‘I doubt anything will ever be all right again.’
Meredith squeezed her arm. ‘It will, trust me. I felt the same way with Marcus. Things will come out right in the end.’
But Catherine didn’t think so.
* * *
She still wasn’t convinced as she dressed for the evening trip to the chapel in a warm walking costume of deep-blue merino wool. Finn had to marry someone better than she and he would do it because of the thing she admired so very much in him—family before self.
It was Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, the one night she looked forward to above all other nights. But tonight the magic was missing. Catherine wished she could feel it. She’d hoped coming downstairs to join the gathering in the drawing room would lift her spirits. There was no reason to be glum. The drawing room was a picture-perfect image of holiday cheer.
The Yule log was in the giant hearth, burning brightly and warmly. A huge buffet of cold meats and breads was laid out, mugs of mulled wine were in the hands of the gentlemen who had cut the log and everyone else’s spirits were high. All about her was the merriment of the season. Meredith laughed up at Marcus, her face reflecting her joy. Alyson clung to Jameson Ellis’s arm with shy pride. Lord Richard smiled a greeting at her and she almost recoiled.
Catherine could hear her mother’s voice in her head: the youngest son of a marquess is quite a match for a gently bred girl, much higher than we could have hoped for. Beside Lord Richard, his sister positively beamed, looking well in a cranberry ensemble trimmed in white fur. Catherine’s stomach pitched. Lady Eliza knew something, anticipated something. Catherine knew it instantly. Lady Eliza expected an offer. All at once, pieces fell into place. Lady Eliza hadn’t come down to the village and neither had Finn. Finn had talked of desire and duty in the sleigh. It seemed the supreme confirmation that her mother had been right. She was the desire, Lady Eliza the duty, not the Caribbean and the earldom.
Catherine swallowed hard and tried to hide her growing disappointment. Soon, they’d bundle into coats and set off for the church. Maybe she could pray for a miracle. Guilt struck her for such a selfish thought on such a holy night, but the thought was there all the same.
* * *
Finn sat in the family pew, his mind swamped with guilt of all types: guilty pleasures, guilty thoughts. The guilty pleasure was his covert and somewhat dangerous effort to catch sight of Catherine across the aisle in the Emerson pew, an effort which required him to move his head without leaning forwards and setting his clothes on fire.
The latter was proving harder to do than one might expect given he had years of experience. Passing the light was a long-standing Christmas Eve ritual at the Deverill midnight service, the church taking on a peaceful cast as unlit candle after unlit candle was bent to the light of the lit candle next to it and so on until the place looked ethereal.
This year the peace of the candles did not have their usual effect on him. His thoughts were not centred on the vicar’s Christmas reading of the story from Luke or on the familiar hymns. His thoughts were centred most firmly on Catherine, even if he couldn’t quite see her in full, yet another source of guilt. His feelings had shamed her. He’d broken the most cardinal of rules instilled in him by his father when he’d come of age for women: treat women with respect. Never take from her what you cannot give back should the need arise to return it.
A more literal sort would think of this advice only as an approach to dealing with virgins and it was for the Channings of the world. But it was also more. Women had other items to guard beyond maidenheads. They had pride and they had reputations. He’d imperiled Catherine’s reputation last night with that dance. He’d not liked his mother taking him to task over it, but she’d been right to do it. Although he had not needed the reminder. He’d known the moment the dance had ended what he’d done.
But how could he have done differently? Finn leaned forwards, catching a glimpse of Catherine’s profile, of her auburn hair long and sleek in the candlelight, the light dancing across her fine features, the delicate curve of her jaw, and the perfect slope of her nose. He liked to think she felt his stare in that moment. She looked his way and smiled, then made a brief, panicked gesture at his coat. He pulled the candle away just in time to escape a singeing. He gave her a quick grin back and shrugged.
He was doing that a lot lately. Grinning. Smiling. Catherine brought it out in him, he supposed. His mistress had thought he never smiled. Perhaps he’d not had a reason to smile. But now that he had one, he had to figure out what to do about it. He knew what he wanted. It was just that it had happened so fast.