“Oh, Max.”
He did not seem to hear the pitiful sound, because he went on heatedly, “There’s no point telling me everything that’s wrong with me, because I know all that by heart. I’m a bully and a ruffian and a drunkard and a gambler and I act before I think, always. I’m also short-tempered—and yes, mad, bad, and dangerous. Just as you are—which is why we suit so admirably.”
“Oh, Max,” she said once more, as a tear trickled down her nose.
He stopped pacing to glance at her. “There’s no use crying,” he said, his voice less assured now. “You can’t manipulate me with tears. I’ve made up my mind...” His voice trailed off. “Drat,” he muttered.
He stood uncertain for a moment, clenching his fists. Then he sighed, moved closer, and knelt before her. “Come, sweetheart, is it so bad? Don’t you like me even a little?”
“Oh, Max,” she cried. “I love you madly.”
In the moment it took him to digest this stupendous news, Lord Rand’s face lighted up. It turned, in fact, slightly red about the cheekbones.
“Do you, darling?” he asked tenderly, taking her hand. “Do you really? But of course you do—you must—as I love you.”
She stopped him with a small, sad gesture. “Still, I can’t marry you.” Before he could argue, she plunged on, desperate to put this agonising scene to a speedy end. “I can’t marry you—I can’t marry anyone—because I’m—oh, Max, I’m ruined, truly ruined.”
Lord Rand patiently told her that she was hysterical. Citing her shocking travail of the previous day, he generously excused her, in between telling her not to be silly.
Catherine knew she was not being silly—not, at least, about this. She found her handkerchief, wiped her eyes and nose, and confided as calmly as she could what Lord Browdie had told her about Cholly.
When she’d come to a shuddering end, Lord Rand drew her up from her chair and into his arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said softly against her curls. “That was a terrible thing for him to tell you, but it’s past and done. We’re going to be married. Forget Cholly and think about us—about our happiness.”
She pulled away slightly to examine his face. “Didn’t you hear me, Max? I just told you I’m not—not pure.”
“I’m not exactly Sir Galahad myself, sweet.”
“That’s different. Men are expected—oh, Max, you can’t marry me. A gentleman expects his bride to come to him untouched,” she patiently reminded, while her heart fluttered madly between hope and despair.
“I’m not like other gentlemen, as you well know.” He brought her near again and let his fingers play among the light brown curls. “Nor are you like other ladies. You’re Cat, the lady I found in a brothel, the lady who scolds me endlessly, the lady I love madly. Put Cholly out of your mind.” He lightly kissed her nose.
“Come, sweetheart,” he added when she did not respond. “It can’t be so hard. Browdie could have been lying—and if he wasn’t, you weren’t even conscious at the time. Besides, didn’t I break his nose that night? And yesterday I broke his jaw, I think. If you like, I’ll break everything else, but I do think the poor fellow’s paid dearly already.”
This was reasonable enough, though it was his peculiar sort of reason. Catherine let her anxieties evaporate in the warmth of his love.
“I suppose,” she murmured to his lapel, “if I don’t believe you, you’ll dash my head against the wall until I do.”
“I might,” he answered. “I’m very stubborn and ill-behaved.”
“Yes. No wonder I love you so.”
There was only one possible conclusion to this sort of intellectual exchange. Lord Rand tightened his clasp and kissed his darling thoroughly and repeatedly until they were both in a highly agitated state, not at all conducive to abstract reasoning.
Fortunately, Lady Andover put her head in the door at this perilous moment.
“That will be sufficient for the nonce, Max,” she said composedly. “You are wrinkling Catherine’s dress and Molly will be in fits. Now come out and talk to Edgar like a gentleman.”
Not all the viscount’s ranting, raving, and threats of violence could hasten the wedding day. Six unbearably slow weeks crept by because Lady Andover insisted that any earlier date would be unseemly as well as inconvenient. This would be the wedding of the year.
If Society was duly impressed with the result, Catherine and Max were not. They were oblivious to all that went on about them. Except for the moment when they were pronounced husband and wife, all that stood out for Max among the blur of chaotic activity was meeting Catherine’s formidable papa.
From all he’d heard and all he’d guessed, Lord Rand was expecting Attila the Hun. During the wedding breakfast, the viscount found his eyes drawn repeatedly to a pear-shaped man of middling height who hovered about his baroness like a sycophantic courtier.
Since Lord and Lady Rand would not commence their bridal trip until the following day, they spent their first night as a married couple in his townhouse amid a staff of deliriously happy servants. What the house needed, they’d all agreed long since, was a mistress. The master was universally adored, but he needed a deal of looking after. According to young Jemmy and the all-knowing Blackwood, Miss Pelliston was the only woman capable of managing this fearsome task. His lordship, Mr. Blackwood pointed out, was a handful, but his new wife was more than a match for him, despite her modest physical stature. Even Mr. Hill agreed dolefully that his master might have done worse.
That evening, therefore, Lord Rand and his bride supped quietly at home, surrounded by a beaming staff and a smug Jemmy, who insisted upon waiting at table with the other footmen.
After dessert was served and the room emptied of fawning menials, Lord Rand remembered the papa and teased his bride with charges of calculated overstatement.
“He was meek as a vicar, Cat. I’m sure he never had more than two glasses of champagne the whole time, and he sipped them like a deb at her first party.”
“I know,” she answered distractedly, her mind on other matters. “I scarcely recognised him myself. My stepmama appears to be an extraordinary woman.”
“Must be. Between her and my own Old Man, they’ve convinced your papa to take his seat in Parliament.”
“I can only hope the country will not suffer for it. Still, she has a way about her. She has only to raise an eyebrow at him and he’s subdued. I saw how she looked at him when he came up to greet us. He took my hand in the most courtly way and said I was a good girl and made him proud, and kissed me.” She touched her cheek. “He has never done that before. I nearly fainted from shock.”
Lord Rand casually mentioned that if such a trivial matter shocked her, he must be sure to bring burnt feathers and sal volatile to their bedchamber tonight. He glanced at her untouched dessert and wondered aloud if she was quite finished.
She had no time to answer. Jemmy instantly darted in and snatched up her dish. Likewise he removed the viscount’s plate, and with a knowing wink, took himself away.
Mr. Langdon had been awarded the signal honour of standing up for the friend of his college days. Rather like a consolation prize, he thought, as he settled himself into an armchair and opened his book. If the experience had not been altogether consoling, neither had it been a bitter punishment. One could not, should not feel bitter. Not when one saw the clear, bright face of love shining so happily upon its object. He had seen this when his two friends gazed at each other, and somehow that had heartened him.
Besides, as the Bard had said, “Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” Jack would not die, would not even sicken. Though the blow had staggered him it had not crushed him. He had actually gained a great deal from the experience. The trouble was, among the bits of wisdom he’d acquired was one new sensation: for the first time in his quiet, dreamy life he was lonely.
He closed his book and departed from his club unremarked by the increasingly boisterous crowd gathering as the evening
wore on. He stopped briefly at his home, where he collected a few belongings and ordered his horse. As the watchman announced to interested listeners that the sky was clear and the time was eleven o’clock, Mr. Langdon rode off into the night.
Lord Rand drew his bride close to him. “Are you all right, Cat?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, being preoccupied, perhaps, with locating a comfortable spot near his shoulder where she could nestle her head.
“Cat?”
“Oh, yes. I’m... well, that was rather...”