Catherine woke with Marcus’ name on her lips. She blinked and shot upright, sending cold water sloshing over the sides of the tub and onto the floor. Shivering, for the bath water had long ago gone cold, she climbed out and wrapped herself in a soft cotton robe. The covers of her bed had been drawn back and without bothering to comb the tangles from her hair or even dry herself off, she crawled beneath the heavy quilt and let the pillow dry her tears.
Chapter Six
Five Months Later – London
For the first time since her debut, Catherine was not partaking in any of the balls, elaborate charity events, or intimate dinner parties that made up the Season. Surprisingly she missed nary a second of it, instead finding a quiet kind of comfort and joy from reading in front of the fireplace late into the night, taking strolls through Hyde Park with her friends, and spending time with her parents who had a residence only two streets over from her own.
From Marcus she had heard not a word and as the weeks turned into months she began to think of him less and less, until he only entered her thoughts once or twice a day. Despite her fervent attempts to the contrary she could not help but wonder where he was and what he was doing. Had he returned to Kensington? Was he spending his nights with someone else? Were they happy? Did he ever think about his wife?
“You are doing it again,” Grace chided gently, bringing Catherine back to the present.
The two friends were walking slowly through the middle of Hyde Park, their hands burrowed in fur muffs and their bodies layered in thick wool cloaks. It was late January in London, and winter had not been kind to the city. Their boots crunched over snow as they stepped to the side to let a sleigh pass and Grace teetered on a patch of ice before regaining her balance with a rueful smile and shake of her head.
A bit on the plump side with raven colored hair and sky blue eyes that bespoke of her Irish heritage, Grace was woefully uncoordinated. Her clumsiness was a bit of a running joke amidst her friends, but her potential suitors did not find it so amusing when she lit their sleeves on fire, spooked their horses, or – the worse yet – caused them to fall head first into ponds. As a result she was still unmarried at the rather advanced age of twenty four; a problem she seemed in no hurry to remedy.
“Doing what?” Catherine’s voice came out muffled as she gave the red scarf covering her face a firm upwards tug until only her eyes were visible.
“Thinking about Lord Kensington,” said Grace. Due to losing her scarf half an hour ago when she had fallen into a snow bank, her frown was clearly visible. “We have talked about this, haven’t we? More times than I can count! The man is an absolute scoundrel and you are lucky to be rid of him. We all agree.” By ‘all’ she meant, of course, herself, Margaret, and Josephine.
The four women fancied themselves the best of friends and had seen each through thick and thin since they met attending the same boarding school. They all would have been at Catherine’s side in a show of unanimous support had they been able, but Margaret had a touch of the flu and Josephine was on her honeymoon. Just married four days past, she had been whisked off to the coast of France by her new husband, Lord Traverson Gates, and would not be back until the end of the month.
“I know,” Catherine sighed. She tilted her head back to study the skeletal branches that stretched above them, clacking and hissing in the wind. The sun was near to setting and the dropping temperature caused a shiver to race down her spine. “Are you ready to turn back yet? It is getting quite cold.”
Grace stopped so suddenly her right foot flew out from under her and had it not been for Catherine reaching out to grab her flailing arm, she would have flipped top over tea kettle. Too used to her clumsiness to become flustered, she snickered under her breath and squeezed Catherine’s arm through her thick red cloak. “What would I do without you? Come along, let’s get you inside before you turn into an icicle. There is the cutest little tea shop right not too far off. Twinings, I believe it is called, after the owner Matthew Twining. Not terribly original, is it? And a bit conceited, if you ask me. Why, if I ever opened a small bookstore I would never call it ‘Graces’. Could you imagine what people would say? If I ever meet Mr. Twining you can be certain…”