Private Passions Page 47

  Something decidedly unlike a blanket lay in the chest; something that felt unusually thick and cool to the touch. Lady Chiltern, thoroughly confused, drew the mass of fabric out into the firelight.

  It was a gown. Not just any gown; a House of LeClerc gown, if the minute stitches and elegance of its construction were anything to go by. Not a gown she had commissioned; she had already had her new wardrobe made, sewn by Jean LeClerc himself. But as Lady Chiltern took in the jewel-bright emerald satin, the elaborate loops and whorls of thread that made up the stylised flowers along the neckline of the bodice, she found herself wishing that she had requested something as daring as this.

  Perhaps Daisy or Iris had commissioned it. Lady Chiltern held it to her chest, trying to assess its shape, realising that it wouldn’t fit either Iris or Daisy with any great comfort. If anything, it seemed made for her. Her alone.

  A somewhat unusual Christmas gift—she certainly hadn’t requested such a fine present from her daughters. But it was the only reasonable explanation, and one that Lady Chiltern was beginning to like very much.

  The appropriate thing to do, of course, was put the gown back in the chest. It was Christmas gift, meant to be worn on Christmas Day, surrounded by one’s family and friends. Putting it on now, in the company of Carstairs, would be ridiculous.

  Tempting, though. He would finally see her at something approaching her best, and there would be no-one to impede his view. And if she put on this beautiful gown, this elegant, divine gown, perhaps she would find enough courage to continue the conversation she had so tentatively begun, before the roof fell in.

  As for how the conversation would progress… she simply could not imagine. Or rather she could imagine, in colourful if not specific detail, and her imaginings excited her as much as they frightened her.

  She was rather tired of being frightened. Tired of doing everything but exactly what she wanted; tired of hiding herself, denying herself, punishing herself. Tired, above all, of wearing widow’s weeds in remembrance of a marriage in name only.

  Catherine. She held the gown up. You are going to dress for dinner.

  She was taking more time than expected; far more time. Almost an hour, in fact. Carstairs understood Catherine’s love for books; he had often watched her reading out of the corner of his eye as he went about his duties, watching the delight in her face with a kind of rapt worship. But the house was cold—too cold for losing oneself in literature, however exciting the book.

  After a few more minutes had passed, he decided to go and look for her. Trying to dispel images of Catherine trapped under bookshelves or shivering in unexpected snowdrifts, he went to open to door—and stopped, sighing with relief, as the door began to open.

  ‘The girls have given me a gift. I found it quite by chance, and simply could not resist putting it on—forgive me.’

  Carstairs’ mouth fell open. He dimly knew that literally any other reaction was required, but all his body could remember how to do was stand still and stare.

  She looked glorious. He had never quite known how dresses worked; what they could give to a woman’s beauty, or what they could take away. This gown gave nothing to Catherine Chiltern—she was already beautiful—but it took away every ounce of sadness, tiredness, the sense of being burdened. Carstairs took in the green satin, the gold sprigs of flowers at the neckline, conscious that he was looking at Catherine as she had been many years ago. The Catherine he had seen when he had first arrived at Chiltern Manor, bag in hand; the Catherine who had seemed so very determined to be a happy wife, even if anyone with eyes could see that the duke cared very little about being a good husband.

  He couldn’t decide what he wanted to do most; rip the gown from her body, or kiss its hem. Undecided, agonised, he stared as he watched Catherine’s expectant face turn to worry.

  ‘Is there something wrong? Have I—I did not wish to—’

  ‘No.’ Carstairs shook his head, willing his body to comply. Certain parts of him had already quite escaped his control; he turned slightly, not wanting Catherine to see any evidence of his inopportune excitement. ‘It… it is a magnificent gown.’

  ‘Yes. I thought so.’ Carstairs couldn’t decide if Catherine’s voice contained triumph, or sadness. Perhaps it was both. ‘Now—I believe it is time for dinner. An early dinner, but dinner all the same.’

