Page 46 of Love Denied

Chapter Twenty-Two

Well, every one can master a grief but he that hasit.

—Shakespeare, Much Ado about Nothing

Catherine paced thedrawing room. She had resolved to speak honestly with Nicholas, but he’d left so early she’d had no chance. Now she was doubting the wisdom of such candidness. Did he need to know the truth? What was to be gained? It was still betrayal. She had been willing to forsake their love for another. What if he could not accept it? What would happen to Laurence?

A small breeze rippled through the open window. It was hot, even for July. She loved summer, when the light lingered long into the evening. She stared out at the fountain, its endless splashing audible. A memory of Nicholas teaching her how to swim floated through her mind. Would she ever feel so free with him again?

She’d actually found some peace during her visit with Sophia. The distance had removed her from the undercurrent of drama. Unable to suppress the emotional turmoil, she’d finally released a mass of pent-up frustrations.

Sophia had embraced Catherine as she’d sobbed her sorrow and anger. She’d held nothing back, had told Sophia everything. When Catherine had calmed, she’d feared Sophia’s censure. Catherine shouldn’t have doubted her friend. Sophia’s face had conveyed no judgment, only concern.

“Mia amica,” she’d murmured, brushing Catherine’s hair from her face. “You are the noblest woman, besides my mother, that I have ever known.” Sophia had leaned in and kissed Catherine’s forehead. Sophia’s amber eyes had darkened, glimmering with tears.

“While I understand why they asked it of you, it was not right that Daniel and your brother requested such a sacrifice.” She’d lifted her fingers to Catherine’s lips when she’d tried to defend them. “Hush. I have listened to you. Now you must listen to me.

“I have learned much in this life, mia amica. Too much, I feel some days.” She’d chuckled, but there had been real pain in her eyes. “There is no recourse for you but truth. It can do no more damage than has already been wrought. It may do some good. The truth may not make us free, but we cannot be free without it. Profound, is it not?” She’d laughed lightly. “I read that somewhere.”

Sophia had nurtured Catherine throughout the few days. They’d eaten, walked, talked. Sometimes, they’d simply sat quietly together, each with a book in hand. Although, Catherine had not read a word. She’d been too busy considering how to tell Nicholas the truth. When she’d left, Sophia had hugged her, then held her by the shoulders, her smile beaming and encouraging. “Now go home to that man you dreamed of for four long years, anddiamine, give me a happy ending!”

Home. Would Catherine ever consider this mausoleum her home? It seemed impossible. She watched a robin on the edge of the fountain, more shadow than bird in the fading light. It dipped its beak into the waters, then pecked at its feathers, executing its bathing ritual, its cleansing. That was what she needed. In truth, she needed full ablution.

Once again resolute, she turned from the window and strolled to the door. Fredericks carried a food tray, heading toward the stairwell.

“Fredericks?”

A smile lit his face. “Yes, my lady?”

“Is that His Lordship’s dinner?”

“It is.”

“Then he is up and about. Feeling well?”

“Yes, my lady. Last I saw him.”

“Then carry on. I shall come and keep him company during his meal.”

She followed Fredericks to the door that was discreetly hidden behind the stairwell. She braced herself—the lion’s den. She should have faced the man long ago. Fredericks opened the door and stood aside.

“Just lay it on the table.” The old hand waved in dismissal.

Despite the warm evening, a small fire burned. Lord Woodfield sat before it, a blanket pulled over his knees, a paper resting on his lap. He stared at the flames, his sagging skin sallow in the dim light. She thought of his once strong profile, his daunting presence. Sympathy welled, but she pushed it back down. He was no melancholy hound dog despite his appearance.

“Let me, Fredericks,” she said, loud enough for Lord Woodfield to hear.

“As you wish, my lady.” Fredericks smiled in encouragement before he disappeared, closing the door softly.

Setting down the tray, she took the chair on the other side of the small table and stared at the fire, not knowing how to start, not knowing where to start. Perhaps she should let him begin. A spark snapped. She waited, trying not to clasp her hands, focusing on suppressing the urge to wring the stress through them. A slow hiss fizzled from the grate.

“Come to gloat, gel?” he finally said, not bothering to glance in her direction.

Anger, long simmering, began to boil. “Gloat, sir? Gloat?” The man was insufferable. “What am I reveling in, Lord Woodfield?”

He turned to her, his breath rattling in his chest. She might have felt concern, but he was glaring at her, his pale-blue eyes piercing, his mouth drawn in disdain.

“You’ve managed to catch an earl after all.”

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