Garden Folly Read online

  DANGEROUS QUESTIONS

  Catherine had what she wanted—a proposal from the irreproachable Earl of Strickland. Why then did she tremble when Stephen Archibald asked "Do you love him?"

  And why did she answer "N-no"?

  "You are certain?" There was no question about it this time. His breath was warm and moist against her ear, causing an involuntary shiver. What was he doing to her? Why did she not simply push him away?

  "Y-yes, I am certain," she heard herself saying, as his hand reached up to her neck and began untying the ribbon of her bonnet. The soft touch of his fingers upon her throat was making it almost impossible to breathe.

  His lips came down on hers. They were unexpectedly soft and warm from the sun when they touched hers, moving slowly in a way she could never have imag­ined, tasting, exploring, tantalizing, as her mouth opened under his, and became more insistent.

  And she could only ask herself what was she doing, even as her heart beat out the answer she could not deny. . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

  First Printing, Jauuary, 1997

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Candice Hern, 1997 All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN BOOKS USA INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10O14.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  To Mom and Pop

  who taught me everything I know

  about romance.

  This one's for you.

  Chapter 1

  "How curious."

  At the sound of her sister's voice, Catherine Forsythe looked up from the red leather account book, grateful for any distraction from the depressing figures before her. She had reached her wit's end. She did not have a single idea how they were to scrape up the money to get them through the end of the month. She absently pushed aside a stray wisp of ash blond hair with the end of her quill and regarded her sister.

  Two years Catherine's senior at two-and-twenty, Susannah stood staring out the window overlooking the street below. The late-morning sun spilled in through the paned glass and transformed her pale yellow curls into spun gold. Catherine smiled at the vision her beautiful sister made. Susannah looked for all the world like a northern Renaissance angel plucked from heaven and incongruously placed in a shabby Chelsea sitting room.

  Surely all that beauty could be put to good use, somehow. If only the right opportunity would pre­sent itself!

  "What is it, Susannah?" Catherine asked. "What is so curious?"

  "A carriage has pulled up just outside," her sister replied without turning her attention from the win­dow. "And a liveried footman is even now coming up our walk."

  "A liveried footman? In this part of Chelsea?" Catherine laughed. "Unlikely. Put on your spectacles, Sukey. It cannot be a liveried footman and whoever it is certainly is not coming to our house." At least she hoped he was not. They never had visitors. There were only three chairs left in the sitting room, and those rather plain and worn. The rest of the good fur­niture had been sold off bit by bit to keep food on the table. And tea was carefully rationed. If there was in­deed an uninvited visitor, surely he would not expect tea.

  "But I am wearing my spectacles," Susannah said as she turned toward the room. "See?"

  Catherine bit back a smile as her sister tapped the wire frames for emphasis and widened her blue eyes, already made huge behind the slight magnification of the corrective lenses.

  "I can see quite clearly," Susannah continued, "and I tell you there is a footman at our door."

  Her words were followed by the sound of the knocker below. "Good heavens!" Catherine cried as she rose from the tiny scarred oak writing desk and joined her sister at the window. True enough, there stood an unmarked but obviously fine black car­riage—not a hackney, surely—attached to a pair of glossy chestnuts. The elegant animals danced skit­tishly while held by a liveried coachman.

  Susannah smiled in triumph. "See! I told you."

  "Yes, you were right. But who in the world can it be?" Catherine turned toward the third occupant of the tiny sitting room. Aunt Hetty had not looked up from her darning, her concentration fixed on mending the toe of a black stocking. Auburn curls sprinkled with silver escaped from the confines of her plain cot­ton cap. "Aunt Hetty?" Catherine asked. "Are you ex­pecting anyone? You did not mention it."

  The older woman looked up. "What's that, dear? Did you say something?"

  Catherine was never quite sure if her aunt was hard of hearing or simply oblivious. What with Susannah's general lack of sense, it was a wonder the three of them managed at all. Thank heavens Catherine knew how to use her head or there was no telling what might become of them.

  "A footman has come," Susannah said to her aunt in an excited voice. "In a carriage!"

  "But he is leaving now," Catherine said as she watched the bewigged young man in splendid blue-and-silver livery climb into the carriage. The coach­man jumped back upon his perch and the carriage was on its way. "It must have been a mistake. Wrong house or some such thing." She watched as the car­riage disappeared down Flood Street. "Wrong neigh­borhood, I should think," she added in an undertone.

  "He's gone?" Susannah nudged her sister aside and peered out the window. "Oh." She drew out the sylla­ble in a long, disappointed sigh. She continued to gaze down the street, as if the carriage might return after all.

  Catherine gave her sister's shoulders an affection­ate squeeze and returned to the writing desk. She was tempted to heave a sigh of her own. She was not sure if she was glad to have no visitor to worry about, or if she was disappointed by the prospect of relief from the boredom of a summer in Town. For a moment, just for a moment, she had begun to ponder the possi­bilities of a footman at their door. Somehow she was sure she could have used him to advantage in her plan of recovery. Footmen, after all, were generally employed by people of means.