  It was indeed an early dinner, but a long one; a dinner that included oysters, champagne, and Catherine Chilton in a dress fit for a goddess. Carstairs wondered vaguely if a falling slate had killed him on the upper floor, and everything he was currently experiencing would turn out to be heaven. Yes, it had to be heaven; they were sat together on the rug by the crackling fire, like equals, eating and talking and laughing…

  But it couldn’t mean anything. On second thoughts, the evening felt like a particularly perverse circle of hell—but for once in his life, he felt happy to be damned. Damned, and eating a particularly good egg custard tart.

  It was almost as if nothing mattered, in the whirling heart of the snowstorm. He and Catherine were safe, warm, and alone. Alone, together, and free to speak in ways that danced on the threshold of danger.

  ‘I never knew you had worked as a cook.’ Catherine pressed her thumb to her mouth, gently removing the last crumbs; Carstairs couldn’t help but follow her hand with his eyes. ‘I cannot believe that fact has never been brought to light before now.’

  ‘Only in the regiment, a long time ago. And only because you asked me my opinion of the tart.’ Carstairs looked at the empty plate with a wry smile. ‘Rather good, from a professional standpoint. Better than anything I could have ever made.’

  ‘Soldier, cook, gardener, groom… so many endeavours. All of them so long ago.’ Catherine reached for another biscuit; Carstairs pushed the plate closer to her. ‘You have been the Chiltern butler for half a lifetime.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carstairs concentrated on his empty plate, unable to look into Catherine’s eyes. She would see the need burning there; the reason for his long employment. ‘A butler is a good station. Quieter than soldiering, less stable-cleaning than being a groom. And one can keep an air of mystery, if the lady of the house allows it.’

  ‘How very cutting—you know I can never allow a mystery. There are ever so many things I do not know about you, and thus I am at a considerable disadvantage.’ Lady Chiltern munched idly on another butter biscuit, her face taking on a slightly mischievous aspect. ‘I suppose I am not allowed to ask you questions.’

  ‘You have asked me more questions over the period of my employment than I could possibly count.’ Carstairs knew he was speaking a little too comfortably; the firelight and champagne were not helping his weakening resolve to be professional. ‘Answers are a different matter.’

  ‘So very severe. No wonder this house is run so very efficiently.’ Catherine finished her biscuit, pulling a blanket over her shoulders as the fire leapt higher in the grate. ‘I shall have to use all my powers of acuity… ah, yes. I think I have one.’

  Carstairs felt unaccountably nervous. ‘Ask.’

  ‘May I call you by your Christian name?’

  No. It will make tomorrow all the more difficult, knowing that it can never happen again. ‘I… I am not at liberty to stop you.’

  ‘Then you shall not, John Carstairs.’ Catherine smiled. ‘One question answered in a most satisfying fashion, John. I believe I have two more.’

  ‘Only if this is a fairytale.’

  Catherine’s smile wavered a little; Carstairs felt the tension rise in him again, gathering force. ‘Is it not?’

  Once again, Carstairs found himself without a suitable reply. The only way of answering her question that made any sense to him was kissing her; pulling her into his arms, and never letting her go.

  ‘So. My second question.’ Catherine looked at him, the firelight dancing in her eyes. ‘Do you have family, John? If so, you never speak of them. Have never spoken of them, to my recollection.’

  ‘You are corre
ct. I have never spoken of them, because they are no longer living.’ Carstairs looked at the fire, the ghost of an old pain briefly making itself felt. ‘Long ago. Mother taken by scarlet fever—Father absent, although money was sent.’ He looked at Catherine, whose very gaze seemed to lay balm on ancient wounds. ‘More money than we ever would have had if he had been a labourer. Word in the village named me a by-blow—the Earl of Anword, as legend has it.’

  ‘That would make you one of the ton.’ Catherine leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Could it be proven?’

  ‘I have no interest in proving it.’ The warmth of the fire spurred Carstairs on. ‘I… I am happy here, as myself. As your—as Chiltern Manor’s butler. It was higher than I ever thought I would rise.’ A small seed of doubt lodged in his throat. ‘I… I never believed you cared all that much for titles.’

  ‘I do not.’ The simple gravity of Catherine’s voice let Carstairs know she was being honest. ‘But I would care if you did.’

