His Lordship's Chaperone (12 page)

Catherine puzzled over how to remove his jacket.
She rolled him from one side to the other before deciding it would not help. At
this state of rest, Catherine thought it odd how heavy and hard his body was,
unlike the limp, pliable Tommy Talbot.

She turned the Marquess onto his stomach and
refused the temptation to set her foot on his back to remove each sleeve. With
constant tugging, she coaxed the sleeves off and, finally, removed his coat,
laying it, neatly folded, over a chair next to the bed. His bed.

She loosened and finally removed his cravat while
sitting on the bed next to his shoulders. Setting the linen aside on the
nightstand, Catherine pulled the collar of his shirt from his neck and he
relaxed, nuzzling his cheek into her palm.

Catherine pulled her hand away. He looked so
handsome—no, she amended, so beautiful—even in this state. Smoothing the front
of his shirt with her hand, she felt the rise and fall of his breathing, and
when she stilled her hand on his chest, the beating of his heart. Something
told her he would be fine.

Pulling the counterpane under his arms and up to
his chin, Catherine smiled, thinking her days of playing nursemaid were over.
This was so much like tucking young Tommy in at night. She stopped in
mid-reflex of bending down to give a good-night kiss on his forehead.

At the moment she bent down, Lord Haverton moved
up. It seemed his lordship had an inordinate amount of strength when it came to
drawing her toward him.

He brought her lips to his and he kissed her. Her
heart sped, beating faster by the moment. She felt lightheaded and if she
couldn’t break away soon, she’d lose all strength and collapse onto the bed.
She could not struggle free, or was it she did not wish to?

Catherine could do nothing while he held tight. His
hold relaxed and his head fell back onto the pillow. Breathless, she stepped
back in surprise and shock that he had kissed her.

The silly man. Catherine touched her lips with her
fingertips. How improper, how sinful, and how utterly delicious.

Haverton propped himself up on his elbows and
winced at the bright morning light pouring through his bedroom window. He
immediately thought better of opening his eyes and let his lids fall back into
place. He wanted that confounded pounding to stop! His head throbbed.

After several more minutes, the Marquess managed to
pry his eyes open. He was in his bed and in his own room. The hammering sound
he thought was someone repairing the adjoining wall to his room was his pulse.

What the devil had happened to him? One minute he
was … some place and the next he was in his bed, nursing an aching head. Where
had he been? The last thing he remembered was … was … he couldn’t exactly
recall.

A party, he was attending a party. Then he
remembered his chaperone, Mrs. Hayes. He recalled seeing her face as she sat
across the hall, just outside the door. Her ever-so-lovely face, peering in
between the various guests passing between them and the footmen traversing the
room with their trays.

Something, he did not know what, must have happened
to him and he was brought home. Arriving at Moreland Manor, James would have
seen him to bed. But the Marquess could not recall precisely what accounted for
his loss of memory.

Haverton hated to think he might have done
something improper in front of Mrs. Hayes. No matter. He’d make his apology to
her. Regardless of what he had done. He’d explain that he could not remember.

The Marquess had dressed and carefully descended
the stairs so as not to cause his head any further upset, only to endure
someone playing the blasted pianoforte.

Haverton asked to be served coffee in his library
and retreated behind its closed doors.

And still the music continued. The music, if one
could call it music, consisted of three notes. Three repeated notes. Three
notes that echoed up the stairwell, three notes that resonated down the main
hall, the same three notes that sounded all through the bloody house.

Over, and over, and over, and again, and again, and
… would it ever stop? Those three notes were driving him mad. He sat at his
desk and clamped his hands over his ears, trying to keep their sound out of his
head.

When was she going to go on with the rest of the
piece? Play, Mrs. Hayes, for it was certainly Mrs. Hayes who sat at the
pianoforte playing the same blasted three notes. That music might just be the
end of him.

Silence. He did not know why, nor did
he
care, but the music stopped. Haverton drew in a deep
breath, grateful for the reprieve, and leaned back in his chair. Now that quiet
had returned he could think clearly once more and perhaps his head would begin
to feel better. He managed to survive the morning and the next order of
business was an apology to his chaperone.

