“Touché,” Leo said, smiling despite himself.
Chapter Fifteen
Upon being told by Amelia of the unanticipated arrival of Countess Ramsay and Vanessa Darvin, Catherine was filled with curiosity.
Followed soon thereafter by gloom.
Standing at the side of the room, she and Beatrix watched as Leo waltzed with Miss Darvin.
They were a striking pair, Leo’s dark handsomeness perfectly balanced by Miss Darvin’s vibrant beauty. Leo was an excellent dancer, if a bit more athletic than graceful as he guided his partner around the room. And the skirts of Miss Darvin’s blue-green gown swirled most becomingly, a fold of her skirts occasionally wrapping against his legs from the motion of the waltz.
Miss Darvin was quite beautiful, with glowing dark eyes and rich sable hair. She murmured something that elicited a grin from Leo. He looked charmed by her. Absolutely charmed.
Catherine had a peculiar feeling in her stomach as she watched them, as if she had just swallowed a handful of tenpenny nails. Beatrix stood beside her and touched her back briefly, as if to offer comfort. Catherine felt a reversal of their usual roles, that instead of being the wise older companion, she was the one in need of reassurance and guidance.
She tried to school her features into blankness. “How attractive Miss Darvin is,” she commented.
“I suppose,” Beatrix said noncommittally.
“In fact,” Catherine added in a glum tone, “she’s enchanting.”
Beatrix watched Leo and Miss Darvin with thoughtful blue eyes as they executed a perfect turn. “I wouldn’t say enchanting …”
“I can’t see one flaw.”
“I can. Her elbows are knobby.”
Squinting through her spectacles, Catherine thought that perhaps Beatrix was right. They were a bit knobby. “That’s true,” she said, feeling a tiny bit better. “And doesn’t her neck seem rather too long?”
“She’s a giraffe,” Beatrix said with an emphatic nod.
Catherine strained to see Leo’s expression, wondering if he had noticed the abnormal length of Miss Darvin’s neck. It didn’t appear that he had. “Your brother seems taken with her,” she muttered.
“I’m sure he’s merely being polite.”
“He’s never polite.”
“He is when he wants something,” Beatrix said.
But that only sent Catherine plummeting into deeper gloom. Because the question of what Leo might want from the dark-haired beauty had no palatable answer.
A young gentleman came to ask Beatrix to dance, and Catherine gave her permission. Sighing, she leaned back against the wall and let her thoughts wander.
The ball was an unqualified success. Everyone was having a lovely time, the music was delightful, the food delicious, the evening neither too warm nor too cool.
And Catherine was miserable.
However, she was hardly going to let herself crumble like a dry teacake. Forcing a pleasant expression to her face, she turned to make conversation with a pair of elderly woman standing next to her. They were involved in an animated debate over the comparative merits of a chain stitch or a split stitch in outlining crewel embroidery. Trying to listen attentively, Catherine stood with her gloved fingers laced together.
“Miss Marks.”
She turned to the familiar masculine voice.
Leo was there, breathtaking in the formal evening scheme of black and white, his blue eyes sparkling wickedly.
“Would you do me the honor?” he asked, gesturing to the whirl of waltzing couples. He was asking her to dance. As he had once promised.
Catherine blanched as she became aware of the multitude of gazes on them. It was one thing for the host of the evening to confer briefly with his sister’s companion. It was something else entirely for him to dance with her. He knew it, and he didn’t give a damn.
“Go away,” she said in a sharp whisper, her heart beating wildly.
A faint smile touched his lips. “I can’t. Everyone’s watching. Are you going to give me a public setdown?”
She could not embarrass him that way. It was a violation of etiquette to refuse a man’s invitation to dance if it could have been construed that she didn’t wish to dance with him personally. And yet to be the focus of attention … to set tongues wagging … it was contrary to every instinct for self-preservation. “Oh, why are you doing this?” she whispered again, desperate and furious … and yet somewhere in the midst of her inner tumult, there was a tingle of delight.
“Because I want to,” he said, his smile widening. “And so do you.”
He was unforgivably arrogant.
He also happened to be right.
Which made her an idiot. If she said yes, she deserved whatever happened to her afterward.
