Over the course of the next three weeks, Catherine became accustomed to living with her family again. The constant bustle almost kept the howling loneliness gnawing at her stomach at bay. Almost.

Still, Anne was a most wonderful companion, and Lydia provided silly overtures that that distracted Catherine from her sadness.

Peter came to visit one or two more times before traveling back to Oxford, and Anne wept when he left once more. Parting was difficult, but their reunion would be all the sweeter for it. Although Catherine felt awful about it, Anne’s tears almost made her feel better. At least when Anne was crying, Catherine had company in her sorrow.

Catherine found herself with quite a lot of time on her hands. She took up sewing with greater interest than she had before, and went through nearly five books in the span of a month. Anything to fill the quiet spaces in her life.

One afternoon, as Lydia was entertaining Catherine with one such a book, Anne came tumbling into the parlor where her sisters leisured. Looking up in surprise, Catherine put down her sewing.

"Now, don't fret about this, Catherine,” said Anne. “But I think I have found just the thing to get you out of your sour mood.”

Catherine frowned. "I'm not in a sour mood."

"So you say," said Lydia, sticking out her tongue.

Catherine sighed. "I'd rather you not make such atrocious faces at your elders, Lydia."

"Anyway," Anne said. "I’ve just learned that there is to be a dance at the assembly hall."

"I won’t go." Catherine's word was final.

"You're being obstinate for no reason!" cried Anne. "You can’t hide out here forever. People are bound to start talking soon. I know you're upset, but if you were to attend a gathering, you might convince people that nothing is amiss."

"Oh, nothing amiss when I arrive without my husband?" Catherine replied archly. "Surely that would make people speak even more."

"Not if you said he had taken ill. You can tell people that I couldn't bear to go to the ball alone and needed you to accompany me," said Anne. "No one would think anything of that. Everyone knows you would do anything for me."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "And if Mr..." she lowered her voice, as if she could not bear to speak his name aloud. "And if Lord Daventry is there?"

"Then we shall spread little rumors about him, as he deserves."

"And Glenarvon?"

Anne paused, clicking her tongue. "Then we shall leave straight away. But I hardly think either will attend. We were out four years and more without ever seeing them at a ball. Neither of them is the sort to frolic at country dances.”

Pursing her lips, Catherine picked up her sewing and set a deliberate stitch. Lydia fidgeted, her eyes flipping from one elder sister to another. She rifled through the pages of her book, letting the cool air ruffle her hair.

Finally, Catherine spoke without breaking her gaze from her sewing: "I suppose you’re right. One ball won’t hurt me, and I do wish to delay any rumors that might be brewing about me in the village. If this shall buy me more time to hide out, then so be it."

Lydia whooped.

"You're not going," shot Anne, giving Lydia a stern look.

* * *

And so it was that not too much later, Catherine found herself standing on the steps of the assembly hall, staring up at its aged facade with great apprehension.

Slipping her hand into her sister's, Anne whispered, "Don’t worry so much, Catherine. There’s nothing to fear here but merriment."

Bolstered by those words, Catherine took a deep breath, steadying herself, and strode into the hall with purpose.

To her delight, the room was full-to-bursting–all the better to get lost in if the need arose. Immediately, she glimpsed Althea chatting animatedly with two friends. Before walking over to her, Catherine scanned the room more thoroughly. She saw many faces that she recognized, but none that drove pain into her heart. The ball was, as of yet, free of Daventry and Glenarvon. So much the better. Perhaps the night would turn out alright after all.

Anne waved to someone across the room, then turned to her sister.

"You do not mind if I go say hello?" she asked.

Shaking her head, Catherine pointed to Althea. "It's no bother. I'll be with Althea if you have need of me."

With that, Catherine stepped over to her friend, greeting her with a hearty embrace.

"It has been too long!" cried Althea. "I heard that you were taken ill."

"Oh, indeed?" Catherine could not remember telling anyone such a thing.

"Yes," Althea said. "I came to call upon you at Castle Fen two weeks ago, but Lord Glenarvon said you had quite the cold. But it seems you are all better now!"

Catherine smoothed her dress. "I’ve made a full recovery. It was nothing really."

"And where is Lord Glenarvon tonight? He's about somewhere, I am sure?"

"Ah. Lord Glenarvon..." Catherine hurried to think of some excuse. "Lord Glenarvon is now taken with the same affliction that I had." Althea made a sigh of pity. "It’s not so bad as all that. Just enough that he cannot attend a dance.”

"Of course," said Althea. "But are you quite sure that he’s ill?"

Catherine wrinkled her brow. "Yes. Why?"

"Because," Althea said, pointing to the hall entrance, "Lord Glenarvon has just arrived."

Gasping, Catherine swirled around, her skirts petaling about her as she turned. She raised her eyes to the entrance just in time to meet Lord Glenarvon's dark gaze.