Catherine couldn’t concentrate on the music any
longer. She thought if she strolled about the garden it would clear her head
and help her get a hold of her rampant thoughts.

Last night’s kiss. It was a horrible mistake. And
she was quite certain the Marquess did not know what he was doing. What she
truly wished was for him to slip his arms around her and hold her tightly
against him, only this time she wished him awake.

For shame! She scolded herself silently.

It should have been wrong but she wanted more.
Fulfilling her fantasy was definitely not in the best interest of her ward. She
was supposed to protect him from women. She was to protect him from women, it
seemed, like herself.

What was she going to do? She could not face Lord
Haverton, knowing they had … always remembering their kiss. No, she thought. It
would be best for both of them if she gave notice and found another position.
Catherine stood on the back terrace, admiring the rear gardens.

“Mrs. Hayes!” Lord Haverton called to her from the
house. He had never summoned her himself. He had always sent someone for her.

In a panic, Catherine moved toward him. “Is there
something wrong? Are you feeling unwell? Is it your head?”

Lord Haverton descended the stone garden steps. He
smiled. Smiled at her. His eyes held her captive while his expression made her
feel positively lightheaded and she forgot all the concerns that had plagued
her just moments ago.

“I—” He was at a loss for words. Never before had
she seen him as nervous or this awkward. “My head does not pain me … so much.
Thank you.”

“You hit it quite hard. I thought it might be a bit
more serious than a bump. I was moments from calling for a physician.”

His eyes widened and he moved to touch his injury.
“I had no idea my condition was that
serious.
I thank
you for your concern regarding my well-being.” Clasping his hands behind his
back, the Marquess moved off the stairs and joined her on the pebbled path.
“Can you tell me … exactly what did I run into? A door? A wall? A stone pillar,
perhaps?”

“A footman. He recovered well enough, but you bent
his tray and broke six very fine crystal glasses. I believe there were a few
gentlemen who lamented the loss of the spilt claret.”

“I see.” He behaved as if he had no memory of what
transpired between them last night. “I am glad that there was minimal damage to
all concerned.”

“I believe the bump you sustained on your head was
the worst of it.”

“I can assure you that I have fully recovered.” He
drew in a deep breath then asked, “Would you care to take a turn in the garden?”

“Of course, my lord.” And what else could she say?
This was his house. She was in his employ and he had asked her to do nothing
out of the ordinary. The Marquess wished to walk with her. The thought
frightened her. It was worse than she could have imagined.

Catherine remembered she had used a similar ruse
when getting to know the Talbot children when she had first arrived. She had
asked the older boys Ethan and Tristian to show her some snails and had asked
Charlotte which rose she thought was the most fragrant.

Asking their opinion had worked on the children to
put them at ease with their new governess. However, she couldn’t see the same
tactic working on her. Cather
ine
walked beside him,
keeping to the right side of the pebbled path.

“How have you enjoyed your stay at Moreland Manor?”
he asked, still sounding uncomfortable. “Are you finding everything to your
liking?”

Lord Haverton made it sound as if she was a guest
instead of an employee. “I have no complaints, my lord. I find Moreland Manor
very agreeable.”

“I have come to rely on your presence. I am finding
social events more tolerable these days. I’m not quite sure if you know but
before you came, I had the most horrendous time attending those things.”

Catherine could well imagine. Lord Simon had told
her stories of his brother’s unfortunate situations. The image of a dripping
wet Marquess emerging from a fountain came to mind.

“There is something else I wish to mention.” He
paused for a moment.

Catherine stopped and looked up at him. He squinted
in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight falling through the tall trees. A warm
breeze from the east swirled small leaves at their feet.

The time it took for him to continue felt like an
eternity. Perhaps she had been wrong about his memory. Would he speak of their
kiss? Would he, too, realize she could not continue in his employ and dismiss
her?

“Do you like roses? We have a very fine display
over there.” He pointed off to his left.