“Yes.” Biting her lip, she took his arm and let him lead her toward the center of the room.
“You could try smiling,” Leo suggested. “You look like a prisoner being led to the gallows.”
“It feels more like a beheading,” she said.
“It’s just one dance, Marks.”
“You should waltz with Miss Darvin again,” she said, wincing inwardly as she heard the sullen note in her own voice.
Leo laughed quietly. “Once was enough. I’ve no wish to repeat the experience.”
Catherine tried, without success, to smother the ripple of pleasure that went through her. “You didn’t get on?”
“Oh, we got on marvelously, as long as we didn’t stray from the topic of utmost interest.”
“The estate?”
“No, herself.”
“I’m sure that with maturity, Miss Darvin will become less self-involved.”
“Perhaps. It’s of no importance to me.”
Leo took her into his arms, his hold firm and supportive, and inexplicably right. And an evening that had seemed so dreadful only moments before became so wonderful that Catherine was light-headed.
He held her, his right hand precisely against her shoulder blade, his left hand securing hers. Even through the layers of their gloves, she felt the thrill of contact.
The dance began.
In the waltz, the man was thoroughly in control of the timing, the pace, the sequence of steps. And Leo left Catherine no opportunity to falter. It was easy to follow him, every movement nonnegotiable. There were moments in which they seemed almost to hover before sweeping into another series of turns. The music was an audible ache of yearning. Catherine was silent, afraid to break the spell, focusing only on the blue eyes above hers. And for the first time in her life, she was wholly happy.
The dance lasted three minutes, perhaps four. Catherine tried to collect every second and commit it to memory, so that in the future she could close her eyes and bring it all back. As the waltz ended on a sweet, high note, she found herself holding her breath, wishing it would go on just a little longer.
Leo bowed and offered her his arm.
“Thank you, my lord. It was lovely.”
“Would you like to dance again?”
“I’m afraid not. It would be scandalous. I’m not a guest, after all.”
“You’re part of the family,” Leo said.
“You are very kind, my lord, but you know that’s not true. I am a paid companion, which means—”
She broke off as she became aware that someone, a man, was staring at her. Glancing in his direction, she saw a face that had haunted her in nightmares.
The sight of him, a figure from the past she had managed to evade for so long, extorted every bit of calm she possessed and sent her into full-scale panic. Only her grip on Leo’s arm kept her from doubling over as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She tried to take a breath, and could only wheeze.
“Marks?” Leo stopped and turned her to face him, looking down at her bleached face in concern. “What is it?”
“A touch of the vapors,” she managed to say. “It must have been the exertion of the dance.”
“Let me help you to a chair—”
“No.”
The man was still staring at her, recognition dawning on his features. She had to get away before he approached her. She swallowed hard against the biting pressure of tears welling in her eyes and throat.
What might have been the happiest night of Catherine’s life had abruptly become the worst.
It’s over, she thought with bitter grief. Her life with the Hathaways had come to an end. She wanted to die.
“What can I do?” Leo asked quietly.
“Please, will you see to Beatrix … tell her…”
She couldn’t finish. Shaking her head blindly, she walked out of the drawing room as quickly as possible.
The exertions of the dance, my arse, Leo thought darkly. This was a woman who had moved a pile of rocks so that he could climb out of a pit. Whatever was bothering Catherine, it had nothing to do with the vapors. Glancing around the room with narrowed eyes, Leo saw a stillness amid the chattering crowd.
Guy, Lord Latimer, was watching Catherine Marks as intently as Leo was. And as she left the drawing room, Latimer began to make his way to the open doorway as well.
Leo scowled with the irritable awareness that the next time his family planned a ball or soirée, he was going to personally inspect the guest list. Had he known that Latimer would be invited, he would have drawn through the name with the darkest of ink.
Latimer, at the age of approximately forty, had reached the stage of life at which a man could no longer be called a rake, which implied a certain youthful immaturity, but instead a roué, which had the flavor of middle-aged unseemliness.
