for you to be conveyed home, and I’ve inadvertently countermanded them. I would never forgive myself if anything were to happen.”
“And what do you imagine might happen to me between here and home? This is London, you know, not the wilds of America.”
He laughed cooperatively at her feeble attempt at humor, while she wondered why that particular analogy had leapt into her mind. Obsessed with things American, perhaps? she questioned herself mockingly.
“I really insist on being allowed—” her escort began, and was quickly interrupted.
“And I must insist that I’m better off alone. Please. I really am not well, and I’m afraid this pointless argument…” As an added inducement, she pulled her small lace handkerchief from her glove and pressed it delicately against her lips.
Although still worried about the impropriety of allowing her to depart without escort, Dellwood was forced to agree. As Catherine had logically pointed out, thiswas London. What could possibly happen to the Duke of Montfort’s daughter while being transported to her home by her father’s own coachman?
The rain that had been a shower at the beginning of the evening had turned into a deluge, but through the solicitude of Lady Barrington’s servants, Catherine was put into the coach, suffering no more than a drop or two spotting the emerald silk. She sat morosely in the darkness of the swaying carriage, listening to the pounding fury of the storm against its roof. She was angered and bewildered by Gerald’s attempt at domination tonight. And, she was honest enough to admit, to herself at least, she was again disappointed that she had not at some point in the evening found two piercing blue eyes meeting hers with unusual directness. She missed the excitement her encounters with the American had added to her existence, and if she were completely honest, she knew that she also missed the man himself. Her lips moved into a slight smile, again remembering.
The small jolt of the carriage as it drew up to its destination pulled her attention from those memories, and she gathered her skirt in preparation for the descent into the driving rain. The door was opened and an enormous black umbrella held over her to shelter her from the deluge. Hurrying down the steps the coachman had dropped, she ran, head lowered against the force of the blowing rain, toward the welcoming glow that shone into the dark street from the door of the town house.
She heard it close behind her as she was shaking raindrops from her ball gown. She turned to hand her gloves and reticule to Hartford and found she was standing in the foyer alone.
In a foyer she had never seen before in her life. It took a moment for the reality of that to sink in. She was not in her father’s town house. There had been some terrible mistake.
“Good evening,” a deep voice intoned from the shadows at the end of the enormous hallway. She glanced up to find John Raven standing there, quietly watching her. His voice had echoed slightly across the empty expanse of softly gleaming black and gray squares of Italian marble that stretched between them.
She swallowed against the fear that constricted her throat. He had brought her here to avenge himself on her for what her father had done. She turned to the door behind her and began struggling to open it, her fingers trembling uncontrollably.
Before she could manage the intricacies of the unfamiliar lock, his beautifully shaped hand, which she had admired caressing Storm that day, gently closed over hers and removed them from the door. He turned the key that was in the lock and, removing it, placed it in his waistcoat pocket.
Catherine’s fear was reflected in the strained face she raised to his, so he smiled at her before he spoke. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Raven promised softly. He hated making her afraid, especially afraid of him.
“What do you want?” she whispered past the unfamiliar tightness that threatened to block her throat.
His mouth moved slightly, the corners deepening. “I thought I had made that perfectly clear. Even your father finally managed to understand what I want,” he answered, and she was allowed to read his amusement.
Catherine was beginning to calm down, Raven’s quiet humor making her believe that he really didn’t intend her harm. There was no anger in his tone or posture. Apparently he didn’t intend to seek revenge for the father’s insult by ravaging the daughter, but she could still see the mark the crop had made that day faintly lined on his cheek.
Raven let her study his face a moment, and then he said, “There’s nothing to be frightened of here.”
Somehow, she found herself believing him. But he must know—surely he must know, even stranger that he was— what being found in such a situation would do to her reputation.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, and then wondered for the first time how that had been accomplished. “And how? That was my father’s coachman. I saw him quite clearly before, at Lady Barrington’s. He would never—”
“He has an invalid wife and a multitude of children.”
“Youbribed him?” she asked, unable to believe that Tom would betray her for money.
“He was very concerned about you. But I gave him my word that you would come to no harm at my hands.”
“And he believed you?”
“Of course. He seems to be an excellent judge of character. He likes you very much, but he thinks your father’s a bastard.”
“You and the coachman discussed my father?” she asked. This must be some sort of nightmare. Soon she’d wake up, and she would still be on the dance floor, safely waltzing through another evening of deadly sameness.Safe, she thought longingly.
“Not at length. But we found ourselves in perfect agreement, I assure you.”
“Why did you bring me here?” She was beginning to be able to control her fear. To be able to think.
“I wanted to show you something. Two things, really. Both of which I thought you should see.”
“You abducted me toshow me something?” she repeated carefully. “And when I’ve seen whatever it is?”
“Then I’ll arrange to have you taken home. If you decide that’s what you want.”
“If I decide…?” Her voice rose. “What else do you imagine I would want?” She paused and took a breath, again seeking control. “Of course I shall want to be taken home.”
“Perhaps not. We won’t know until we’ve completed our business.”
Business, she echoed mentally, wondering with irritation if that was all John Raven ever thought about. Apparently he had kidnapped her to discuss business. She felt a spurt of fury. She’d been abducted by a man whom, she admitted, she was fascinated by, and all he wanted to do was to talk business. As if she were some solicitor or shopkeeper instead of what she was—the acknowledged toast of the last two London seasons. The final thought was reassuring in light of his disinterest.
She glanced up and realized he knew exactly what she was thinking. His amusement was obvious in that dark face. His eyes, which were warmer than she had ever seen them, displayed a clear understanding of her disappointment.
“Then why don’t you show me whatever you’ve brought me here to see and let me go home? The
