fancy dinner and cleaning of the public rooms for a party she was planning the next evening. Wiggins had said nothing as they supervised maids and footmen, though both knew it was wasted effort. This would be another in a long line of entertainments that were not held. Few people were willing to endure recitals at the Braxtons’, so they usually found excuses to turn down invitations.
Dru and Horty had been equally annoying, demanding endless help with their wardrobes and creating petty chores to relieve their irritation at Damon’s absence. They had eagerly overdressed to attend a village fete celebrating the nuptials of Major Kersey’s grandson. When the earl did not appear, their disappointment surfaced as bad-tempered demands on Catherine, though it was obvious why he had stayed away. One of their quarrels revealed that both had sent word to Devlin Court that they would be attending. While they had been searching for him in the village, he had been in the clearing.
Pressing her face into the pillow, she reviewed that meeting. Damon had changed in eight years. Instead of a young man on the verge of maturity, he was now powerful and hardened in ways she could only imagine. As usual, his tawny curls raged in longish riot around a broad face whose amber eyes and flat nose had always reminded her of the lion in one of her picture books. But the face had aged. Browned by the Spanish sun, it now bore lines about his eyes that hinted at incessant squinting to discern distant movement of the enemy. And it bore other lines – from grief and pain? – across his forehead. His body was as solid as ever, but instead of comfort, it now radiated strength, and something else. Anger?
But she had dwelt on the subject longer than was prudent. It had been good to see him again, but she wished she had not. Their meeting recalled all that she had lost. Normally she was content with her lot, but once in a while something happened to illustrate just how far she had fallen. Even this room and this bed irritated her tonight, though it had been years since she had last noticed her surroundings. She now lived on the nursery floor in a room last used by her grandmother’s companion.
She could not recall the change. It had occurred while she was immersed in grief. Her aunt blamed the doctor, who had recommended a change of scene – or so they claimed. She knew the real reason was to remove the poor relation from one of the best rooms in the house. And she could hardly expect to live with the family. But at the moment it was difficult to appreciate a room no better than that occupied by her aunt’s maid.
Sleep still would not come, and she finally admitted that she was deliberately focusing on her position in a futile attempt to ignore Damon’s revelations.
He had set her mind to rest about Peter, and for that she was grateful. She had often been plagued by visions of her brother lingering in agony or hopelessly disfigured. Battlefield tales appalled her. She’d heard of men who had been blown to bits and others who had died slowly and painfully of gangrene or infection. Afterward, she’d suffered hideous nightmares in which Peter met a similar fate. Stories describing how scavengers stole uniforms, weapons, and even teeth from the dead had kept her awake for weeks. That Peter had died cleanly and been removed to Damon’s keeping even before the battle ended was a great comfort. She only wished that she had learned those details years ago.
It was Damon’s other claims that shocked her. A betrothal. He could not have invented that story. Nor was he the sort who would misunderstand a vague comment. Once Uncle Henry mentioned it, Damon would have pried loose every detail. If he believed the betrothal was a settled fact, then he must have been told so. But why would Uncle Henry lie about so momentous a subject?
She frowned and again shifted position, staring morosely at the ceiling. It was possible that Uncle Henry had exaggerated. He
Dru and Horty had been equally annoying, demanding endless help with their wardrobes and creating petty chores to relieve their irritation at Damon’s absence. They had eagerly overdressed to attend a village fete celebrating the nuptials of Major Kersey’s grandson. When the earl did not appear, their disappointment surfaced as bad-tempered demands on Catherine, though it was obvious why he had stayed away. One of their quarrels revealed that both had sent word to Devlin Court that they would be attending. While they had been searching for him in the village, he had been in the clearing.
Pressing her face into the pillow, she reviewed that meeting. Damon had changed in eight years. Instead of a young man on the verge of maturity, he was now powerful and hardened in ways she could only imagine. As usual, his tawny curls raged in longish riot around a broad face whose amber eyes and flat nose had always reminded her of the lion in one of her picture books. But the face had aged. Browned by the Spanish sun, it now bore lines about his eyes that hinted at incessant squinting to discern distant movement of the enemy. And it bore other lines – from grief and pain? – across his forehead. His body was as solid as ever, but instead of comfort, it now radiated strength, and something else. Anger?
But she had dwelt on the subject longer than was prudent. It had been good to see him again, but she wished she had not. Their meeting recalled all that she had lost. Normally she was content with her lot, but once in a while something happened to illustrate just how far she had fallen. Even this room and this bed irritated her tonight, though it had been years since she had last noticed her surroundings. She now lived on the nursery floor in a room last used by her grandmother’s companion.
She could not recall the change. It had occurred while she was immersed in grief. Her aunt blamed the doctor, who had recommended a change of scene – or so they claimed. She knew the real reason was to remove the poor relation from one of the best rooms in the house. And she could hardly expect to live with the family. But at the moment it was difficult to appreciate a room no better than that occupied by her aunt’s maid.
Sleep still would not come, and she finally admitted that she was deliberately focusing on her position in a futile attempt to ignore Damon’s revelations.
He had set her mind to rest about Peter, and for that she was grateful. She had often been plagued by visions of her brother lingering in agony or hopelessly disfigured. Battlefield tales appalled her. She’d heard of men who had been blown to bits and others who had died slowly and painfully of gangrene or infection. Afterward, she’d suffered hideous nightmares in which Peter met a similar fate. Stories describing how scavengers stole uniforms, weapons, and even teeth from the dead had kept her awake for weeks. That Peter had died cleanly and been removed to Damon’s keeping even before the battle ended was a great comfort. She only wished that she had learned those details years ago.
It was Damon’s other claims that shocked her. A betrothal. He could not have invented that story. Nor was he the sort who would misunderstand a vague comment. Once Uncle Henry mentioned it, Damon would have pried loose every detail. If he believed the betrothal was a settled fact, then he must have been told so. But why would Uncle Henry lie about so momentous a subject?
She frowned and again shifted position, staring morosely at the ceiling. It was possible that Uncle Henry had exaggerated. He
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