Raven's Vow

The old man’s eyebrow lifted. “God’s teeth, Catherine, exactly how well do you know this damned miner? Surely you must realize what you’re doing by this ridiculous delay—making it appear youdesire the attentions of men like this American. Choose a man of your own class, suitable for your birth and position, and do it damned quickly. I’ll not be accosted by any more importunate jackanapes with coal dust under their fingernails.” The duke’s slender, elegantly erect frame shuddered dramatically, illustrating his distaste.

“Importunate?” Catherine repeated. “I should think that would be one adjective that wouldn’t apply in this case. He’s hardly the fortune hunter you called him.” Recalling her father’s fury over the disastrous incident of two years ago, she added, “I should think you’d be glad you don’t have to worry about that with Mr. Raven’s proposal. Actually…” she began, savoring the rather exciting bluntness of that proposal.

“Don’t press me, Catherine. You think to wind me around your finger as you’ve always done, but I warn you, girl, this is no trifling matter. Pick a husband, or I shall do it for you. And be damned sure that I will, Cat. Damned sure.”

The problem was that she knew very well his temper might cause him to do exactly that, regardless of his promise to her. Despite her father’s warning, she had found herself reliving that last encounter with John Raven more times than she wished, mentally watching her crop descend across the high cheekbone. The memory that was most clear and, to her disgust, most often repeated in her mind, was what he had said just before he’d departed.

Tell him, John Raven had said,that you belong to me.

Once more in the midst of a crowded ballroom, Catherine forced her thoughts away from the remembrance of whatever, besides anger, had been in Raven’s eyes that afternoon. She was still not certain of the emotion that had called forth his declaration. Fury at being denied what he wanted, certainly. And at her father’s treatment of his suit. But she had begun to believe that she had seen something else stirring in that blue flame.

Resolutely she broke off her fruitless attempt to identify that fleetingly glimpsed emotion and tried to focus on what her partner was saying. She wished he’d simply let her enjoy the waltz, but he seemed to think thathe must entertain her rather than allowing the flowing movements of the dance and the pulse of the music to do so. She allowed her lids to close over eyes that were beginning to glaze with boredom, and there appeared before her, in her mind’s eye, John Raven’s face. That had happened far too frequently lately, and she had found herself at too many social engagements unconsciously seeking that dark head which she knew would tower above those of the room’s other inhabitants.

Guilt, she had finally decided. Guilt over the role she’d played in her father’s brutality that day. By her mockery she had thrown Raven to the wolves when, she knew, she could have handled the situation differently, perhaps even have mitigated the duke’s fury. Apparently she wasn’t going to be given a chance to explain or apologize. John Raven seemed to have disappeared from London as quickly as he had appeared. Unconsciously, she sighed.

“Bored, my dear?” Gerald asked solicitously.

Good God, she thought, shocked at that familiar voice. She had changed partners in such a perfect fog that she’d been unaware until that very moment that she was floating across the floor in Amberton’s very capable arms.

“Tired,” she offered, wondering what she’d said to him before, while she was thinking of the American’s strong features.

“It’s nearly over. The Season is winding down and—”

“Don’t,” she ordered with something of her old spirit. “Don’t tell me what’s going to happen after that. I assure you I don’t intend to repeat the argument we had two weeks ago.”

She began to take her hand from his, resolving, since he seemed determined to remind her, to move away from him. But his fingers tightened over hers, controlling.

“You really are too accustomed to having your own way. I don’t think public humiliation, my dear, is on tonight’s agenda.”

She turned in surprise at his unexpected masterfulness. Smiling smugly, he ruthlessly swept her back into the rhythm of the waltz, holding her far closer than was acceptable.

“Let me go,” she demanded imperiously.

“Quit behaving like the spoiled chit I called you. We’re in the middle of the dance floor, for God’s sake. Don’t you dare try to walk away from me.”

Furious, she struggled again, and his fingers ground into hers more strongly, hard enough to bruise.

“You’ve had your own way too long, my pet. But I think you’ll not find me so easy to deal with as your ever-indulgent parent. You really have no option here, and you must know it.”

Catherine was forced to realize the unpleasant truth of his assertion. She could literally fight him for her freedom, here under the eyes of the gossiping old tabbies of the ton, or she could give in gracefully and finish the set. She couldn’t imagine what had come over Gerald, but in this instance she recognized the validity of what he had said. As much as she hated the admission, she really had no choice.

Finally the music ended, and with what she hoped was an icy dignity, she allowed him to lead her from the floor. Still furious, she had said nothing after his unconscionable behavior. She was relieved to find that her next partner was an old and trusted childhood friend, Lord Anthony Dellwood. Gerald released her with what appeared to be satisfaction with his mastery, and she nodded coldly before he turned away.

“I’m sorry,” she said as soon as Amberton had moved out of earshot, “but I’m feeling a trifle unwell. Do you suppose you might find my father, Tony? I really would like to go home.”

She dealt charmingly with his expressions of concern and was infinitely relieved when he left her alone in the small sheltered alcove to which he had taken her to wait while he saw to the arrangements. It was not just Gerald’s bizarre behavior, it was everything. The Seasonwas coming to an end, and with its conclusion, her father’s repeated ultimatums for her decision had increased. And the only man with whom she could imagine…

The thought impacted like fireworks in her brain. The only man with whom she could imagine spending the rest of her life was not Gerald, nor any of the other perfumed and pompous members of her set, but… Surely she couldn’t be contemplating marriage to the coal merchant. The words you belong to me echoed again in her brain, causing their own small explosion of sensation. My God, she wondered, could he possibly be right about that? “The bride was conveyed to her wedding by locomotive,” theMorning Post would say.

Catherine’s lips slanted suddenly as she remembered Raven correcting her father. She doubted whether anyone else in his very long and noble life had had the gall to point out the duke’s obvious errors to him. No wonder her father had been so furious that day. John Raven certainly did not play by the rules that had been set down for members of this society to follow.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but your father seems to have been called away. Some unexpected emergency. I’m sure a very minor one, but I’ve ordered your coach brought round and will very gladly escort you home,” Dellwood offered gallantly.

“There’s no need for that, Tony. You know how short the distance is. And Tom’s perfectly reliable. He’s been in my father’s service for years.”

“I insist. I’m sure your father would much prefer that I come with you. He probably already made arrangements 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.