Dishonour and Desire. Juliet Landon

to Caterina’s amusement and very little cooperation. They had retired, licking their wounds, and he had begun to wonder whether it was her bright sparkling beauty they wanted or her dowry which, if not exactly prodigious, might have lured some of the more threadbare titles. But this man, Sir Chase Boston, had been less interested in the dowry than the idea of a challenge. It was strange, Stephen thought, that there were men who did not mind losing twenty thousand guineas.

      Conscience did smite Mr Chester, but not very hard and not where it hurt. He knew Sir Chase to be a notorious roué, a womaniser, a gambler, a hard-living hardplaying gallant: one could hardly ignore any of that. But he also had a title, of sorts, and wealth, and had offered to care for Caterina correctly, hitting the nail on the head when he’d suggested that a conventional husband might not be to her taste.

      It was hard to know, these days, what would be to her taste, but since she could not bring herself to marry an upright run-of-the-mill duke, then perhaps she might be won over by an extrovert baronet.

      Fingering the pattern on the crystal decanter, he sighed deeply. As for not putting any pressure on his wilful daughter to do her duty, well, Caterina knew all about the debt, and if she could be made to regard her future with Sir Chase as a duty to her family, then she might be persuaded to enter into the spirit of the affair with more seriousness than she had previously shown. Compared to an unhealthy IOU hanging over one’s head, what was a little fatherly pressure?

      Holding up the decanter by its neck, he tilted it this way and that against the light, wishing that Hannah had not, for once, watered his brandy down. No wonder Sir Chase had not been impressed. Nevertheless, he poured himself another tumblerful and carried it over to his magnificent burr-walnut desk, bought only recently at great expense.

       Chapter Two

      Turning the coffee-coloured phaeton through the massive wrought-iron gates of Sheen Court, Caterina held the dapple-greys to a steady trot into the avenue of elms, bracing her feet against the footboard and seeing, from the corner of her eye, how Sara clutched at her bonnet. ‘Take it off,’ she laughed. ‘Nobody will mind. Let the wind blow through your curls, as I do.’

      Good-naturedly, Sara grinned. ‘If I looked like you when it does, I would,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, I’d only look as if I should have worn a bonnet.’

      ‘Rubbish. They know how pretty you are, windblown or not.’

      At nineteen, Sara was very conscious of looking her best at all times while striving to emulate the poise and individuality that had radiated through her elder sister’s formative years. To Sara’s eternal chagrin, her own blonde prettiness was of the fragile kind that did not respond as it ought to attempts at the wind-blown look or to bold styles that showed off voluptuous curves, for Sara’s curves were not voluptuous. If anything, they required some assistance from handkerchiefs stuffed down the front of bodices.

      There were plenty of young men who preferred Sara’s delicate frame above anything, especially when it gave them opportunities to bestow those small courtesies men have in store for such females. Bestowing them on Miss Caterina Chester did not bring quite the same satisfaction, for there was always the impression that she found them amusing rather than touching, unnecessary rather than helpful. To the fair and fairy-like Sara, romance was like a minuet, slow, studied and graceful, with everyone knowing what to expect. It gave her time to think. To Caterina, romance was more like a rite than a dance, in which being was more important than thinking. She was waiting for it to happen to her again, but this time with a man who could hear the same primitive beat.

      Ahead of them, shining and silvery in the sun, the neo-classical stone façade of Sheen Court watched their approach through unadorned windows and a central portico that soared above both storeys on Corinthian columns. Three flights of wide steps rippled down to the drive between gigantic urns where Caterina brought her aunt’s phaeton to a perfect standstill. Footmen in grey livery ran to take the horses’ heads as a tall figure strolled towards them at a more leisurely pace, two brindled greyhounds loping at his heels. He was smiling.

      ‘It’s Lord Elyot,’ Sara whispered. ‘I never know what to say to him.’

      ‘It’s not Lord Elyot,’ said Caterina, ‘it’s his younger brother, Lord Rayne. Lord Seton Rayne.’

      There was something in the urgency of her sister’s contradiction that opened Sara’s blue eyes even wider. ‘You mean…Seton? The one you—?’

      ‘Shh! That was years ago. I didn’t know he was back home.’

      ‘Where from?’

      ‘The army.’ Caterina called to him as he came alongside and held a hand up to her in greeting. ‘Lord Rayne. What are you doing here?’

      ‘I lived here once. Remember?’ He laughed back at her with a flash of white teeth.

      ‘Heavens, so you did. I’d almost forgotten.’

      He was not meant to believe her. Nor did he. Holding up his other hand, he invited her down. ‘Come down here, Miss Caterina Chester, and let me remind you, then. And introduce me to your lovely companion, if you will. Or have you forgotten your manners, too?’ He caught her, returning her hug like a favourite brother, almost lifting her off her feet and whooping like a child.

      She had often wondered in what ways they would have changed since their last meeting. Then, she had said the same inadequate farewell as everyone else as he went off to join his regiment, the one in which his brother had served some years earlier. Then, she had vowed to shed no more tears for a man, and she had kept her word through the pain of rejection, and through the healing.

      It had been very civilised and well arranged. He had been as understanding and sorry at twenty-five as she had been at seventeen, and perhaps more kindly. He had explained that she was too young for him, that he was about to leave for a long spell of duty and that he was not the kind of man she deserved. He had been abroad, visiting seldom, and then only briefly. She had not believed then, nor did she now, that love had much to do with deserving, but she had accepted his explanation because it was sensitively given and because she had little alternative.

      Both Lord Rayne and his elder brother had had mistresses and clearly she was not his style, gauche and innocent and, though pretty, nothing like the raving beauty she was now. There had never been any kind of intimacy between them and she had no reason to reproach him except for not wanting her, for his behaviour had been utterly correct, if sometimes maddeningly confusing. For the last few weeks of their friendship, when matters had been resolved between them, they had been more like brother and sister than before, where affectionate bickering was a comfortable substitute for onesided adoration.

      For Caterina, it had been the hardest and most emotional lesson of her life, learned with Aunt Amelie’s help in lieu of a mother’s. Her dignity had won her aunt’s admiration, for this had all come at a time when her astonishing singing voice had just been discovered, her little feet placed on the first rung of stardom and her launch into the best society. It was for that very reason her widowed father had asked her widowed Aunt Amelie to be her chaperon.

      With her feet now firmly on the same level as Lord Rayne’s, she realised that her heart was not all a-flutter as she had thought it might be, and that, although she was delighted to see him again, he was even more like the adopted brother than the one she’d left behind all those years ago. Full of curiosity about what those years had done to him, she watched as he handed Sara down from the phaeton and was introduced to her.

      To anyone less familiar with every detail, the slight loss of weight would have gone unnoticed with the new soldierly bearing, the bronzed skin stretched more tautly over perfect cheekbones, the skin around the eyes rather more lined, weathered more than suffered. From what she’d heard, life in the Prince Regent’s own regiment, the 10th Light Dragoons, was never to be suffered, even at the worst of times, their reputation less for fighting than for just about every other masculine activity.

      Lord Rayne had changed physically less than Caterina, but he was still as handsome as he had been before, still as immaculately dressed,