  Catherine had bent her head to resume her fruitless study of their accounts when the sitting room door opened. MacDougal, their single loyal retainer, en­tered the room and cleared his throat.

  "This just arrived by special messenger," he said, a slight burr coloring his words. "For you, ma'am."

  A tall, spare man of indeterminate age, MacDougal held out a small silver tray upon which lay a creamy vellum envelope, and offered it to Aunt Hetty. Where on earth had he found a silver tray? Catherine was certain they no longer owned one. She quickly rose once agai
n from the desk and went to MacDougal, de­termined to examine the tray, when her eyes noted an escutcheoned crest on the thick envelope. Ignoring the tray for the moment, she grabbed up the envelope before her aunt could retrieve it.

  "Good heavens, Aunt Hetty, this looks important," she said, caressing the fine vellum between her fin­gers. She turned it over to discover a red wax seal with two facing lions. She wished she knew more about coats of arms—which families were the lions, the bears, the dragons, that sort of thing. Running a finger over the wax, her mind raced with notions of what important personage might be writing to her penniless aunt. And why. "Now, who do you sup­pose . . ."

  "Perhaps if you would but let me open it, my dear," Aunt Hetty said, her amused tone interrupting the fanciful train of Catherine's thoughts, "we could all learn who has sent it."

  "Oh!" Catherine realized that three pairs of eyes had been turned to her. "Oh, of course. How silly of me." She returned the envelope to the tray held out by MacDougal and stood back as he offered it, once again, to Aunt Hetty. Catherine did not miss the twin­kle in his dark eyes or the slight twitch at the corners of his mouth as MacDougal bowed and proceeded to quit the room. When he reached the door, he paused and turned.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he said to Aunt Hetty before she could so much as break the seal on the fine vel­lum. "I thought ye might like to know that I've come in the way of leg o' mutton. I was wonderin' if ye might be wantin' a bit of it fer supper tonight?"

  "A leg of mutton?" Aunt Hetty's eyes grew wide with astonishment.

  They had been living on little more than bread and cheese and onions for so many weeks now, that the mere mention of meat caused Catherine's mouth to water. "How on earth did you just happen to come by a leg of mutton, MacDougal?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at the wily retainer. "It did not just happen to fall off the back of a butcher's wagon, I trust?"

  MacDougal grinned. "Nae, nae. I ha' it on quite le­gitimate terms, Miss Catherine. Y' see, me cousin's husband's sister's girl works over to one o' them grand houses on Portman Square. The family jus' now set off fer the country and left a full larder be­hind. Polly dinna rightly know what to do with all that extra food, so I jus' be helpin' her out a wee bit, ye ken. Put it to good use, like. Never be missed. I'll jus' be about puttin' together a nice stew, shall I?"

  "Thank you, MacDougal," Aunt Hetty replied in a wistful tone. "That would be lovely."

  MacDougal nodded, turned, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  "Come, come, Aunt Hetty," Catherine said impa­tiently as her aunt's eyes seemed to gaze into some private distance—no doubt filled with visions of steaming, rich mutton stew. "The envelope, Aunt! The envelope."

  "Oh," Aunt Hetty replied, her concentration appar­ently having returned to the here and now. "Yes, yes. Of course. The envelope." She tapped it gently against her cheek and smiled. "Now what do you think it can be?"

  "Aunt Hetty!"

  The older woman laughed. "I am only teasing you, child. I have no notion what it can be, so let us find out."

  She carefully opened the seal, unfolded the enve­lope, and pulled out a large engraved card. "Oh!" she said. "Oh, my. How very nice of her."

  "Who is it from, Aunt?" Susannah asked. Appar­ently her hopes that the carriage might miraculously return had been abandoned, and she came to stand at Catherine's side.

  'The Duchess of Carlisle."

  Catherine's gasp echoed that of Susannah. Surely she had not heard correctly. "The Duchess of Car­lisle?" she asked.

  Her aunt smiled and nodded.

  "A duchess? Writing to you, Aunt Hetty?" Cather­ine's voice rose in disbelief. "You are not acquainted with her, surely."

  "Oh, but I am," her aunt replied, as though it were the most common thing in the world. "We were at school together."

  "You know a real duchess?" Susannah asked, her blue eyes wide with wonder.

  "But you never mentioned it before, Aunt Hetty," Catherine said in an accusatory tone. "Why is it you never mentioned it before?"

  "Well, I have not seen her for years. We were to­gether at Miss Darlington's Academy for Young Ladies—more years ago than I care to say."

  "You went to school with a real duchess?" Susan­nah asked.

  "She was not a duchess at the time, my dear," Aunt Hetty replied. "She was plain Isabelle Montrose. Well, not plain, in any sense, of course. She was a beautiful creature. And she was actually the Honorable Miss Montrose. But then she had the good fortune to at­tract the attention of the Duke of Carlisle. I saw her only once after that. Just after her wedding. My, but she was a pretty little thing."