“I must pay them particular attention on my next
walk.” Catherine motioned to her right. “I was admiring your honeysuckle just
now. It is difficult for a rose or even a gardenia to match the sweet scent of
common honeysuckle blossoms.”

The Marquess glanced in the direction of the
honeysuckle bush and inhaled. A momentary silence ensued before he shifted his
attention back to her. “I have a confession to make. I must admit I do not
recall leaving the party last night. I’m afraid I do not even recall the trip
home. If I did or said anything … inappropriate, shall we say, I do most
heartily apologize for my
actions.
”

His confession shocked her.

He had no recollection whatsoever.

Because of their kiss, Catherine had doubts of
whether she could continue to work for him. However, with Lord Haverton’s
inability to remember their indiscretion it would be possible for her to
remain.

Yes, Catherine could continue. And she would never,
ever admit to him that their kiss had happened. It would be her little secret.

Sitting in the theater box that night, Haverton
felt the veritable fool when he finally remembered his fear regarding Mrs.
Hayes watching him the night before at Dibblees’. Mrs. Hayes sat
inconspicuously to his left, a row back. She was far more interested in the
musical performances than she was in him, proving to Haverton that any notice
she had taken in him had been imaginary.

This performance began with a violin virtuoso,
Leonardo Benenati, who played to a full house. During the final interval the
theater attendance grew for the much anticipated finale of the heralded Italian
musician, Signore Giuseppe Genualdi, playing selected compositions of Herr
Beethoven.

A footman entered the box and handed Haverton a
slip of parchment. He unfolded the note.

Please come by and pay your respects. Celeste.

The Marquess looked from the note to the theater
boxes across the way. Celeste was here, sitting four boxes to the left. And he
would, as she had requested, pay his respects. He owed her that much. Their
parting had been amicable, there was no reason to be uncivil now. He would
gladly call on her as she asked.

Minutes later, Haverton stepped through the heavy
drapes in Celeste’s box. “Mrs. Cummings-Albright.” He reached out to her.

Celeste closed her fingers over his hand and pulled
him near. “Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we?” A sparkle glinted in
her eyes and a half-smile transformed her lovely face into a warm and inviting
one. “What a dear you are to come by to see me.”

Haverton remembered just how inviting she could be.
“How have you been, Celeste?”

“Not as well as if you kept my company,” she
whispered, leaning forward, pressing her jasmine-scented cheek to his. “But I
see you have not been alone for long. Who is she?” Celeste tilted her head,
indicating his box. More to the point, the solitary female occupying his box.

“The only woman in my life at the moment is my
chaperone and she shouldn’t cause anyone to be jealous.”

“I am not jealous, pet. Just concerned,” Celeste
replied in a lilting coo. “You know how I worry about you.”

Haverton’s visit lasted only a few minutes. Long
enough for a polite call and not long enough for him to get into trouble.
Stepping into his own box, he remarked to his dutiful chaperone, “You see, I
have returned quite safely.”

Mrs. Hayes had been reluctant to let him venture
out of her sight alone. He could see the amused look in her eyes when she
smiled and nodded in return. The lights dimmed and the Marquess took his seat.

Grandmaster Signore Genualdi stepped onto the stage
to thunderous applause. Adorned in evening attire with his long, dark hair
bound at the back of his neck, he took a seat at the piano and began to play.

That’s when Haverton’s mind began to wander. Losing
focus on the music, he wondered why he had bothered to attend at all. He had no
interest in instrumental music. Why ever did he agree to attend?

The sight of Mrs. Hayes draping her arm over the
chair in front of her for balance and staring through her opera glasses caught
his attention. Her eyes widened in an expression of pure pleasure.

The answer came to him. It all seemed perfectly
clear, then. This is why he had attended.

She loved music.

Commotion on the stage interrupted his reverie. The
music continued with Signore Genualdi pounding on the piano with great force, a
la Beethoven. Strands of his hair hung loose around his face, swaying to and
fro as he played. But the commotion, it seemed, was caused by a second man who
ran the length of the pianoforte and back again.

“What is that man doing down there?” Haverton
remarked with newfound interest.

Mrs. Hayes leaned forward, looking closer through
the opera glasses for an answer.

