Winning Miss Winthrop Read online

  “Next you’ll be saying a woman should not be judged on her face.”

  “Should a man?”

  His companions both stared at him before Hale gave another loud harrumph.

  “Carlew, your observations are both unnecessary and unkind. Go back to your paper if you don’t mind.”

  Jon chuckled, shook his head at his friends’ antics, and retired once more behind the screen of The Times. His smile faded, the printed words before him meaningless. While he didn’t begrudge them—they were his friends, who had helped keep him sane these past years when India had a way of hardening even the kindest of men—he couldn’t help but wonder how these gentlemen would rate the woman who had once caught his eye. Not strictly pretty, let alone divine, he couldn’t help but think she’d rate rather poorly on Hale’s scale of attractiveness.

  His fingers clenched. Relaxed. Not that he should care. These were foolish thoughts. He was unlikely to see her, and even if he did, she had long ago made her feelings abundantly clear.

  No. Perhaps he was a fool after all. Surely two years of adventure and business should have been enough to rid him of these feelings.

  Perhaps it was time to think on a lady who might not mind his connections to trade, at least until that far away day when he might assume the title. His earnings from his time on the Indian subcontinent should, correctly invested, hold out for quite a few more years, and the interest on his shares in his father’s companies was steadily improving, so Trelling said. Perhaps there was a lady who might not mind being married to such a man. He could offer constancy, and quite a tidy fortune, if little else.

  His spirits dipped.

  Perhaps one day there might even be one prepared to overlook the haze concerning the legitimacy of his birth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Winthrop Manor, Gloucestershire

  “THE LORD GIVETH, and the Lord taketh away.”

  The words circled Catherine’s mind endlessly as she sat in her favorite chair, in her favorite room at Winthrop. She breathed in. Out. Hungrily soaked in rare stillness. She inhaled again, then exhaled, as if these simple actions might dim today’s truth. The minister. The funeral. The mourners. The whispers and speculation-laden glances that shifted whenever her gaze met theirs. Most of all she was aware of a heavy numbness, a weight upon her spirit that no amount of assurances from the minister or her friend Lavinia could lift.

  Her world had changed. Everything would be different. Everything would be … worse.

  She drew further into the high-backed wingchair, placed her feet securely on the rich jeweled tones of the Axminster carpet, clasped the red-striped fabric arms more firmly. She was not a fainting miss, no matter what example her mother might have set over the past week, barely moving from her bed. Someone had to comfort poor Serena, receive the visitors, attend to the grief-stricken staff, help make decisions about the words spoken at the funeral and what would be served afterwards. Someone had to be aware and take responsibility for whatever life might throw at them, now that Papa’s anchoring presence was gone.

  Rawness clogged her throat. Her eyes filled. She blinked. Blinked again.

  “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”

  She lifted her head, studying the cream wallpaper patterned with pale yellow roses. How pretty, how soothing this room had always been, with its lovely outlook to the rose gardens and the blue hills beyond. She breathed in, out, pushing past fresh pain. Soon Cousin Peter would live here, doubtless marry, and his wife would make decorating choices, placing their own stamp on Winthrop Manor. She and Mama would be forced to move to the Dower House, a grand title for a not-so-grand cottage tucked away on the far side of the estate.

  Her lips twisted. She suspected it would prove to be another of the projects Papa had not attended to in recent times. The discovery of several others—such as the unopened bills accumulating dust on his desk—had fueled further unease these past days. Her chest tightened. Breathe in. Breathe out. At least the Dower House was closer to Hampton Hall and Lavinia—whenever she and her husband, the Earl of Hawkesbury, were in—which was something. Even if it were farther away from the stables, and her gig, and the gardens, and …

  Her eyes pricked again.

  The door opened, admitting a cool draft as well as the hubbub she’d managed to avoid this past hour.

  “Ah, here she is.” Aunt Drusilla Villiers—tall, thin, her snapping black eyes and long Ashton nose reminiscent of a haughty witch—walked toward Catherine. “We were all wondering why the daughter of the house had made no appearance.”

