his hard gray eyes. He took a step nearer, and
Catherine barely restrained the urge to move backwards away from him. But she
stood her ground, her chin raised defiantly, and demanded, "Well?"
Restraining the surge of
anger that shook him, his cold smile only deepened, and deliberately he reached
out and lightly touched her cheek. Catherine flinched as if he had slapped her,
and she struck his hand aside.
Apparently undeterred by
her actions, he murmured, "Who knows what may happen? I am considered
quite eligible, you know, and if you would put aside your childish dislike of
me, you might find that I have several desirable virtues to offer a woman.
Certainly your mother would not object if I
were
to
pay my addresses to you— and you, my dear, could discover that I know to a
degree how to please a woman."
Sheer astonishment held
Catherine rooted to the spot. She had always avoided him whenever she could and
despite
Rachael's liking
of him, could never bring
herself to really feel at ease in his company. There was something that she
couldn't name that she disliked about him, and he always made her feel
definitely wary whenever she found herself in his presence. It was an
instinctive dislike based not so much on any one incident so much as a natural
aversion to his cold and calculating personality. Added to that was Reina's and
Manuel's definite hostility to him—a hostility that was tinged slightly with a
queer wariness, as if they knew something to his discredit, something that
they would not speak of.
Despite having nothing of
substance on which to base her feelings, Catherine knew that she distrusted
Clive. The thought that he meant to court her was one she had never
considered—dishonor her,
yes,
he was quite capable of
that, but marriage?
Shaken by the idea, she
really looked at him, and her mother's earlier words came back. Yes, he was a
handsome man, she thought, but his handsomeness did not arouse any emotion
within her other than dislike. True he was elegantly dressed, his manly form
all that a maiden could wish for, his height a little above the average,
giving him a commanding air, but his gray eyes were too cold and hard, and his
features too thinly aristocratic and inclined to sneer. Certainly he was not a
man she wished to marry!
Clive was watching her
expressive face closely, having a fair idea of her thoughts. It had been a
calculated risk on his part, displaying so soon his ultimate goal, but he had
decided that Catherine should begin to think of him in a different light. It
was time she became aware of him as a man—and a suitor.
Coolly his eyes ran over
her, and he felt again the sweet bitterness she aroused in his breast. Why did
she have to have reappeared after all those years? And why did she have to have
grown so lovely? She had been lovely even in tattered garments, her face dirty,
and her tangled black hair falling across her sparkling, fury-filled violet
eyes that day when Reina had thrust her before the earl.
Clive had been fascinated
then against his will, and while her reappearance had doomed his own hopes,
instantly another thought had struck him, and he had been pleased that he found
her so tantalizing. If she had been desirable then, now he found her even more
so, and muttering an oath, his coolness vanished, and he dragged her into a
hungry embrace.
Her mouth was warm and soft
in surprise as he gathered her closer, deepening his kiss, forcing her lips
apart,
his
tongue plundering her mouth.
Catherine had half sensed
he was going to kiss her, and unaware of the emotions a single kiss could
arouse, she had been partly curious, having more than reached an age to wonder
about what happened between men and women in the throes of passion. It had been
only curiosity that had ruled her in letting Clive take her into his arms, but
she discovered immediately that it had been a horrid mistake—she didn't like
his tongue in her mouth, and when his hand touched her breast, a tremor of
revulsion shook her slender body. Confused and not a little disgusted by the
storm of emotion she had unwittingly caused, she pushed violently against his
chest, but to no avail. Ignoring her attempts to escape and lost in desire,
Clive only pulled her closer
to him.
Able to free one arm and
sheer fury lending strength to her efforts, she boxed Mm smartly on the ear,
and at the same time brought her sharp little heel down bard on his foot.
Attacked with such painful force on two fronts, Clive's passion died as quickly
as it had risen, and with more haste than grace, he released her.
Catherine spared him not a
glance. Spying a thin silver letter opener lying on the desk, she snatched it
up in her hand, holding it like a knife, and. her eyes blazing violet fire, she
faced him.
Clive took an impatient
step forward, but the sight of the latter opener held so confidently in
Catherine's hand halted him.
In a voice filled with
loathing she spat, "Stay where you are! Come any closer to me, and I shall!
show
you how well I can use this pretty little
thing."
Willing
himself
to relax, a taut smile crossed his handsome face. Forcing
a
lightness
into his voice, he murmured, "My dear girl, you mistake
my intentions. What is one small kiss between us? Why, we are practically
related. I meant no harm."
Catherine's eyes were
narrowed with disbelief, and she snorted contemptuously, "I am not a fool,
Clive, You can keep your kisses for Elizabeth. She, I am certain, will enjoy
them far more than I."
A queer silence greeted her
words, and biting his lip in vexation, Clive wondered how she had come to learn
of his liaison with Elizabeth. Shrugging his shoulders he replied lightly,
"You cannot blame a man for his indiscretions, my dear. The sins committed
in one's salad days cannot be held against one forever. And," he added
deliberately, "with my wild oats behind me, you can be assured that I
would be a faithful husband."
Catherine's lip curled
scornfully. "Save your polite speeches for someone else, if you please,
And
I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone. I
cannot think of any reason for prolonging this distasteful scene."
Knowing he could gain
nothing further and warily eyeing the silver letter opener, Clive made as
graceful an exit as possible under the circumstances. For several moments after
he had departed, Catherine's thoughts were
not
happy, but then telling
herself that Clive could do her no harm, she pushed aside the memory of this
latest unpleas
ant episode and willed herself to relax and think
only of pleasant things.
Crossing
the room, she knelt down in front of the fire, her slim hands held out to the
warmth of the blaze. After a few minutes, she sat down, leaning her head back
against the couch, staring dreamily into the fire and wondering idly what Adam
was doing and if he was as happy in America as his few letters indicated. She
still missed him awfully, even after three years.
Catherine,
for all her liveliness, was a lonely girl, though she would have bees surprised
to be told so. Uncomfortable and uncertain with her contemporaries, she'd had
made only one friend at Mrs. Siddon's, shy and gentle Amanda Harris—and that
had not lasted. For when they left the school, their paths parted, Amanda going
to live with her grandmother, the formidable dowager duchess of Avon, and
Catherine returning to the comparative peacefulness of Hunter's Hill. But Catherine
was happy in her life and seldom thought beyond the boundaries of Hunter's
Hill. Content to spend her days immersed in the activities of the farm, she was
unawakened to the outside world.
Immensely
satisfied with the present, she was content to gaze at the fire, thinking of
her home, aware that from a distance she could hear the bustle of the
preparations for tonight's ball. The last thing she remembered before drifting
off to sleep was the ringing of the hour by the huge grandfather clock
downstairs.