Forever Mine (The Forever Series #2) Read online

  Christopher was coming to stay with the Boltons! Why would he? He had to be aware of how gravely it would hurt her, yet apparently he would proceed anyway. For a wild, frantic moment, she was afraid she might go mad from the stress that had been created by her knowing him.

  “Will that be all, Priscilla?” She modulated her voice so not a hint of emotion poked through. “May I be excused?”

  Priscilla glanced up. “Are you still here? Yes, you may be excused.”

  She went back to nibbling on her food. Catherine slinked out, wondering how long Christopher intended to tarry, wondering how she would survive the ordeal.

  * * * *

  Christopher roamed the Bolton’s town house. The rooms were packed to the rafters, and when he couldn’t find who he was searching for—that being Catherine—he strolled out onto the verandah.

  He’d been terrified she might have vanished already, but he’d heard a footman mention her shopping with Priscilla that morning so his trepidation had waned. She was still in residence, but he simply couldn’t locate her.

  With his apprising Priscilla he’d come to town after all, the Boltons had hosted a supper party to introduce him to Mr. Bolton’s business associates. They were self-made men who owned factories, manufactured products, and distributed goods stored in large warehouses. They were all involved in trade, and he had naught in common with any of them.

  “It’s soon now, eh?”

  He spun to see his future father-in-law approaching.

  “Until what?” he stupidly asked.

  “Until the wedding.”

  “Oh.”

  Two months and nineteen days…

  At realizing he’d been counting off the time so meticulously, he felt as if he was choking, and he tugged on his collar.

  “How long will you remain in town with us?” Mr. Bolton inquired.

  “It’s just a quick visit, then I’m needed at home. We’re busy with planting and whatnot.”

  He had little to do with the actual running of his farm, but it was an excellent excuse. Mostly, he dawdled in town, reveling like a fiend as his bachelorhood wound down.

  He couldn’t imagine himself married to Priscilla. Nor had he—after Richard’s death—been Mr. Bolton’s first choice as her spouse. The size of her dowry had spurred him to hunt for an aristocrat, but he hadn’t been able to land one. They’d settled on Christopher, and he’d settled too. What was left for all of them but to march to the bitter end?

  “I must issue a word of warning,” Mr. Bolton said.

  “About what?”

  Appearing embarrassed, Bolton hemmed and hawed, then forced out, “I’m sorry, Kit, but Priscilla doesn’t like Stanton Manor.”

  “That’s not a secret. She’s complained to me at least a hundred times.”

  “She’s asked me to buy the two of you a different property as a wedding gift.”

  Christopher bristled with indignation. “I hope you told her you wouldn’t.”

  “I absolutely told her I wouldn’t,” he firmly stated, then he flushed with chagrin. “Well…ah…that’s not entirely correct. I might have claimed I’d think about it. She has a temper, and I’d really rather not argue with her.”

  “I understand.” Christopher sighed. “What pretext will you use when she figures out you weren’t serious?”

  “I’ll have Gertrude talk to her, and if that doesn’t work I’ll tell her you put your foot down and refused to allow it.”

  “You’ll let me be the one to disappoint her.”

  “Basically…yes. Much easier that way. And shrewder too. I never could rein in her worst excesses. I’m predicting you’ll be much better at it.”

  Gad, even her own father couldn’t control her. Would Christopher lock her in a convent before they were through?

  “You not giving me much of a reason to proceed,” he said.

  “Of course you’ll proceed,” Mr. Bolton huffed. “You’re an honorable man, and you would never cry off. She’s merely a bit high-strung.”

  “A bit?”

  “All right, quite high-strung, but no bride is perfect.”

  “No, no bride is.”

  He stared out across the garden. The groomed paths led to the river, and he saw a woman down by the water. Was it Catherine?

  He wished his parents were still alive, his mother especially, so he could confer with them about the pending nuptials. Would she advise him to renege? Or would she feel he should buck up and do his duty?

  Mr. Bolton was certain Christopher would act appropriately, and Priscilla assumed he was desperate to get his hands on her dowry and would tolerate any amount of abuse so it would happen. But would he?

  Since meeting Catherine, he wasn’t sure.

  She had adored his dilapidated old house. She was kind and smart and interesting. She was incredibly fond of him. She had every trait to be a terrific wife—except that she was penniless.

  When she was marvelous but poor, and Priscilla was horrid but rich, yet he would pick Priscilla anyway, it definitely had him questioning what sort of moral character he possessed deep down.

  “Would you excuse me, sir?” he said. “I believe I’ll walk in the garden. I could use the fresh air.”

  “Go, go, Kit. Enjoy yourself.”

  He waved Christopher away, then went inside. Christopher dashed down into the garden, anxious to escape before anyone cornered him to extol Priscilla’s virtues and compliment him on the fine choice he’d made in selecting her. It was growing harder and harder to conceal his true opinion.

  He hurried toward the river, and he stumbled on Catherine without too much searching. She was sitting on a bench and peering out at nothing. It was very dark, with boats bobbing at anchor in the middle of the channel, their lanterns swinging with the current. A single lamp hung from a post over her head, golden light washing over her.