  Catherine swallowed. Swallowed again. When could she put off this façade of hospitality and instead receive the comfort of others?

  “I apologize, Aunt, but I was not hungry, and I feel a little tired—”

  “Be that as it may, you still have an obligation, especially when your Mama is prostrate upstairs. That Lady Milton was at the tea table acting for all intents and purposes like she was the lady of the house. I ask you! She was rabbiting on about some Sally chit none of us had the slightest interest in.”

  She smiled faintly, imagining the scene. “Do you mean Sophy, ma’am?” Sophia Thornton, once a playmate of hers, had written a very pretty letter expressing her sorrow and regret that her latest confinement made travel impossible. It was kindly meant, but Catherine couldn’t help feel the sting experienced with most of Sophy’s correspondence, that her life was progressing nicely, while Catherine’s life had felt stuck for years.

  Her aunt shrugged. “Sophy, Sally, why should I care what her silly daughter is named?” Aunt Drusilla moved to sit on the gold and white striped settee near the marble fireplace. The door opened again, admitting Serena and their cousins.

  Catherine eyed her sister objectively. Well she could understand those who accused the younger Winthrop girl of coldheartedness, with a countenance forever as calm as her name. Only Catherine knew the extent of Serena’s grief, her sobbed regret at being away at school in Bath and missing a final goodbye had kept Catherine awake for much of the night, attempting to soothe away her sister’s sorrow. Not that anyone could tell now. With her golden curls and ethereal complexion, Serena looked as unconcerned as though toddling off to a picnic with her cousins rather than mourning the loss of a father who adored her.

  Her mouth pulled to one side. Perhaps Serena wore sadness better than Catherine ever could—oh, to be innocent seventeen again!—or perhaps she and her sister, in addition to inheriting Mama’s Ashton nose, had also both inherited their father’s unfortunate propensity for keeping trouble too close to their chests. She sighed. At least Serena could return to Bath and Miss Haverstock’s seminary soon.

  “Catherine!” A blur of copper-gold and concern rushed through the door, encasing Catherine in a warm hug. “Oh, my dear friend, I’m so glad to see you.”

  Lavinia Hawkesbury drew back, her slightly reddened eyes speaking of her distress. “I could not speak with you earlier as there was such a crush wishing to pay their respects.”

  Catherine nodded. The crush had made it easy for her to avoid both sympathetic comments and eyes, as she kept her own down. Simple nods, simply expressed thanks, had been all she could manage. Members of both sides of Papa’s and Mama’s prodigious families, a few good neighbors, like Lavinia and the earl; others she either did not know or could scarcely recall. For a moment her heart beat faster. Would he have dared appear?

  Lavinia’s expensive black silk rustled as she dropped into the seat next to Catherine, the room filling with other guests awaiting the outcome of the reading of the will. Lavinia’s middle was a little thicker these days.

  Catherine cleared her throat. “I trust you are feeling well.”

  Lavinia smiled. “Better than last month, it is true. Nicholas seems determined to treat me as though I should be wrapped in cotton wool, but when we heard your sad news there was nothing that could stop me from being here as quickly as possible.”

  Catherine smiled for the first time in what fel
t like months. Lavinia’s passion and care for her friends, coupled with a sometimes startling frankness, had appealed since they’d first met as young girls. Doubtless such unconventional behavior had been instrumental in winning the heart of the war hero earl who had moved to St. Hampton Heath upon assuming the title three years ago. Yet Catherine knew Lavinia was not immune to challenge. The Lord giveth, and even for someone as good as Lavinia, the Lord had taken away.

  Lady Milton, the squire’s plump wife, now entered, her eager gaze running around the room until fixing upon Catherine. “You poor dear! How are you holding up? I notice you seem quite pale, and—you won’t mind my saying, I’m sure, as our families have been acquainted for so long—perhaps a little sickly? But that may be simply the effect of that dress.” Blue eyes flicked Catherine up and down. “Not everyone can wear black as well as my Sophy can. But then, she is one of us fortunate few who will appear to advantage regardless of what we wear.” Her gaze slid to Lavinia’s attire, hardening, before her attention returned to Catherine. “I’m so glad you are well, my dear, although I must say, I could not help but observe earlier that your Mama did not look at all well.”

