Love and the Single Heiress

was Mrs. Ralston’s idea?”

Catherine nodded. “She told me she wished to write a book, but the crippling pain in her hands physically prevented her from being able to do so. I offered to be her hands.”

Unable to remain still any longer, she began to pace in front of him. “Writing the words that Genevieve dictated, being involved, was so exhilarating. It had been years since anyone other than Spencer had needed me, and I reveled in feeling useful. And as for the content, I found it fascinating. Stimulating. And all too much of it unfamiliar. It greatly gratified me to know that I was helping to provide women with information that I wished I’d known before I married. And, I confess that I took a perverse pleasure at the thought of setting the ton on its hypocritical ear. I relished the thought of anonymously doling out a rebuke for the cruel way so many of them had treated Spencer.”

She paused, then whirled to look directly at him. “Do you know what people I’d considered my friends whispered behind my back after Spencer was born? What my own husband said to my face?” Her hands curled into tight fists. “That there was no hope for him. That his deformity was hideous, and that no doubt his brain would be malformed as well as his foot. That he didn’t deserve to inherit the title. That it would have been better if he’d died.” Her voice broke on the last word. She didn’t even realize that tears ran down her face until a drop fell on her hand.

He came to her and cradled her face between his palms, brushing her wet cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m so sorry you and Spencer had to endure such unspeakable cruelty.”

“All I saw was my beautiful, sweet child,” she whispered, “his eyes filled with pain that had nothing to do with his infirmity each time some other ‘esteemed’ member of Society rejected him.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “But never in my wildest imaginings did it ever occur to me that by penning the Guide I would be placing myself, and therefore my son, in danger.” She raised an unsteady hand and rested it against his cheek. “And you, Andrew. Obviously Mr. Carmichael meant to harm me tonight. When you got in his way, he attacked you. You might have been killed.”

He turned his head to place a fervent kiss on her palm. “I have a very hard head. And clearly so does Carmichael. I thought I’d knocked him out.”

“Carmichael,”she repeated, frowning. “Is he not the man who identified the person who shot me?”

“Yes. A bit of a coincidence, that. And I’m not a great believer in coincidence. Based on his attacks tonight, it’s clear to me that Carmichael was involved in the shooting. In order to cast suspicion elsewhere, he claimed to be a witness and identified someone else as the perpetrator. The man taken into custody has repeatedly protested his innocence.”

A shudder ran through Catherine. She stepped back from him and wrapped her arms around herself. “I cannot believe that the Guide, scandalous as it is, would drive a person to murder. You saved my life.”

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am that it worked out that way. I could very well have killed us both.”

“What do you mean?”

“If that water was a few feet deeper, I’m afraid things would not have gone so well. I… I can’t swim.”

Catherine stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t swim. Not a stroke. Spencer offered to teach me. During our one lesson, it took nearly the entire time to coax me to simply stand in the water.” He paused, then added softly, “My father drowned. I’ve always feared the water.”

The area surrounding Catherine’s heart contracted then expanded. “Yet you didn’t hesitate to jump in for me.”

He reached out and lightly grasped her shoulders. “My darling Catherine, have you not realized by now that I would walk through fire for you?”

Her throat swelled. Yes, he would. It was all right there in his eyes, his emotions naked for her to see. Emotions she was not prepared to see. Emotions that frightened her. Terrified her.

“I… don’t know what to say,” she murmured.

“You do not need to say anything. Just listen.” Taking her hand he led her to the settee where he sat and gently tugged her hand until she settled next to him. “I have something to tell you, Catherine. Something I’ve agonized over telling you, but after almost losing you tonight, I simply cannot wait any longer.”

Catherine stilled. Dear God, was he going to tell her he loved her? Or worse, ask her to marry him? “Andrew, I-”

“It’s about my past.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his normally steady eyes reflected such torment and pain that her heart squeezed in sympathy. “Clearly whatever you wish to say is very difficult for you, Andrew.” She laid her hand over his in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Please do not distress yourself. It is not necessary for you to tell me.”

His gaze shifted to her hand resting upon his. After several seconds, he shook his head, then rose to stand before her. “I wish with all my heart that it wasn’t necessary, but you have a right to know. I need for you to know.”

He seemed to brace himself, then met her gaze squarely. “When I left America eleven years ago, I did so because I’d committed a crime. I escaped the country to avoid being hanged.”

“Hanged?” she repeated weakly. “What had you done?”

His gaze did not waver. “I killed a man.”

If she hadn’t heard the words come from his mouth, she would have suspected her hearing was afflicted. She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Was it an accident?”

“No. I deliberately shot him.”

“But why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because he killed my wife.”

Chapter 19

Today’s Modern Woman must be prepared to face the unexpected. Sometimes it can be delightful, such as a surprise gift from her lover, in which case a thank-you kiss is appropriate, which in turn may well lead to more delightfully unexpected things. Occasionally, however, the unexpected proves most unwelcome, in which case her wisest course of action is to say as little as possible, then quickly extricate herself from the situation.

A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore

Andrew watched all the color leach from her face as she stared up at him in mute, wide-eyed shock. Memories he’d fiercely fought to keep buried for years roared to the surface. Now that he’d begun, and there was no turning back, he was desperate to finish.

He wanted to look at her, but he simply couldn’t stand still. Pacing before her, he said, “My father was the stablemaster for a very wealthy, influential man, Charles Northrip. Father and I lived in rooms above the stable, and I grew up on the estate. I loved it there. Loved being with the horses. When I was sixteen, my father died, and Mr. Northrip promoted me to stablemaster.”

He paused and looked at Catherine, who sat ramrod straight on the settee and regarded him through solemn eyes. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the mantel clock. After resuming his pacing, he continued, “Mr. Northrip had only one child, a daughter named Emily who was four years my junior. I mentioned her when we made the strawberry ice.”

“Yes. I remember.”