As next in line to an earldom, Latimer had little to occupy him, other than to wait for his father to die. In the meantime he had dedicated himself to the pursuit of vice and perversion. He expected others to clean up his messes, and he cared for no one’s comfort but his own. The place in his chest where a heart should have been was as empty as a calabash gourd. He was wily, clever, and calculating, all in service of satisfying his own boundless needs.
And Leo, in the depths of his despair over Laura Dillard, had tried his best to emulate him.
Recalling the escapades he had been involved in with Latimer and his cadre of dissipated aristocrats, Leo felt distinctly unclean. Since his return from France, he had scrupulously avoided Latimer. However, Latimer’s family was from the neighboring county of Wiltshire, and it would have been impossible to steer clear of him forever.
Seeing Beatrix approaching the side of the drawing room, Leo reached her in a few impatient strides and took her arm.
“No more dancing for now, Bea,” he murmured close to her ear. “Marks isn’t available to watch over you.”
“Why not?”
“I intend to find out. In the meantime, don’t get into trouble.”
“What should I do?”
“I don’t know. Go to the refreshment table and eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.” Beatrix heaved a sigh. “But I suppose one doesn’t need to be hungry to eat.”
“Good girl,” he muttered, and left the room swiftly.
Chapter Sixteen
“Stop! Stop right there, I say!”
Catherine ignored the summons, keeping her head down as she hurried along a hallway toward the servants’ stairwell. She was drowning in shame and fear. But she was also infuriated, thinking how monstrously unfair it was that this one man should keep ruining her life, over and over. She had known this would happen someday, that even though Latimer and the Hathaways moved in different circles, they would inevitably meet. But it had been worth the risk to be with the Hathaways, to feel that just for a little while, she had been part of a family.
Latimer grabbed her arm with bruising force. Catherine whirled to face him, her entire body shaking.
It surprised her to see the extent to which he had aged, his features blighted by coarse living. He was heavier, thick around the middle, and his ginger-colored hair was thinning. Most telling, his face had acquired the wizened look of habitual self-indulgence.
“I don’t know you, sir,” she said coolly. “You are importunate.”
Latimer didn’t let go of her arm. His devouring gaze made her feel polluted and ill. “I’ve never forgotten you. I looked for years. You went to another protector, didn’t you?” His tongue emerged to swipe moistly over his lips, and his jaw worked as if he were preparing to unhook it and swallow her whole. “I wanted to be your first. I paid a bloody fortune for it.”
Catherine took a shivering breath. “Release me at once, or I’ll—”
“What are you doing here, dressed in a spinster’s garb?”
She looked away from him, battling tears. “I am employed by the Hathaway family. By Lord Ramsay.”
“That I can believe. Tell me what services you provide for Ramsay.”
“Let go of me.” Her voice was low and strained.
“Not on your life.” Latimer drew her stiff body closer, his wine-soured breath wafting in her face. “Revenge,” he said softly, “is the act of a despicable and petty character. Which is no doubt why I’ve always enjoyed it so much.”
“What do you want revenge for?” Catherine asked, despising him to the bottom of her soul. “You lost nothing because of me. Except perhaps the merest fragment of pride, which you could easily afford.”
Latimer smiled. “There’s where you’re mistaken. Pride is all I have. I’m quite sensitive about it, really. And I won’t be satisfied until it’s returned with interest. Eight years of compounded pride is a tidy sum, wouldn’t you say?”
Catherine stared at him coldly. The last time she had seen him, she had been a fifteen-year-old girl with no resources, and no one to protect her. But Latimer had no idea that Harry Rutledge was her brother. Nor did it seem to have occurred to him that there might be other men who would dare to stand between him and what he wanted. “You disgusting lecher,” she said. “I suppose the only way you can have a woman is to purchase one. Except that I’m not for sale.”
“You were once, weren’t you?” Latimer asked idly. “You were a costly piece, and I was assured that you were worth it. Obviously you’re no virgin, being in service to Ramsay, but I’d still like a sample of what I paid for.”
“I owe you nothing! Leave me alone.”
Latimer stunned her by smiling, his face softening. “Come now, you do me a disservice. I’m not such a bad fellow. I can be generous. What does Ramsay pay you? I’ll triple it. It would be no hardship, sharing my bed. I know a thing or two about pleasing a woman.”