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Perhaps the Lord might take Lady Milton away from their presence soon …

  Lavinia met Catherine’s gaze, nodded slightly, and turned to Lady Milton with a sweet smile. “Well, that is hardly to be expected, is it, Lady Milton? It would seem to me that a woman who looks well following the death of her husband displays a great lack of sensibility.”

  Lady Milton sniffed. “Far be it from me to disagree with you, Lady Hawkesbury—”

  “If only that were true,” murmured Lavinia.

  “—I was only trying to express my condolences to poor Catherine here.”

  “Is that what it was?” said the irrepressible young countess.

  Lady Milton glared, lifted her many chins, and moved to talk to another acquaintance, her nasal-inflected voice piercing enough for Catherine to catch something about the airs and graces a certain minister’s daughter had assumed since hooking an earl.

  Lavinia shrugged and rolled her eyes, eliciting another wry twist of lips from Catherine.

  The room swelled with extended family, friends, forcing Catherine to adopt a more appropriate expression as the ladies of her acquaintance murmured sympathy and regret. Soon her mood slipped back to pain, as over and over their comments and questions reinforced the concern that had nibbled for days. This was a very sad time. What would she do now? How would her dear mother cope? How would Serena?

  These questions, she knew, were subtle echoes of the more pressing inquisition: How would they afford to live? Some reduction in their circumstances must be expected, for even she had heard the whispers, of both servants and gentry alike, concerning Papa’s profligate spending—and subsequent bills. But surely they would not be so terribly badly off?

  Outside, through the tall French doors, she could see the wind tossing the leaves of the pines, their movement constant, yet uncertain, as the branches bent and swayed this way then that against unseen forces. Coldness seeped into her heart. Invisible, unknown forces, much like those in her life …

  A stir through the room brought her attention to the door.

  Catherine blinked. No. Surely not.

  “Lady Harkness! Well, we certainly did not expect to see you.” This, from Aunt Drusilla, whose blunt ways of speaking almost rivaled Lavinia’s.

  “Ah, Drusilla.” The gloriously arrayed arrival gave a glittering smile. “Yes, we would have been here sooner but unfortunately we were held up at Swindon.”

  “By highwaymen?” asked Lady Milton, protuberant eyes goggling.

  “No, no. The horse had merely thrown a shoe.” Lady Harkness glanced around. “Now, where is poor Elvira? I confess it’s been such an age I do not know I should recognize her, but I did want to pay my respects.”

  Catherine rose. “Mama is indisposed.”

  “Ah.” The ostrich feathers—far more appropriate for a London ballroom—trembled like the trees outside as the redhead nodded. “Miss Winthrop. Please accept my deepest sympathies.”

  But her green eyes were cold and hard, skimming over Catherine’s dull garb as if searching for something—and finding her wanting. “I must confess to not recognizing you, either. You seem so much … older than the last time.”

  Catherine bit the inside of her bottom lip. If she understood Lady Milton’s resentment to Lavinia, how much more did she understand this woman’s antagonism toward herself. And it could not be denied, the past two years had not been kind.

  A slender blonde, whom the previous arrival’s flamboyant style had all but hidden, now moved into view. Lady Harkness glanced at her then waved a hand. “My daughter, Julia.”

  So this was the half sister she’d wondered over. Elegantly pretty, with blue eyes and even features, she seemed modest, unassuming. Catherine searched for a trace of his features—

  But wait! Her heart thumped. If Lady Harkness and Julia were here, then surely he would be also.

  The room tilted slightly as, for a moment, she really did feel faint.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “Lady Harkness, is it? Please, allow me to offer you a seat here.” Lady Milton, obviously impressed by the gleaming diamonds at the new arrival’s throat, and oblivious to the hostility in the room, persuaded her to share her settee before launching into a series of questions about London that anyone with half an eye could see the newcomer was loath to answer.

