and taken but a few steps into the room when she heard the door
opening again. Expecting one of the servants she turned, the questioning smile
on her lips dying abruptly when she saw that her intruder was none other than
Clive Pendleton.
For a second they eyed one
another, Catherine's hostility very obvious from the expression of disdain on
her beautiful face. Clive was wearing his most urbane smile, but it aroused no
welcoming response from Catherine.
"You followed me,
didn't you?" she asked bluntly.
Clive, making a
depreciatory gesture with his hands, replied smoothly, "Could I help it?
You avoid me otherwise, and this seemed like too good an opportunity to pass
by."
"For
what? Do you think that a few moments alone with you will overcome my aversion?"
His smile thinned ever so
slightly at her scornful words, and for a moment the ugly expression she had
seen earlier flickered in his hard gray eyes. He took a step nearer, and
Catherine barely restrained the urge to move backwards away from him. But she
stood her ground, her chin raised defiantly, and demanded, "Well?"
Restraining the surge of
anger that shook him, his cold smile only deepened, and deliberately he reached
out and lightly touched her cheek. Catherine flinched as if he had slapped her,
and she struck his hand aside.
Apparently undeterred by
her actions, he murmured, "Who knows what may happen? I am considered
quite eligible, you know, and if you would put aside your childish dislike of
me, you might find that I have several desirable virtues to offer a woman.
Certainly your mother would not object if I were to
pay my addresses to you— and you, my dear, could discover that I know to a
degree how to please a woman."
Sheer astonishment held
Catherine rooted to the spot. She had always avoided him whenever she could and
despite Rachael's liking of him, could never bring
herself to really feel at ease in his company. There was something that she
couldn't name that she disliked about him, and he always made her feel
definitely wary whenever she found herself in his presence. It was an
instinctive dislike based not so much on any one incident so much as a natural
aversion to his cold and calculating personality. Added to that was Reina's and
Manuel's definite hostility to him—a hostility that was tinged slightly with a
queer wariness, as if they knew something to his discredit, something that
they would not speak of.
Despite having nothing of
substance on which to base her feelings, Catherine knew that she distrusted
Clive. The thought that he meant to court her was one she had never
considered—dishonor her, yes, he was quite capable of
that, but marriage?
Shaken by the idea, she
really looked at him, and her mother's earlier words came back. Yes, he was a
handsome man, she thought, but his handsomeness did not arouse any emotion
within her other than dislike. True he was elegantly dressed, his manly form
all that a maiden could wish for, his height a little above the average,
giving him a commanding air, but his gray eyes were too cold and hard, and his
features too thinly aristocratic and inclined to sneer. Certainly he was not a
man she wished to marry!
Clive was watching her
expressive face closely, having a fair idea of her thoughts. It had been a
calculated risk on his part, displaying so soon his ultimate goal, but he had
decided that Catherine should begin to think of him in a different light. It
was time she became aware of him as a man—and a suitor.
Coolly his eyes ran over
her, and he felt again the sweet bitterness she aroused in his breast. Why did
she have to have reappeared after all those years? And why did she have to have
grown so lovely? She had been lovely even in tattered garments, her face dirty,
and her tangled black hair falling across her sparkling, fury-filled violet
eyes that day when Reina had thrust her before the earl.
Clive had been fascinated
then against his will, and while her reappearance had doomed his own
opening again. Expecting one of the servants she turned, the questioning smile
on her lips dying abruptly when she saw that her intruder was none other than
Clive Pendleton.
For a second they eyed one
another, Catherine's hostility very obvious from the expression of disdain on
her beautiful face. Clive was wearing his most urbane smile, but it aroused no
welcoming response from Catherine.
"You followed me,
didn't you?" she asked bluntly.
Clive, making a
depreciatory gesture with his hands, replied smoothly, "Could I help it?
You avoid me otherwise, and this seemed like too good an opportunity to pass
by."
"For
what? Do you think that a few moments alone with you will overcome my aversion?"
His smile thinned ever so
slightly at her scornful words, and for a moment the ugly expression she had
seen earlier flickered in his hard gray eyes. He took a step nearer, and
Catherine barely restrained the urge to move backwards away from him. But she
stood her ground, her chin raised defiantly, and demanded, "Well?"
Restraining the surge of
anger that shook him, his cold smile only deepened, and deliberately he reached
out and lightly touched her cheek. Catherine flinched as if he had slapped her,
and she struck his hand aside.
Apparently undeterred by
her actions, he murmured, "Who knows what may happen? I am considered
quite eligible, you know, and if you would put aside your childish dislike of
me, you might find that I have several desirable virtues to offer a woman.
Certainly your mother would not object if I were to
pay my addresses to you— and you, my dear, could discover that I know to a
degree how to please a woman."
Sheer astonishment held
Catherine rooted to the spot. She had always avoided him whenever she could and
despite Rachael's liking of him, could never bring
herself to really feel at ease in his company. There was something that she
couldn't name that she disliked about him, and he always made her feel
definitely wary whenever she found herself in his presence. It was an
instinctive dislike based not so much on any one incident so much as a natural
aversion to his cold and calculating personality. Added to that was Reina's and
Manuel's definite hostility to him—a hostility that was tinged slightly with a
queer wariness, as if they knew something to his discredit, something that
they would not speak of.
Despite having nothing of
substance on which to base her feelings, Catherine knew that she distrusted
Clive. The thought that he meant to court her was one she had never
considered—dishonor her, yes, he was quite capable of
that, but marriage?
Shaken by the idea, she
really looked at him, and her mother's earlier words came back. Yes, he was a
handsome man, she thought, but his handsomeness did not arouse any emotion
within her other than dislike. True he was elegantly dressed, his manly form
all that a maiden could wish for, his height a little above the average,
giving him a commanding air, but his gray eyes were too cold and hard, and his
features too thinly aristocratic and inclined to sneer. Certainly he was not a
man she wished to marry!
Clive was watching her
expressive face closely, having a fair idea of her thoughts. It had been a
calculated risk on his part, displaying so soon his ultimate goal, but he had
decided that Catherine should begin to think of him in a different light. It
was time she became aware of him as a man—and a suitor.
Coolly his eyes ran over
her, and he felt again the sweet bitterness she aroused in his breast. Why did
she have to have reappeared after all those years? And why did she have to have
grown so lovely? She had been lovely even in tattered garments, her face dirty,
and her tangled black hair falling across her sparkling, fury-filled violet
eyes that day when Reina had thrust her before the earl.
Clive had been fascinated
then against his will, and while her reappearance had doomed his own
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