  “Hello, Catherine,” he murmured.

  She didn’t glance up. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find me.”

  “I’ve been looking for you ever since I arrived.”

  She was quiet for an eternity, clearly wanting him to leave, but he wasn’t about to.

  It was insanity for him to be in London, to be ensconced in the same residence with her, and he hadn’t meant to behave so recklessly, but when the Boltons had returned to London without his seeing her again he’d been bereft, as if his soul couldn’t bear to be so far away from her.

  The lone option he’d devised was to plant himself inside Mr. Bolton’s home so he could be with her occasionally. But now that he was actually in town and his bags placed in a guest bedroom, he was afraid he’d finally gone mad.

  “I’m hiding for a reason,” she ultimately said.

  “I know.”

  “You shouldn’t have come to town.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Or if you felt compelled to come, you shouldn’t have stayed here.”

  “I couldn’t be away from you.”

  She pulled her gaze from the water and frowned up at him, her expression tormented and troubled.

  “I love Stanton Manor,” she said.

  “I’m glad. I love it too.”

  “I wish it was mine. I’m practically sick with yearning over it.”

  “If it was possible, I’d be delighted with that conclusion.”

  “Priscilla expects me to accompany the two of you when you socialize.”

  “I figured she would.”

  “You have to convince her to take someone else as a chaperone.”

  “I’ll try. I doubt I’ll have much luck.”

  “If you can’t persuade her on an easy topic such as bringing a chaperone, how will you deal with her during your marriage when there are real issues at stake?”

  “It’s too late to worry about it.”

  “I suppose—if she becomes too difficult—you’ll banish her to the country and live separate lives.”

>   “Probably.”

  “It’s killing me to have you in London.”

  “There’s a simple solution, Catherine.”

  “What is it?”

  “I told you in your bedchamber at Bolton House. You can be my mistress.”

  “I can’t believe you asked me again.” Her tone was scolding. “What has altered from that night to this night? My answer is still no.”

  “Just say you agree, and I can have you removed from here tomorrow morning.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “From my perspective, your life seems particularly horrid.”

  “It can be.”

  “I’d think you’d latch onto anything that might change it.”

  “Not anything,” she declared. “That’s what you don’t understand about me.”

  “Let me take you away from them,” he urgently beseeched. “Let me fix what’s wrong. Let me make you happy.”

  “You’d support me with Priscilla’s money.”

  “It will be my money.”

  She scoffed with derision. “If you had any idea how awful that sounded to me, you wouldn’t talk that way.”

  “It will be mine, Catherine. It’s why I’m marrying, and if I can’t spend it as I please, what’s the point?”

  “What’s the point indeed?”

  They stared, an impasse as vast as an ocean opening between them.

  “I intend to have a mistress after I’m wed,” he bluntly advised her. “I’ve thought it should be you since the moment we met.”

  “If you are so completely positive that your marriage will be dreadful, why proceed down the road you’re on?”

  “I’ve explained why so it’s ludicrous to debate. I’ve offered you what I can. Bind yourself to me in the sole manner it can occur.”

  “The only binding I would ever contemplate is through matrimony. I don’t know how to be any clearer about it.”

  “If you won’t consent to have me, I’ll pick a different woman. Is that what you want?”

  She stood. “I won’t discuss this with you.”

  He yearned to pull her into his arms, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he laid a hand on her wrist. “Tell me you could bear it if I choose another. Tell me you could live with yourself, realizing it could have been you.”

  “Once I leave Mr. Bolton’s employ, I really don’t expect I’ll ever bump into you again. Your marriage and your adulterous affairs will be none of my business. I’m certain—after a sufficient interval has passed—I won’t think about you at all.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I absolutely do.”

  “We could be so happy!” he insisted.

  “You could be happy in such an illicit arrangement. I never could be.”

  Behind them, a couple approached. They were amiably chatting, and she glanced over her shoulder at them and said, “I should get back to the party. Priscilla is probably looking for me.”

  She started off, and he walked with her. They nodded to the other couple, acting as if they were barely acquainted, as if they were two strangers who’d crossed paths in the garden. Very soon, they were at the verandah.

  “It was lovely to see you again, Mr. Stanton,” she coolly said.

  “And you as well, Miss Barrington.”

  “Welcome to London.”

  She smiled a fleeting smile, then strolled inside. He dawdled in the shadows like the besotted fool he was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Catherine was walking down the busy sidewalk with Priscilla and Libby. They’d stopped by Madame LaFarge’s shop to check on Priscilla’s trousseau, and they were proceeding to their carriage. They’d return home where she’d be expected to endure another evening with Christopher in residence.

  Priscilla was chattering away, but Catherine was so distracted she couldn’t listen. As usual, Priscilla had to keep repeating herself.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Honestly, Catherine,” Priscilla snapped, “pay attention. You’re absolutely preoccupied.”

  “I was thinking about my errands.”

