Page 35 of Courting Catherine
Her knuckles were turning white. “I suppose you think this—what I said—is part of Aunt Coco’s plans.”
“No.” He would have gone to her then if he’d dared. “No, of course I don’t.”
“Well.” She struggled to make her fingers relax. “That’s something, I suppose.”
“I know your feelings are honest—exaggerated perhaps—but honest. And it’s completely my fault. If this hadn’t happened so quickly, I would have explained to you from the first that I have no intention of marrying, ever. I don’t believe that two people can be loyal to each other, much less happy together for a lifetime.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He stared at her. “Because it simply doesn’t work. I’ve watched my father go from marriage to divorce to marriage. It’s like watching a tennis match. The last time I heard from my mother, she was on her third marriage. It simply isn’t practical to make vows knowing they’ll only be broken.”
“Practical,” she repeated with a slow nod. “You won’t let yourself feel anything for me because it would be impractical.”
“The problem is I do feel something for you.”
“Not enough.” Only enough to cut out her heart. “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out.” Blindly she turned for the door. “Good night.”
“C.C.” He laid a hand on her shoulder before she could find the knob.
“Don’t apologize,” she said, praying her control would hold a few more minutes. “It isn’t necessary. You’ve explained it all perfectly.”
“Damn it, why don’t you yell at me? Call me a few of the names I’m sure I deserve.” He’d have preferred that to the quiet desolation he’d seen in her eyes.
“Yell at you?” She made herself turn and face him. “For being fair and honest? Call you names? How can I call you names, Trent, when I feel so terribly sorry for you?”
His hand slipped away from her. She held her head up. Under the hurt, just under it, was pride.
“You’re throwing away something—no, not throwing,” she corrected. “You’re politely handing back something you’ll never have again. What you’ve turned out of your life, Trent, would have been the best part of it.”
She left him alone with the uneasy feeling that she was absolutely right.
There was a party tonight. I thought it would be good for me to fill the house with people and lights and flowers. I know that Fergus was pleased that I supervised all the details so carefully. I had wondered if he had noticed my distraction, or how often I walked along the cliffs these afternoons, or how many hours I have begun to spend in the tower, dreaming my dreams. But it does not seem so.
The Greenbaums were here, and the McAllisters and the Prentises. Everyone who summers on the island, that Fergus feels we should take note of, attended. The ballroom was banked with gardenias and red roses. Fergus had hired an orchestra from New York, and the music was both lovely and lively. I believe Sarah McAllister drank too much champagne, for her laugh began to grate on my nerves long before supper was served.
My new gold dress suited very well, I think, for it gathered many compliments. Yet when I danced with Ira Greenbaum, his eyes were on my emeralds. They hung like a shackle around my neck.
How unfair I am! They are beautiful, and mine only because Ethan is mine.
During the evening, I slipped up to the nursery to check on the children, though I know how doting Nanny is to all of them. Ethan woke and sleepily asked if I had brought him any cake.
He looks like an angel as he sleeps, he, and my other sweet babies. My love for them is so rich, so deep, that I wonder why it is my heart cannot transfer any of that sweet feeling to the man who fathered them.
Perhaps the fault is in me. Surely that must be so. When I kissed them good-night and stepped out into the hall again, I wished so desperately that rather than go back to the ballroom to laugh and dance, I could run to the cliffs. To stand at the cliffs with the wind in my hair and the sound and smells of the sea everywhere.
Would he come to me then, if I dared such a thing? Would he come so that we would stand there together in the shadows, reaching out for something we have no business wanting, much less taking?
I did not go to the cliffs. My duty is my husband, and it was to him I went. Dancing with him, my heart felt as cold as the jewels around my neck. Yet I smiled when he complimented me on my skill as a hostess. His hand at my waist was so aloof, but so possessive. As we moved to the music, his eyes scanned the room, approving what was his, studying his guests to be certain they were impressed.
How well I know what status and opinion mean to the man I married. And how little it seems they have come to mean to me.
I wanted to shout at him, “Fergus, for God’s sake, look at me. Look at me and see. Make me love you, for fear and respect cannot be enough for either of us. Make me love you so that I will never again turn my steps toward the cliffs and what waits for me there.”
But I did not shout. When he told me impatiently that it was necessary for me to dance with Cecil Barkley, I murmured my assent.
Now the music is done and the lamps are snuffed out. I wonder when I will see Christian again. I wonder what will become of me.
Chapter Seven
