Page 37 of Devoted to the Duke (The St. Clairs 1)

“You met her the night of the Wethersby ball. Lady Charlotte.”

His heart flooded with an ache he decided would never leave. “Ah, I do recall her. She was friends with Lady Amanda. And Lady Catherine, I believe.”

Morefield’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, that’s right. Charlotte and Lady Catherine are very close friends.” He paused. “I know you’re married now, Jeremy, but I must say that your choice surprised me. Especially when I saw how taken you were with Lady Catherine.”

“Same here,” Neville seconded. “I thought if any woman led you to the altar, it would be that one.”

Jeremy felt his face flush with anger. “Why would you bring her up?” he demanded quietly, so as not to draw attention. “I’ll admit I was enamored with Catherine Crawford. But I needed to wed swiftly, thanks to the debts my father left me. Marrying a dead woman wasn’t an option.”

Morefield and Neville looked at him blankly.

Finally, Neville said, “Why do you think she’s dead, Everton?”

He gritted his teeth. “You yourself told me not two weeks ago at Almack’s that you were sorry about... the situation.”

Neville frowned. “I did. And I am. What does that have to do with you believing Lady Catherine to be dead?”

Jeremy couldn’t understand why his friends tormented him. “I sent a footman with a message to her house the morning after the Wethersby ball,” he ground out. “He returned and told me of the mourning wreath on their door. How there’d been a terrible carriage accident and the earl was severely injured.” He swallowed. “And how Lady Catherine was pulled dead from the coach.”

He turned away, not wanting anyone present to see how upset he was.

Morefield touched his arm. “Jeremy, it was Lady Catherine’s mother who died at the scene. Not Catherine.”

Numbness filled him. “But...” No other words came.

Could he have misunderstood what the footman said?

He looked to his two friends, speechless.

“I thought you knew,” Neville said. “At Almack’s. I was referring to Lady Catherine being in mourning.”

Jeremy’s heart hammered wildly in his chest. He’d gone home to Eversleigh and buried his father. Then he’d returned to London and become absorbed with his financial situation. He’d seen no friends. Attended notonevents. Spoken to no one about Catherine.

And hadn’t known she was alive.

“It’s not common knowledge, but I know from Charlotte that the Earl of Statham was paralyzed that night,” Morefield added. “Lady Catherine wrote to Charlotte and told her how she has retired from society in order to care for her father.”

A low keening erupted from Jeremy. His knees buckled. Both friends grasped an elbow and led him from the room into the nearby study.

Once inside, he collapsed to the carpet, the pounding in his chest so painful he thought it might explode.

He had married the wrong woman—and would spend a lifetime in regret.

*

After three sniftersof brandy to dull his pain, Jeremy told his friends to leave. As they started to the door, he called out, “Stop.”

Both men turned, sympathy evident in their eyes.

“Not a word to anyone of this. Especially you, Morefield. I beg you. Say nothing to Charlotte. Catherine must never learn of my feelings for her.”

“You have my solemn oath,” his friend replied. “Charlotte would feel obligated to tell Lady Catherine of your affection for her. No good could come of her knowing, especially since you are now wed to Lady Mary.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy said hoarsely.

He watched them leave and then composed himself. Leaving the study, he saw the only guests that remained were Countess Lieven and the bride’s father. They were deep in conversation. Jeremy decided to step outside a moment, hoping the fresh air would clear his head.

Waiting at the curb was the Everton carriage and matching team to convey him and Mary to Eversleigh. He recognized one of the two footman as the man who’d delivered the note to Catherine and motioned him over.

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