  “I don’t care about your stupid errands!”

  “I have a terrible headache. Could we please not bicker?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re flagging again. I swear you suffer from more petty ailments than any female who ever lived.”

  “I’m not flagging. I’m simply weary today.”

  Libby unhelpfully offered, “Perhaps it’s your time of the month.”

  Priscilla scowled. “I’m not about to discuss bodily functions with either of you.”

  Libby snorted with amusement, but didn’t add anything further.

  “I like how my new ball gown is coming along,” Priscilla said. “That’s what I was talking about, Catherine. I want to wear it with my birthday emeralds that Father gave me last year. Would emeralds be appropriate? What is your opinion?”

  “They’d be splendid.”

  “But I can’t find the rings. I looked in my jewelry boxes, but they’re not there.”

  Libby tamped down a sound as if she was choking, and Catherine glanced at her, then said, “You probably just misplaced them. I’ll look for them for you.”

  “Might one of the housemaids have stolen them?” Priscilla asked.

  “No!” Catherine insisted.

  “You’ve met all of them now. Would you suspect one of them over another? It would be such a scandal if I had to have somebody arrested.”

  “I don’t suspect any of them, and no one is being arrested. I’m positive the rings will turn up with a bit of searching.”

  Priscilla halted abruptly and went into a hat shop, not noticing that Catherine had remained outside. She took several deep breaths, struggling to calm down and locate her equilibrium.

  Priscilla had refused to let her visit Mrs. Ford, and Catherine couldn’t bear to delay until the next Wednesday so she’d written to Mrs. Ford instead. Then she’d bribed a footman to drop off the letter when he was out. Lest her note fall into the wrong hands, she’d been vague in her explanation of the problem she was having with the Boltons, but she’d begged to be reassigned.

  The footman had brought back the penned reply that there were no other posts available, and Catherine had signed a contract to work for the Boltons until the end of September. Mrs. Ford had been adamant that Catherine stay until then.

  As to her query over the whereabouts of her sisters, Mrs. Ford hadn’t mentioned them or provided any information.

  It would be the following Wednesday before Catherine could call on Mrs. Ford in person, and the distance to Wednesday stretched like the road to Hell.

  Christopher would be in London for at least a week, and Priscilla needed a chaperone at two soirees, a ball, a musicale, and a trip to the theater. Catherine was seriously wondering if there was a cliff nearby so she could throw herself off it.

  “Would a servant have stolen her rings?” Libby asked.

  “I can’t imagine one of them would dare. The consequences would be too dire.”

  “I agree with you that she simply misplaced them, and I hope you can convince her. I’d hate to have her start accusing someone who’s innocent.”

  Priscilla banged on the window, and Catherine peered over to see Priscilla waving her in. She had an elaborate bonnet on her head that was much too big and swallowed her face, but if she thought it was flattering there would be no dissuading her.

  “What do you think?” she asked as Catherine entered the shop.

  “It’s lovely.”

  On hearing Catherine’s response, she said to the clerk, “I’ll take it.”

  She had an account at the store so the clerk knew where to send the monstrosity. He promised to have it delivered later that afternoon.

  They exited the shop, and Libby was waiting for them. They strolled down the street again w
hen a carriage pulled up on the other side. A man climbed out, and Priscilla stopped and glared at him.

  “Isn’t that Kit?” she inquired.

  Libby and Catherine exchanged a scowl, and Catherine blanched as she brazenly lied. “I can’t tell from here.”

  Priscilla sharpened her focus. “It is Kit.”

  He was standing on the sidewalk, and he reached up to assist a young lady who’d been in the vehicle with him. He swung her down and out, both of them laughing as he set her on her feet.

  Her gown was red and cut low to reveal plenty of bosom, and she was extremely voluptuous, with lush auburn hair that curled down her back. A stylish hat trailed feathers and lace. She was beautiful and graceful, perhaps a famous actress or singer.

  Christopher helped another woman out, one who was just as beautiful and attired just as provocatively. Then a second man climbed out, and when Libby espied him she gasped with dismay and clapped a palm over her mouth as if she might be ill.

  “Don’t I know him?” Catherine asked her.

  “Maybe.”

  “Isn’t he your friend, Mr. Swift?”

  “Yes.”

  He was the fellow who led Libby out into the dark woods when she was at Vauxhall, the fellow she was counting on to be her husband, but also the fellow Christopher had claimed would never wed her—no matter what.

  Libby appeared stricken and obviously in need of comfort, but Catherine was deluged by her own misery and too shocked to worry about her.

  Christopher had warned her he would find a mistress, and she’d understood that he would, but she hadn’t realized he’d act so quickly. She was crushed in a way that was insane.

  What was it to her if he’d already picked a paramour? What was it to her if the woman was stunning? There were always females in the world who were willing to debase themselves to garner what they wanted, but Catherine wasn’t one of them. It was ridiculous to feel sad or jealous. It was ridiculous to feel anything at all.

  Priscilla was riveted on her betrothed, and she watched as the two couples sauntered off arm in arm.