“Come sit here.” He motioned for her to take the
first row seat. “You’ll be able to see much better.”

At his suggestion, she took the seat in front of
her and continued to watch the musician. “He is pulling the broken strings from
the instrument,” she whispered.

Signore
Genualdi’s
assistant turned a page of music before running back to pull more broken
strings. Did not the missing strings result in missing notes? Haverton
wondered. Did it not matter to the piece of music he played?

Apparently not, no one complained. Everyone hung
out of their box, mesmerized by the high drama taking place on the stage. At
the end of the piece, Signore Genualdi sagged to one side, nearly falling off
his seat in apparent exhaustion and uttered with his last breath, “Non
posso
respirare
.”

Every member of the audience gasped. Almost every
member, except for Haverton, who smiled. With help from an off-stage hand, the
page-turner carried the grand musician away.

Mrs. Hayes turned to the Marquess. “Do you think he
will be all right?” Her worried expression and tone showed her genuine concern.
Apparently Signore
Genualdi’s
performance had touched
her.

“I think …” Haverton decided it might be better
if he kept his double
enténdres
to himself. He should
not be flirting with his chaperone. “I should not worry, if I were you. I
believe he will be just fine.”

“Was he not wonderful?” she said quite freely, as
if she was merely another patron of the arts in attendance.

“I have never seen the like of him before,”
Haverton replied with perfect honesty.

Signore
Genualdi’s
assistant returned, stopping at center stage. He held his hands up to hush the
crowd. “Non
si
preoccupi
!”
he announced. “Signore Genualdi will recover.”

The applause and cheers of the audience rose with
thanks of answered prayers. Mrs. Hayes eased back in her chair, smiling at Lord
Haverton with relief.

“You see,” he said, returning her smile, thinking
her a silly thing but quite adorable for believing the staged finale. “Signore
Genualdi will be fine.”

The scent of roses filled the rear garden of
Moreland Manor. It was a perfect afternoon that followed a perfect morning, and
Catherine’s life was about as perfect as it could be—barring any stray,
occasional, or untoward thought regarding her employer, that is.

Lord Haverton kept to himself for the most part and
her tender feelings for him did not matter. The evening in the carriage when he
had stared at her seemed so long ago. Ages, in fact. She never had discovered
what that was about.

Catherine strolled past the rose garden which was
now in full bloom. A few, small sprouting weeds marred the rose bushes’
perfection. She stepped close to the flower bed, bent to the ground to remove
the intruders, then took another step, and another, and pulled a few more.

The sound of quick footfalls coming in her
direction surprised Catherine. She straightened and instinctively moved away
from the sound, causing her to step toward the rosebush. Her cry was followed
by the sound of feet sliding in the gravel and another, more masculine, shout
of astonishment from Lord Haverton.

“Goodness!” Catherine buried her earth-stained
fingers in the folds of her skirt.

“What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing,
Mrs. Hayes?” He, too, stood abnormally straight with his arm behind his back.
If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was hiding something.

“I … I … I was just … …

He looked at her with those dark, piercing eyes
again. And again, every lucid thought flew out of her head. Lord Haverton stood
wide-eyed, waiting for an explanation.

“I was just … there were weeds in the roses, you
see—” She returned an equally awkward stare. Catherine tried to move away from
the rose bushes. “Oh, dear.” The hem of her dress caught on its thorns.

“Don’t do that. Here, allow me to help you.”

Just as the Marquess had bent and retrieved all
those fans at the Trowbridge ball, he knelt with the very same patient
gallantry, working her skirt free from the thorny trap.

“There is a gardener to see to the care of the
grounds,” he told her, not in an unkind tone but scolding her all the same, and
continued to untangle the fabric. “You need not bother dealing with the weeds.”

“I was just walking by,” she said in her defense
and shifted to her right. “There are only a few of them and it’s such a shame
to have them ruin such a lovely flower bed.”

“You must stop moving away, Mrs. Hayes. Step
closer, you are tearing your skirts.” Lord Haverton circled his arm around both
of her legs, drawing her near,
creating
slack in the
material. “You’ve managed to make an excellent tangle out of your dress.”

