Free Household by Florence Stevenson

host’s smiling face, but that would serve neither himself nor poor Catlin O’Neill, whom he belatedly recognized as one he would be proud to have as his wife. Unfortunately, in lending himself to this scheme, he had lost her forever!
    “To Ireland and its green hills! You must drink to that, my poor child,” Sir Francis addressed Catlin. “Twill make you feel more the thing.” Taking a sip from his own glass, he added, “I, at least, will drink to Eire. And will not you, Richard?”
    “I will.” Richard sipped his wine, thinking it tasted more pungent than before and finding it more to his liking. Catlin, he noticed, had stooped weeping and was watching them narrowly. She was still suspicious, not that he blamed her, he thought resignedly.
    “You’ll not drink to Ireland?” Sir Francis visited a gentle smile upon Catlin. “And to your safe journey back to its shores?”
    “I... I will drink to that,” she said on a note of relief. “You will take me home?”
    “You’ll leave by dawning. My own yacht will bear you back to Ireland. You have my word on it.”
    Catlin visibly relaxed. She took a sip of the wine. “’Tis delicious,” she admitted almost reluctantly and took another.
    “From Italy’s finest vineyard,” Sir Francis repeated, moving toward the door. “I’ll see why they’ve not brought your gown, my dear. Also I must make plans for your departure.”
    Catlin sipped her wine. “I wish I might go now.”
    “Alas, ’tis not possible... the roads at night. I’d not send my worst enemy out upon ’em. Never fear. You’ll be waked in good time.” With a bow, he left, closing the door softly behind him.
    An uncomfortable silence fell. Richard could not bring himself to look at the girl he had wronged so grievously. And she, he knew, must be hating him. He drained his glass and summoning his courage looked at Catlin, finding to his surprise that she was clutching an empty goblet. She stared back at him, and it seemed to Richard that there was much less animosity in her attitude. He said tentatively, “I hope you are feeling better?”
    “I am that,” she murmured with a slight smile, eyeing him. Could it be appreciatively? Richard wondered with some amazement and decided he must be three-parts drunk if he thought that.
    “Should... should you care for another glass of wine?” he asked hesitantly.
    “I think I should.” She nodded. “’Twas mighty calming.”
    Richard rose immediately. For a moment, the room spun about him, which annoyed him. Generally he had a hard head, but he had not supped since early afternoon, he remembered. He walked carefully across the room and brought the decanter to a table near the sofa. Setting it down, he poured a full goblet for Catlin and one for himself.
    “I hope that’s not too much,” he said, sitting down gingerly at the far end of the sofa and half expecting her to either order him away or jump to her feet. She did neither. She merely took the glass and tilted it to her lips, not sipping it this time but drinking deeply, something Richard, himself, was quite unable to keep from doing. They finished at the same time, setting down their goblets in unison, their laughter also mingling.
    Catlin put out her little tongue and ran it slowly around her lips. “That was delicious.” She stretched out so that the tips of her bare toes were touching Richard’s thigh. Her pillow had dropped to the floor, but she did not seem to notice it.
    “Delicious,” Richard agreed. His heart was beating faster, and he was as sure of that as his desire for her was mounting. “More wine?” he asked.
    “Is there more?” She glanced at the decanter.
    “Enough,” he assured her huskily. Again he tipped the decanter, filling her glass a trifle fuller than his own and praying she would not notice it. She did not, but he noticed that she did not drink the wine as quickly as she had before. She sipped it slowly, eyeing him over the rim of the glass and smiling at