  Lavinia touched Catherine’s hand and guided her to a quieter corner of the room. “Dear Catherine, you do not look at all well. What is it?”

  How could she admit to her misgivings, or expose the secrets that had caused such pain? She could not. She drew in a deep breath. Attempted a smile. “I wish Mama were here.”

  “Of course you do. Shall I send someone to see if she is feeling more the thing?”

  “No, thank you, that is quite all right. I can do so.”

  But before she could ring for a servant, the door opened once more and Mama glided in. Her face was wan, her features strained, but the weariness of past days had not dulled her keen sense of drama. She glanced around the room, nodding to the expressions of sympathy, and then halted wide-eyed at the occupants of the settee. Her face blanched, before two red spots formed on her cheeks.

  “Dear Lady Winthrop, we were just saying, weren’t we, Lady Harkness, how we hoped to see you before much longer …”

  Lady Milton prattled on, heedless of Mama’s inattention, her gaze fixed on the woman seated beside her.

  “Ah, Elvira. How are you?”

  Catherine’s fingers formed fists. Asking such a question as if this were a ball!

  “As well as can be expected,” Mama said stiffly. “I must admit to a certain degree of surprise at seeing you here, Clarinda.”

  “I do not see why. Surely as a concerned family member you might expect to see me here. Certainly I have more right to be here than some of these others.” She cast a less-than-surreptitious glance at some of the neighbors, including Lady Milton, who seemed agog to see her friendly overtures so summarily dismissed.

  “More right?”

  “Certainly.” The red head lifted proudly. “As the mother of the new baron, I believe I have more right to be here than anyone else.”

  “Surely you jest!”

  This from Aunt Clothilde, whose son Peter was all but assured of the title.

  Lady Harkness lifted an expensively draped shoulder. “I am only communicating what dear Mr. Whittington wrote in his letter to Jonathan.”

  Jonathan …

  The world swam again.

  Lavinia touched her shoulder, motioned her to a squat velvet chair. She sank into it gratefully as the raised voices from the older women continued.

  “But my Peter is next in line. Mr. Whittington has confused matters.”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “But Peter has visited the estate for some time
now, learning everything necessary from Lord Winthrop—”

  “Has he really?”

  Lady Harkness’s catlike green eyes suddenly looked as sly as her words seemed. Was she casting aspersions on Papa’s training of Peter?

  “Papa has taught Peter all about estate m-matters,” Catherine disputed, wincing at the stammer whose appearance in front of intimidating individuals always made her feel even more foolish.

  “I’m sure he has, but unless he is to become the next baron then it will all be for nothing. Surely it’s time to let someone with a fresh eye come in for a change. The state of these carpets!”

  Hot indignation burned in her soul, echoing the gasps of outrage filling the room. She opened her mouth but before she could speak Aunt Drusilla’s voice came again.

  “It seems a terrible thing for the title to go to someone with so few claims to it.”

  Lady Harkness’s eyes flashed, her color rising. “How dare—?”

  “Ah, ladies.”

  The men, led by the Earl of Hawkesbury, poured through the open door. Catherine’s insides clenched; her skin heated. He was here; would be in here any moment. She half rose, then resumed her seat, wishing she could edge back into the shadowed recesses of the room.

  She studied the faces as they entered. Mr. Whittington looked rather tired and old, as if his efforts of the past hour had drained him. The earl moved straight to Lavinia’s side, murmuring softly to her, which she replied to with a smile and a shake of her head. Catherine studied the door again. Peter entered, a sour expression on his face as he strode to his mother and whispered urgently to her.

  Then he entered.

  The world stopped. Her breath stilled.

  She caught a glimpse of his tanned countenance and dark blond hair as he glanced around the room. She lowered her face quickly, anxious to avoid his notice, though a tiny part of her longed for his attention, craved to hear him say—