Free True Love by Flora Speer Page B

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servants who enter my room are middle-aged men. Why were you behind
that screen?”
    “We do have a large company of guests for the
servants to attend to,” Catherine responded sweetly. “I can hardly
send male servants to wait on a lady, can I?”
    “From what I've seen of your lady guests, it
might do them good,” Eustace grumbled. “Now, what did you hear
while you were hiding?”
    “Hear?” Catherine shook her head, doing her
best to appear puzzled. “I have been considering the menu for
tomorrow. Is there some dish you particularly favor? If so, I will
be happy to add it to the midday meal.”
    “I don't want anything to eat.” Eustace
scowled at her.
    “I fear that Sir Eustace is unwell this
morning,” Achard explained smoothly. “He has been complaining of an
unsettled stomach.”
    “Really?” Catherine eyed Eustace while she
considered the wisdom of making the obvious comment that his
stomach would not be unsettled if only he would drink less wine.
She thought better of it and asked instead, “Shall I prepare an
herbal remedy for you?”
    “You cannot imagine I would ever accept any
potion from your hands,” Eustace said rudely.
    “I was only trying to help.” To her relief
Catherine spotted Royce coming in from the bailey with Braedon.
Seizing the opportunity to get away from the surly Eustace, she
said, “If you will excuse me, good sirs, I must speak with my
father.”
    Not waiting for their assent, Catherine sped
across the hall. Neither Royce nor Braedon noticed her. Their heads
were close together, and what Catherine heard as she approached
them brought her to a sudden halt.
    “Achard intends to marry Catherine,” Royce
said. “He believes it is an alliance that will place him in a
perfect position to continue his—”
    “Don't stop on my account,” Catherine snapped
when Royce saw her and broke off what he was going to say. “Do
continue, please. My future is apparently the chief subject of
discussion this morning. First Achard and Eustace, now you and Sir
Braedon. But no one speaks directly to me about it. It's enough to
make me refuse all suitors!”
    “My lady, have you brought a bowl to fling at
us?” Braedon asked with a perfectly straight face.
    “A bowl?” Royce repeated, looking
baffled.
    “It is a most effective feminine weapon,”
Braedon explained, his eyes gleaming.
    “Don't you dare mock me!” Catherine thrust a
finger at his chest and Braedon took a step backward. “I am
heartily sick of men arranging my life, putting me off when I ask
questions, refusing to tell me anything! I will tolerate no more of
it! Do you understand?”
    “Mind your manners, Catherine,” Royce chided
her. “There are guests present.”
    “My lady,” said Achard from just behind her,
“if I have offended you in any way, I do most humbly
apologize.”
    Catherine whirled on him, angry words on the
tip of her tongue. Achard stood before her with one hand over his
heart and a supplicating look on his handsome face.
    “You are quite right to be distressed,”
Achard continued. “I ought not to discuss my romantic hopes, my
dearest dreams, with others until after I have laid my heart at
your lovely feet.”
    “Romantic hopes?” Catherine exclaimed. “My
lord Achard, you do not know me. You only met me yesterday. I dare
say, your hopes have more to do with my large dowry and my father's
high rank than with my person.”
    “And yet,” Braedon interrupted her tirade in
an oddly breathless voice, “it is possible for a man to be stricken
through the heart at his first sight of a lady.”
    “I warned you not to mock me!” Catherine was
unable to interpret the look on Braedon's face. She thought she
detected bitter humor in his glance, and cold determination in the
tight line of his mouth. His face and figure were rigid, as if he
was trying his best to conceal his true feelings. Catherine assumed
he was trying not to laugh at her. The assumption fueled her sense
of outrage