  The silence that followed seemed more intense than any of the previous moments of quiet. Carstairs knew he should speak, say something, say anything to break the tension, but found himself powerless to its force.

  Eventually, Catherine smiled again. ‘One more question, John.’

  ‘Yes.’ His tongue felt thick in his mouth. ‘One more, and then we sleep. It is growing dark.’

  ‘Yes… I am trying to choose a suitable question. One that will satisfy me.’ Was Carstairs simply imagining it, or was Catherine’s voice trembling a little?

  ‘I cannot imagine an answer I could give that would bring you satisfaction.’

  ‘Can you not?’ No, he wasn’t imagining it; there was a shiver in her voice. ‘Can you really not imagine it, John?’

  This was dangerous territory. Carstairs could see it in Catherine’s eyes; the knowledge that she was transgressing, stepping over the boundary line they had mutually marked between them. She was going to breach the barrier… and oh, God, he didn’t want to stop her.

  He wanted to break down the barrier, with his fists if necessary, and take her in his arms amidst the wreckage.

  ‘Why have you stayed?’ Catherine looked at him, unblinking, her voice nearly a whisper. ‘You would be richer in London, and more well-regarded. I know many have offered you employment. And so, I feel I must ask… why have you stayed here?’

  You. Carstairs felt the word in his throat, in his heart, begging to be said. You, you, a thousand times you.

  Why couldn’t he say it? Why was he so terrified of his own pain, and hers, that he stared at her in silence?

  The blooming hurt in Catherine’s eyes almost broke him. When she looked down, her expression determinedly cold as she idly pushed her plate to one side, Carstairs knew that he had lost her.

  ‘I believe I have reached the limit of your answers, John.’

  Carstairs slowly lowered his head. When he finally looked back up, Catherine’s face was set. Her voice was full of an inexpressible sadness.

  ‘I suppose it is time to sleep, then.’

  Carstairs nodded assent, his heart heavy. ‘Yes. I shall gather my blankets.’

  ‘Indeed.’ As Catherine turned away, Carstairs was sure he caught a glimpse of a tear at the corner of her eye. ‘And I shall gather mine.’

  No night had ever gone by so slowly. Carstairs lay on the overstuffed sofa, uncomfortable, alert to the quiet, maddening tick of the carriage clock as it counted out every painful minute. The blanket covering him barely made any difference to the cold seeping into his bones; the fire seemed very far away, and Catherine sleeping beside it seemed as far away as the moon.

  As far away as the moon, and as untouchable. He had been so close, so agonisingly close—and then, thanks to his own fear and foolishness, the wall had gone back up. The wall that now seemed so much higher than before, so much thicker. Impassable.

  She had made herself vulnerable to him, and he had been stupid enough to refuse her. Carstairs knew, dimly, that his decision had to have been the right one—to save them both further pain. But as he lay on the sofa, shivering from the cold, he began to wonder if his noble desire to prevent Catherine’s pain was in fact an enormously pig-headed, presumptuous way of going about things.

  What right had he to assume he knew the level of her pain; what she could bear, and what she could not? He should have given her what she was so clearly asking for; he should have told her how he felt, how much and how deeply and for how long, and damned every single one of the consequences…

  He should have, but he did not, and now he lay far away from her. Far away, and destined to serve her from a cruel, punishing distance.

  ‘John?’

  For a moment, Carstairs thought he had imagined the sound. Then the vague form of a blanket-covered Catherine shifted; she turned, silhouetted by the fire, the green of her dress just visible as she sat upright.

  She spoke again. ‘I am cold.’

  ‘Yes. It is cold.’

  ‘I know.’ Catherine swallowed; Carstairs watched as she frowned. ‘I am cold, John, and… and I do not wish to be cold.’

  Carstairs paused. It couldn’t mean what he wanted it to mean, even if Catherine’s voice seemed stripped of any artifice. ‘I will find you another blanket.’

  ‘There are no other blankets.’

  ‘Then I will give you mine.’

  ‘I do not want your blanket.’ Catherine turned to him, silhouetted in the light of the fire. ‘I… I want to be warm. And—and there is a way to be warm, if there are two people in a very cold place.’