The moment he saw her, his heart stopped beating. After a second, it began pumping again in great earnest, making his chest feel tight. Without thinking, he strode towards Catherine, pulled irrevocably toward her like a moth seeking flame.

Already, he was halfway to her. Catherine's breath caught in her throat. Before now, she wished beyond hope that she wouldn’t see Glenarvon tonight. Now that he was here, she knew that she couldn’t bear to see him walk away. The very essence of her being longed for him, even though her mind called out for reason.

He lied to you, she tried to remind herself.

Finally, Glenarvon was standing in front of her, his stare impenetrable. The hard line of his mouth carved a wicked margin on his face. When his lips parted, Catherine bit her lip, bracing for an explosion.

"May I have this dance?" Glenarvon bowed low, extending his hand towards Catherine with great courtesy.

Taken aback, Catherine gaped. Then the word was out of her mouth before she could stuff it back in.

"Yes," she said.

As the music began to play, she had no choice but to take her husband's hand and allow him to lead her onto the dance floor. His eyes were still hard upon her, pulling apart every fiber of her being.

When the jig demanded that their hands must part, Catherine found herself holding onto Glenarvon tighter, unwilling to let go.

She smiled at the gentleman who replaced the marquess, but her fingertips longed to touch Glenarvon again. The briefest caress would be heaven.

Finally, they were reunited, and Catherine found she had been holding her breath. The moment her hand found his, air came back into her lungs in one big rush, making her dizzy.

Glenarvon sensed that something was amiss. Grabbing Catherine’s hand tightly, he swept her off the dance floor as quickly as they had come. Supporting her carefully, he led her to a stop at the same little alcove at which he had first accosted her many moons ago. He leant Catherine gently back against the pillar and she sighed gratefully.

"Do not suppose me to be weak," she said.

"Never."

Catherine glanced around. Just as before, the alcove was secluded enough that no one would see them unless they came looking.

Glenarvon clutched at Catherine, happy to finally have her in his arms again. Catherine hated to admit it, but feeling her husband’s strong grip made her feel whole once more.

"Catherine," said Glenarvon, his voice heavy. "Please, let me explain."

Swallowing slowly, Catherine allowed herself to catch her breath. She gazed up at Glenarvon, feeling the heat emanating from his body. A tingle shot up her spine. His look was so grave, so ferocious, that even she could not help but feel awed by the violence of his emotion.

“Explain,” she said, nodding quietly.

Relieved, Glenarvon began his story, his voice shaking.

"Five years ago, I met a woman named Rebecca," he said. "She had red hair, much like yours. Despite my better interests, I thought I was in love with her. I told no one, except for my oldest friend, Daventry."

So that was who Rebecca was. Catherine winced, realizing that Glenarvon had kept yet another secret from her. Glenarvon's mien was flat and obscure, revealing nothing. Catherine had no choice but to listen on.

"Daventry has always been charming. He was a ladies' man at Oxford, always catching some girl's eye. In short, he was a rake. I didn't think much of it. For the most part, he kept his exploits to himself, and he was the most devilishly fun pal to keep around. He seemed happy that I found Rebecca. 'A respectable woman,' he said. 'If you really feel you must settle down.' With his unexpected blessing buoying me, I proposed to Rebecca."

Catherine gasped, but Glenarvon held up a hand, silencing her questioning lips.

"All will be explained shortly," he said. "We kept our engagement quiet. My parents were already gone from this world and I have never been one for small talk, so only Daventry knew. Still, Rebecca longed for me to throw a ball in her honor. I could never refuse her. We planned to make the engagement public at the ball... I was so busy hosting that I only realized halfway through the night that I had not seen Rebecca for nearly half an hour. So–"

Glenarvon's voice broke and he shut his eyes tightly.

After a moment, he reopened them. His gaze was stony. "So," he said, "I went to look for her. All over the house, I searched. Then, I saw the library door slightly ajar. I pushed it open."

He took a deep breath.

"I found Rebecca inside, with Daventry on top of her. She was moaning his name, pulling him deeper into her with a wild ferocity.”

"That's horrible," Catherine whispered.

Glenarvon nodded. "She and Daventry just looked at me standing there in the doorway like a fool. They didn’t even stop what they were doing. After a while, Rebecca had the decency to avert her eyes. Daventry did not. The next day, I broke off the engagement. No one ever knew except me, Rebecca, and Daventry. Obviously, my relationship with Daventry was also beyond repair after that. He continued his depraved actions with Rebecca for a while, I think. Perhaps she hoped he would marry her. Obviously, he did not."

Catherine looked at the floor, her heart heavy. "I'm sorry," she said. "You could have told me, you know. I wouldn’t have–your past doesn’t matter to me."

"Don't you see?" asked Glenarvon, his eyes bright. "I couldn't have told you. That was all part of Daventry's plan."

"Are you finally going to tell me how I relate to all this, then?" Catherine's expression soured. "The bet?"

