Free Lady Catherin'es Scandalous Christmas by Maggi Andersen Page B

truth.”
    “A noble thought, indeed. And you have chosen
a time when England needs you. The English people suffer hardship
after the years of war.”
    “They do indeed. You’re a widow, I believe,
Lady Bellingham.”
    “Yes, for some years.” She wondered if he’d
inquired about her.
    “Many ladies remarry; why not you?”
    He had adroitly turned the topic onto her. “I
haven’t met a man I wished to marry. I very much doubt I will.”
    His gaze roamed over her. “Such a shame.”
    “Not at all,” she said briskly, attempting to
ignore his raised brows and emphasis on the word “shame.” “I enjoy
my life. I am blessed with good health and a comfortable fortune.
And I love to travel.”
    “Have you been to Yorkshire?”
    “I have. A beautiful part of the
country.”
    “We have our troubles in the North of England
too.”
    “Yes, I’ve read in the broadsheets about how
unpopular the Corn Laws have become, raising the cost of grain and
stirring up resentment amongst the people.”
    He nodded. “The price of bread is too high.
Many people go hungry and are desperately poor. The government is
under extreme pressure to act, or England could erupt in
anarchy.”
    His strong hand was warm on the small of her
back. Odd how such a small gesture could remind her of the lack of
intimacy in her life. She liked to be touched. Catherine was tall,
but he was a head taller than she was, and graceful for a big man.
She gave herself up to the dance, breathing in the scent of fresh
linen and spicy soap and something else, indefinably masculine.
    The music ended, and he escorted her from the
floor. “I should like to continue this conversation further. It’s
stuffy here in the ballroom, and so noisy. Would you care for a
breath of fresh air on the terrace?”
    She agreed, hiding her surprise. There were
many politicians here tonight who were no doubt discussing matters
of great importance.
    “It might be brisk outside. I’ll have a
footman get your wrap.”
    “Thank you.”
    Once Lord Berwick had placed her evening cape
over her shoulders, they walked out onto the terrace. A man and
woman were descending the steps to stroll the garden paths.
    “Shall we?” He nodded toward the garden. “Or
is it too chilly?”
    “Let’s,” she said, smiling, ignoring her
common sense, which was urging her to retreat inside. “It’s been a
mild winter to date, has it not? I’m not at all cold.”
    Moonlight muted the well-tended gardens.
Braziers threw haloes of light over the sandstone path, and colored
lanterns hung from the trees in a fanciful display. When a
nightingale’s song trilled though the soft night air, Catherine
might have suspected she’d walked into a fairy tale if their
conversation hadn’t remained anchored in everyday matters. She
enjoyed his company and was pleased when he sought her opinion on
several issues and listened intently to her answers. Widows
sometimes became invisible in society, and it was pleasant to have
an intelligent man interested in what she had to say.
    Intent on their discussion, they strolled on
through the purple shadows. Lord Berwick told an amusing anecdote
about the Prince of Wales that was a little risqué. They both
laughed. His shoulder brushed hers as he held a branch away from
her hair.
    “Just a moment.” He turned her toward him,
and she held her breath. “You have white petals in your hair.” He
plucked them out. “The moonlight has painted your hair silver.
Perhaps I should have left them there; they make a perfect
adornment.”
    “Petals would alert the guests as to where we
have been,” she said. “And may give the wrong impression.”
    He raised his dark brows. “Should we
care?”
    “It might be wise to.” She tried to read his
expression in the half dark. “We’d best turn back.”
    “Not yet. It’s delightful here, isn’t
it?”
    She breathed in the fragrant air. “Yes, it
is.” She didn’t want this special moment between them to end.
    He moved