  Her words echoed through the room, despite its size. Silence followed in their wake; Carstairs stared at her, every nerve in his body suddenly, exquisitely alive.

  Was she suggesting they should… well, what else could it be? Sleep close to one another, hold one another—keep each other warm, however many social codes they ripped apart to do so.

  It was all he wanted. But the moment afterwards, where he became her butler again… no. He didn’t want that.

  ‘Ma’am.’ He forced himself to speak calmly. ‘That… that does not sound like good sense.’

  ‘If we are going to speak of good sense, John, it doesn’t make any sense at all to choose the warmest room and insist on not being warm.’

  ‘You have spoken to me of good sense more than once today. You are full of good sense, I am full of good sense—the whole house rings with good sense.’ Carstairs knew he was losing control, his voice growing less and less measured, but lacked the will to conceal it. ‘This—this matter has nothing to do with good sense. Please refrain from using the term.’

  ‘I will not.’ Catherine looked at him, the glow of the fire giving her eyes a soft, wounded look. ‘I will not, if you cannot explain why drawing closer is preferable to staying cold.’

  There was no excuse that held its weight against such patient, remorseless logic; no combination of words that would extricate his own sentiments from the situation. Carstairs silently, ferociously upbraided himself for getting too comfortable; for eating in Catherine’s company, drinking with her, letting her refer to him as John. Letting himself sit before her, radiant and laughing, dressed in a gown that made her look more herself than he had ever seen her.

  It was too much. Too much to keep lying, keep hiding; concealing what had become a fundamental part of himself.

  ‘Because when I think about drawing closer to you—think about being close to you—good sense is the last thing on my mind.’ He looked at Catherine, shocked at his own daring, but profoundly relieved as each word left his lips. ‘The very last thing.’

  He had done it. He had broken his own vow; sent the wall between them crashing down, tearing all asunder. All it had taken were words. Words he should never have said, ever—but which he could not regret having said. Not with Catherine looking at him, seeing him, as if for the first time.

  A long moment of fraught, intimate silence passed. The room seemed so much colder; the fire leapt and crack
led, as if passing judgement on the scene that had just occurred. Then Catherine moved, the blanket gently slipping from her shoulders, and Carstairs felt a rush of love so overwhelming that it hurt.

  ‘You would be senseless.’ She hugged her knees, the gown flowing onto the carpet like a forest seen from the clouds. ‘You would… do… senseless things.’

  ‘Not senseless.’ Carstairs spoke openly now; the worst had already been said, so why conceal the rest? ‘Not for me. But certainly lacking good sense.’

  ‘Call me Catherine.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘I insist, and I order it. Call me Catherine. Or—or I will end your employment.’

  ‘You will not.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because it would mean nothing.’ Carstairs almost laughed.

  ‘Because you value your station so little?’

  ‘Because I will never leave you. Ever.’ Carstairs felt himself trembling; he forced himself to speak in the same low, soft tone as Catherine. ‘You must see why. You… you must know it.’

  ‘Say it.’ Catherine swallowed; Carstairs, with a painful jolt, saw a tear threatening to fall down her cheek. ‘I shall not know it until you say it, John. Please.’

  Her please undid him entirely. She had to know that while commands could be refused, a request from her was something Carstairs couldn’t help but obey. Obey unquestioningly, even if it ruined everything he had fought so hard to build.

  Quickly, his body full of tension that had been building for god-knew how long, he moved the blankets aside as he rose to his feet. He saw Catherine’s eyes widen; for a moment he paused, worried that she was afraid. It was only when she rose slowly to her knees, the blanket long-forgotten, that he moved still closer.

  He sank to his knees, his gaze level with hers. Reaching out, willing his hands not to tremble, he brought his fingers to her face.

  ‘I will never leave you, Catherine, because you are as much a part of me as my own soul.’ He cupped her face; his fingers shook as he gently, tenderly wiped away the tears running down her cheeks, leaving salted tracks that shone in the firelight. ‘You are my soul. And I will cherish, and protect, and cleave to my soul until my body is over and done with, or until my soul has no longer need of me. Do you have need of me?’