"The bet," echoed Glenarvon, his voice hollow. "The bet. It was Daventry's idea, of course. Not that that makes me any nobler…” Suddenly, his expression changed. “By any chance, do you remember a carriage nearly running into you many months ago?"

"Yes. It was your carriage."

"And I knew it was you. Your hair caught my eye from the window. It was so like Rebecca's. For a moment, I thought perhaps she had returned to Ingleston. Then, you looked up at me with such fire in your eyes, and I knew you were quite different from her indeed."

"I was livid." The corners of Catherine's mouth tilted up.

"As you should have been," said Glenarvon. "Then, I saw you again at the ball in this very assembly hall. You were wrapped in Daventry's arms, dancing, smiling. He made a joke and you laughed. My insides curdled. When I never saw him, I could hope–I could pretend–that he had ceased preying on women. But when he appeared before my very eyes that night, I knew you were his next target. I confronted him. That was when the bet was born."

"And?" Catherine’s heart skipped a beat.

"His terms were thus: if I married you, and you stayed faithful to me for seven months, he would leave the county and never come back unless you and I were gone. If I said anything to you, it would break the bet."

"And if I did not stay faithful?" Catherine asked.

"Then he could do with you what he wished. And I could say nothing and do nothing about it."

"Perhaps I wouldn’t have accepted Lord Daventry’s advances," said Catherine. "Did you think about that?"

"Up until one month ago, you thought Daventry was quite the pleasant man, just as Rebecca did. So did every woman who ever lay with him. He has his ways to charm women," Glenarvon said bitterly. "I've seen it happen every time."

Catherine paused, thinking. She had been taken with Daventry from the moment she met him. She had even thought he might propose to her, given enough time. Had Glenarvon not intervened, there was no telling how far down the primrose path Daventry might have taken her.

Glenarvon was right.

"I wish you could have told me," said Catherine quietly. She slipped her small hands into Glenarvon’s large ones, biting her lip. Daventry had tricked them both, it seemed. Now that it was all out in the open, Catherine’s withered heart began to warm again. The heat from Glenarvon’s hands rushed into her, filling her with the most wonderful buzzing feeling.

They had both made so many mistakes and hidden so many things from each other in the short time that they had been married, but... Maybe, just maybe, Catherine thought, we can make this work.

Glenarvon pulled her hands to his breast. "I wish I had told you everything right from the beginning," he said fervently. "At first, I was so foolishly afraid that everything that happened with Rebecca and Daventry would happen again with you. Then, I was afraid that you might never forgive me for keeping such a terrible secret from you. But now," Glenarvon stooped, kneeling, "I am on my knees before you, asking you to forgive me. I don’t deserve it after what I’ve done, but I cannot imagine my life without you any more than I can imagine living without air. You are an essential part of me, the missing piece of my darkened soul. I love you, Catherine. I've never loved anyone but you."

Before the last words were fully out his mouth, Catherine was already pulling Glenarvon towards her. She threw her arms around his broad shoulders and brought her mouth to his, celebrating in the heat of his embrace.

"I forgive you a thousand times," she said, laughing. "And I love you." She kissed him again. "I love you."

Glenarvon crushed his lips upon Catherine’s once more. Her mouth was red as a strawberry and twenty times as sweet. Their kiss sent a fiery current through his body, and he was sure that no better feeling had ever been known to man.

Finally, the marquess pulled back slightly, breathing heavily. He ran his sensuous lips over the line of Catherine’s jaw, ending with a nip on her earlobe.

“Catherine,” he whispered. “I know we’ve already had the ceremony, but will you do me the honor of being my wife? I want to start our lives anew, free from deceit and secrets. You mean everything to me. From this day until the day we die, I never want to be parted from you again.”

“I will,” Catherine said, squeezing Glenarvon’s muscled arm. “Tonight can be our wedding night. I promise to never leave you.” She lit a light kiss on his lips. “I promise to stay true to you, and to bear your children, and to grow old with you.”

“We can pretend that these past months have been a dream,” Glenarvon said fervently. “A dream that has lead us to this moment.”

Catherine’s eyes grew starry, and then she pulled back, a look of mock horror on her face. “You only want to pretend it was a dream so that you can say I didn’t really beat you at billiards!”

“I had no such designs,” replied Glenarvon, his eyes crinkling.

“Admit that I’m the better player and all is forgiven.”

Glenarvon’s hands snuck around Catherine’s waist, bringing her body flush with his again. “Catherine,” he said. “If it means that you will forgive me, then I have no qualms admitting that you are the best billiards player that England has ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

The marquess pulled his wife even further into his arms, not caring who might see them. She returned his passion tenfold, her lips interlocking with his like puzzle pieces. She ran her hands through his raven hair, dragging her fingers along his scalp in delight. Never again would she let him go.

Finally, they parted, gasping for air and smiling like fools.

"Does this mean you'll come back to Castle Fen and play another game with me?" asked Glenarvon.

"Nothing would make me happier, my lord."

* * *