“My new dress,” she lamented in a woeful tone.
Catherine’s concern switched from her dress to Lord Haverton. He held her very
close and the Marquess’ touch was … was making her feel strange. No man had
ever touched her … there … on her lower limbs.

“Just give me a moment and I am sure I will be able
to set things to right.” He knelt in the dirt and set to serious work.

She couldn’t watch. Catherine could feel his arms
encircling her legs but she didn’t want to see him touching her. His nearness
and intimacy made her feel less like a servant, very much like a woman.

Mrs. Hayes was all woman—soft, slender, a sweet-smelling
put-together package. “Another step closer, if you will,” he instructed around
the paintbrush he held firm in his teeth. “I’ve almost managed to free you.”

Maneuvering the twisted material, Haverton could
not help but admire Mrs. Hayes’ shapely calves and trim ankles. To gaze upon a
lady’s legs while under the pretense of aiding her shocked him.

“There.” He cleared his throat and hid his
paintbrush behind him again. “I believe that will do, with a minimum amount of
damage.”

Catherine ran her fingers over the punctured
material and agreed. “Thank you, my lord.” Her gaze moved past him to the end
of the rose bed where she saw a canvas sitting on an easel.

“I’m afraid you’ve discovered my little secret,” he
said, not precisely ashamed.

“Your secret?” She glanced from him to the easel.
He hadn’t wanted his fondness for unusual pastimes to be widely known. “One
does not usually find gentlemen in the garden applying watercolors.” He brought
out the long-handled paintbrush from behind him.

“I see.” The subject of the painting was the very
flower bed that sat before them, surrounding a clump of yews. “I’m sorry to
have disturbed you.”

“I was having a hard time finding my muse this afternoon.”
She followed him as he stepped closer to the easel. He rinsed the brush in a jar
of murky water. “I might as well give up the whole thing.” The moment of
inspiration was gone—well, redirected perhaps, he reluctantly admitted.

The soft crunch of footsteps on gravel announced
another visitor. Mrs. Celeste Cummings-Albright approached the same rose bed
where Mrs. Hayes had only minutes ago been tangled among the thorns.

“Haverton!” she called out with a smile and a wave.

“Celeste …” Her name died in his throat and he
felt the paintbrush slip from his fingers.

As she approached them her smile stiffened. Celeste
recoiled, brought her hand to her lips and looked from him to Mrs. Hayes and
back again. “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted something.”

Mrs. Hayes bent to retrieve the fallen object. “No,
Lord Haverton was just admiring my work.” She seated herself upon the stool and
gestured to the easel with the end of the Marquess’ paintbrush.

Stepping closer, Celeste regarded the
half-completed work. “Yes, I see.” She tilted her head this way and that,
examining the painting. “Perhaps you will have time for a few more lessons,”
she suggested with a polite smile. “I think it might help.”

“Thank you, I shall consider it,” Mrs. Hayes said
amicably and sent an uneasy glance the Marquess’ way. She’s saved me yet again.
Haverton was never more grateful for Mrs. Hayes’ presence and her ability to
act swiftly. Perhaps his brother was correct and his chaperone deserved further
consideration.

The Marquess held out his arm to Celeste and
gestured away. “I believe Mrs. Hayes would appreciate it if we left her to her
art.”

Haverton did not want to give Celeste any reason to
turn back toward Mrs. Hayes and led the way down the pebbled path. That was a
sticky situation and Mrs. Hayes had handled it splendidly.

It had occurred to him that if Celeste had known
that he was the true artist and not Mrs. Hayes, she would have pronounced the
painting the greatest work of art since Rembrandt.

Celeste paused, tilting her head back just so, and
peered over her shoulder at him. Even he could see how she affected a
picturesque pose. Why did all of her actions seem planned?

“I really am sorry for intruding, Haverton.”

“A visit from you is never an intrusion.” He took
her proffered hand and gently guided her along the path.

“How kind of you to say.” Celeste’s beautiful face
positively glowed when she smiled. “However, my visit is not a social one.”