  "And she writes you now," Catherine said, still in­credulous, "out of the blue, after all these years?"

  "As it happens," Aunt Hetty said, "I almost literally bumped into her just yesterday, while walking in Green Park with Miss Rathburn. It seems Her Grace is in Town for a few days to see her modiste, and just happened to take the air at the same time as we did." Aunt Hetty chuckled softly and tugged at her cap. "She is as pretty as ever. We had a nice long stroll to­gether and reminisced over old times and old friends. It really was lovely to see her again."

  Catherine forced her lips together, for her mouth had dropped open during this extraordinary recital. "You never told us, Aunt!" she exclaimed. "You might have mentioned you had bumped into a duchess, for goodness sake."

  "It must have slipped my mind, dear." Aunt Hetty's eyes strayed to the card in her hand, and Catherine knew that no such thing had happened. She had deliberately not mentioned it. But why?

  "Well, what does she write, Aunt?" Catherine asked. "What does she say?"

  Aunt Hetty heaved a contented sigh and leaned back in her chair. She looked up at her two nieces, her gray eyes twinkling with merriment, before returning her gaze to the vellum card. "It seems I have been in­vited, along with my two nieces," she said with a nod toward the sisters, "to join in the duchess's annual summer house party at Chissingworth."

  A moment of absolute silence followed as both girls stared at her.

  "Oh, my goodness!" Susannah sank into a chair and gawked at her aunt with eyes like blue saucers. "Oh, my goodness."

  Catherine studied her aunt for a moment to deter­mine if she might be teasing. But surely she would not tease about such a thing. Surely she would not. Catherine's heart began to pound against her chest, and she sent her aunt an imploring look. When Aunt Hetty nodded and smiled, such a thrill coursed through Catherine's veins that she actually shivered. Clutching her upper arms, she began to bounce slightly on the balls of her feet. "Oh, Aunt Hetty!" she said, barely able to maintain her composure.

  Susannah suddenly leaped from her chair with a whoop and tossed her spectacles in the air. Catherine watched as they clattered to the floor—thankfully, un­broken—when she was unexpectedly grabbed by the waist. Susannah twirled her sister around and around in a dance of pure exhilaration. Catherine laughed at her sister's uninhibited, almost childlike joy. Her own spirits were no less ebullient just then, and she al­lowed herself to become caught up in her sister's ex­citement.

  "Is it not wonderful?" Susannah exclaimed as they danced about the room, bumping now and then into a piece of furniture that she could not clearly see until it was too late. "A house party, Cath! A real house party!" A chair overturned with a crash as they col­lided with it. "Oh, but it will be so much fun!" She spun them around faster and faster. "Fun, fun, fun!"

  Twirling and laughing until they were dizzy—and slightly bruised—the sisters finally came to a stop in order to catch their breath. Their aunt laughed at their giddiness and clapped her hands. Susannah reached down to give her a hug.

  Aunt Hetty looked up at Catherine and raised her brows. "Well, my dear," she said, "Sukey appears to enjoy the notion of a month in the country. What do you have to say to the matter?"

  Catherine clasped her hands to her chest, still feel­ing a bit winded. "This is it," she said in a breathless whisper. "This is it. This is it." Her voi
ce rose almost to a squeal. "This is it!"

  Aunt Hetty raised her brows and nodded in agree­ment.

  "This is what, Cath?" Susannah asked.

  Catherine rolled her eyes to the heavens. "The op­portunity we have been waiting for, Sukey!"

  She grasped the sides of her dress, held them out wide, and began to slowly twirl around the room again all by herself. It was incredible. Truly incredi­ble. Who would have guessed that such good fortune would come their way so easily? Actually presented to them on a silver platter? Unable to contain her ex­citement, she threw back her head and laughed as she glided about the tiny room, imagining it was the grand ballroom at Chissingworth.

  "What opportunity?" Susannah asked.

  Catherine stopped in her tracks to glare at her beau­tiful, thick-headed sister. "To find rich husbands, of course!"

  Gravel crunched beneath his heavy boots as the Duke of Carlisle paced back and forth on the garden path. He came to a stop in front of a stone bench and glared down at the woman who sat there.

  "Dammit, Mother, this is most inconvenient."

  "Oh, do stop fussing, Stephen," the duchess said as she adjusted the angle of her parasol. "It cannot have escaped your notice that we have had a house party here at Chissingworth every August these past twenty years and more."

  The duke dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his dirt-smeared smock and made his best effort at appearing to loom over his mother. "I had hoped," he said in his most imperious, ducal voice, "that you would make an exception this year."

  The duchess leaned farther back and squinted up at her son, her mouth slightly agape with astonishment. He should have known better than to use that tone with his mother. It had never worked before, proba­bly because she had as much as taught it to him.

  "What on earth gave you that idea?" she asked.

  "You must know that I cannot abandon my proj­ect—"

  "Oh! You and your project!" She gave a wave of her hand as if swatting away some annoying insect. "What does that signify?"