Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(87)

“As long as I had the rest of her,” Harry said, smiling in self-contempt. “I was an arrogant swine. I’m sorry, Cat.” He paused. “I understand now why you feel so protective of Poppy and Beatrix. Of all of them. They’re the closest thing to a family you’ve ever known.”

“Or you.”

An uncomfortable silence passed before Harry brought himself to admit, “Or I.”

They stopped at a bench set alongside the path, and Catherine seated herself. “Will you?” she asked, gesturing to the space beside her.

He obliged, lowering to the bench and leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees.

They were quiet but oddly companionable, both of them wishing for some kind of affinity, not knowing quite how to achieve it.

Harry decided to start with honesty. Taking a deep breath, he said gruffly, “I’ve never been kind to you, Cat. Especially when you needed it most.”

“I would dispute that,” she said, surprising him. “You rescued me from a very unpleasant situation, and you’ve given me the means to live handsomely without having to find employment. And you never demanded anything in return.”

“I owed that much to you.” He stared at her, taking in the rich golden glitter of her hair, the small oval of her face, the porcelain fineness of her skin. A frown pulled at his brow. Averting his gaze, he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “You look too damned much like our mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Catherine whispered.

“No, don’t be sorry. You’re beautiful, just as she was. More so. But sometimes it’s difficult to see the resemblance, and not remember . . .” He let out a taut sigh. “When I found out about you, I resented you for having had so many more years with her than I’d had. It was only later that I realized I was the fortunate one.”

A bitter smile touched her lips. “I don’t think either of us could be accused of having had an excess of good fortune, Harry.”

He responded with a humorless chuckle.

They continued to sit side by side, still and silent, close but not touching. The two of them had been raised not knowing how to give or receive love. The world had taught them lessons that would have to be unlearned. But sometimes life was unexpectedly generous, Harry mused. Poppy was proof of that.

“The Hathaways were a stroke of luck for me,” Catherine said, as if she had read his thoughts. She removed her spectacles and cleaned them with the edge of her sleeve. “Being with them these past three years . . . it’s given me hope. It has been a time of healing.”

“I’m glad of it,” Harry said gently. “You deserve that, and more.” He paused, searching for words. “Cat, I have something to ask you . . .”

“Yes?”

“Poppy wants to know more about my past. What may I tell her, if anything, about the part when I found you?”

Catherine replaced her spectacles and stared into a nearby blaze of daffodils. “Tell her everything,” she said eventually. “She can be trusted with my secrets. And yours.”

Harry nodded, silently amazed by a statement he once could never have imagined her making. “There’s one more thing I want to ask of you. A favor. I understand the reasons we can’t acknowledge each other in public. But in private, from now on, I hope you’ll do me the honor of . . . well, letting me act as your brother.”

She glanced at him with wide eyes, seeming too stunned to reply.

“We won’t have to tell the rest of the family until you’re ready,” Harry said. “But I would rather not hide our relationship when we’re in private. You’re my only family.”

Catherine reached beneath her spectacles to wipe at an escaping tear.

A feeling of compassion and tenderness came over Harry, something he had never felt for her before. Reaching out, he drew her close and kissed her forehead gently. “Let me be your big brother,” he whispered.

She watched in wonder as he went back to the house.

For a few minutes afterward Catherine sat alone on the bench, listening to the drone of a bee, the high, sweet chirps of common swifts, and the softer, more melodious twitters of skylarks. She wondered at the change that had come over Harry. She was half afraid he was playing some kind of game with her, with all of them, except . . . it had to be real. The emotion on his face, the sincerity in his eyes, all of it was undeniable. But how could someone’s character alter so greatly?

Perhaps, she mused, it wasn’t so much that Harry was being altered as he was being revealed . . . layer by layer, the defenses coming off. Perhaps Harry was becoming—or would become in time—the man he had always been meant to be. Because he had finally found someone who mattered.

Chapter Twenty-four

The mail coach had arrived at Stony Cross, and a footman was dispatched to fetch a stack of letters and parcels addressed to Ramsay House. The footman brought the deliveries to the back of the house, where Win and Poppy lounged on furniture that had been brought out to the brick-paved terrace. The largest parcel was addressed to Harry.

“More reports from Mr. Valentine?” Poppy asked, sipping sweet red wine as she curled next to Win on a chaise.

“It would appear so,” Harry said with a self-mocking grin. “It appears the hotel is managing brilliantly in my absence. Perhaps I should have taken a holiday sooner.”