Chapter 4
"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a gentleman most insistent upon seeing you. Says it's a matter of utmost urgency regarding your... family concerns."
James Wrentham, though that wasn't the name he'd been born with, came awake instantly, years of military training making the transition from sleep to alertness immediate. The voice belonged to Hartwell, speaking through the door in that careful tone innkeepers used.
"A moment, if you please," James called back, his voice still rough from sleep. Or perhaps from the activities that had kept him awake most of the night.
Catherine stirred against him, making a soft sound of protest that made him shudder, even half-asleep and thoroughly debauched, she affected him like no woman ever had.
Her hair spilled across his chest in waves of silk, her breath warm against his skin.
One shapely leg was thrown over his, keeping him pinned in the most delightful way.
"James?" Her voice was drowsy, satisfied. The voice of a woman who'd been thoroughly pleasured and knew it.
"Shh, sweetheart. Just inn business. Go back to sleep."
But she was already lifting her head, those extraordinary eyes finding his in the dim morning light. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses, and there was a delightful mark just where her neck met her shoulder—his mark, his claim, though he had no right to either.
"What time is it?" she asked, stretching in a way that made the sheet slip dangerously low.
"Early yet." He couldn't resist running his hand down her bare back, feeling her shiver in response. "You should rest. You'll need your strength for the journey."
"Mmm." She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "And whose fault is it that I'm so exhausted, pray tell?"
"Yours entirely," he said, rolling her beneath him in one smooth motion, gratified by her gasp. "If you weren't so damnably irresistible, so responsive, so perfect..."
He punctuated each word with a kiss—her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast just visible above the sheet. She arched beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair, and he nearly forgot about Hartwell and whatever urgent business awaited.
"Sir?" Hartwell's voice came again, apologetic but insistent. "The gentleman says it cannot wait."
James cursed under his breath. "I must see to this," he said to Catherine, pressing one more kiss to her lips before forcing himself to rise. "Stay here. Stay warm. Stay exactly as you are."
"Commanding as ever," she jested, but her eyes were dark with renewed desire. "Hurry back?"
"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."
He pulled on his trousers and shirt hastily, not bothering with anything else. Whoever had come calling at this ungodly hour would have to accept him in a state of dishabille.
The sitting room was cold, the fire having died during the night. James opened the door just enough to see Hartwell and, behind him, a man in traveling clothes who looked as though he'd ridden through the jaws of death.
"Peters," James said flatly. Of course. He should have known his valet would come again, like he had done the day before. The man had an uncanny ability to appear at the most inopportune moments.
"Forgive the intrusion, sir," Peters said carefully, mindful of Hartwell's presence. "But your father's condition has deteriorated most alarmingly. The physician fears... that is, the family requests your immediate presence."
James felt something cold settle in his chest. He'd known this was coming, had been expecting it for months. Yet somehow, the reality still struck like a blow.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
"The physician cannot say with certainty. Perhaps days. Perhaps hours."
"I see." James was aware of Hartwell's curious gaze, of the way sound carried in the inn. "Mr. Hartwell, might we have use of your private parlor? This is a matter of some delicacy."
"Of course, sir. This way, if you please."
James followed them down to a small room off the main hall, gesturing for Peters to close the door behind them.
"Now," he said once they were alone, "speak freely. How bad is it truly?"
"His Grace..." Peters caught himself, even though they were alone. The habit of discretion ran deep. "Your father has been asking for you. Your mother is beside herself. She insists you return immediately."
"And if I don't?"
Peters's expression was carefully neutral. "Then I am instructed to remind you of your duty, sir. Of what is owed to the name and title."
Duty. Always duty. It had driven him to war, to years of exile, and now it would drive him away from the one woman who'd made him feel truly alive.
"I need an hour," James said. "Perhaps two."
"Sir..."
"Two hours, Peters. I have... matters to conclude here."
Peters's gaze sharpened. "Matters, sir?"
"Nothing that concerns the family," James said firmly. "Personal matters of no consequence."
But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Catherine was of enormous consequence. She'd shattered something in him last night, broken through walls he'd spent years building. The thought of leaving her, of never seeing her again...
"Shall I ready your horse, sir?"
"Yes. And settle whatever needs settling with the innkeeper. Discreetly, Peters. I don't wish to cause a fuss."
"Of course, sir. And the... personal matters?"
"Will be concluded shortly."
Peters bowed and departed, leaving James alone with his thoughts.
He stood for a moment, staring at nothing, trying to reconcile the man he'd been last night with the one he had to be now.
The Duke of Ravensfield couldn't dally with mysterious ladies at coaching inns.
The Duke of Ravensfield had responsibilities, expectations, a dying father who'd never approved of him but demanded his presence nonetheless.
But James—just James—wanted nothing more than to return to that warm bed, to lose himself in Catherine's embrace, to pretend the outside world didn't exist.
He climbed the stairs slowly, his mind already cataloguing all the reasons this had to end.
She was running from an unwanted marriage; the last thing she needed was to be entangled with him and all his complications.
She deserved better; someone who could give her the freedom she craved, not the gilded cage that came with his world.
The sitting room was still empty when he returned, but he could hear movement from Catherine's chamber; the soft splash of water, the rustle of fabric. He knocked gently on the connecting door.
"Catherine? May I enter?"
"If you must," came her teasing reply. "Though I warn you, I'm not entirely decent."
He opened the door to find her at the washstand, wearing only her shift, her hair pinned loosely atop her head. The morning light streaming through the window turned the thin fabric nearly transparent, outlining every curve he'd worshipped so thoroughly the night before.
"You're trying to torture me," he said, his voice rough.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and she actually smiled. "I haven't the faintest notion what you mean, Mr. Wrentham. I'm simply performing my morning ablutions."
"In a shift that leaves nothing to the imagination."
"Does it?" She turned to face him fully, and surely, she was going to be the death of him. "How terribly shocking. Perhaps you should avert your eyes like a proper gentleman."
"I think we established last night that I'm far from a proper gentleman."
"Mmm, yes. Several times, if memory serves."
He crossed to her in three strides, pulling her against him, needing to feel her one more time. She melted into him immediately, her arms winding around his neck.
"You have to leave," she said against his lips. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Your father?"
"Is dying. I'm needed at home."
She pulled back to look at him, her expression soft with sympathy. "I'm so sorry, James. I know you said things were complicated between you, but still..."
"It's duty," he said simply. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"And after? When you've fulfilled this duty?"
He wanted to lie to her, to promise they'd meet again, that this wasn't ending. But she deserved better than pretty falsehoods.
"After, I become someone else. Someone who wouldn't be free to pursue mysterious ladies met at coaching inns."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're inheriting."
"Something like that."
"Something significant, I'd wager. You carry yourself like a man used to command, and Peters—that's his name, isn't it?—he treats you with the sort of deference that speaks of more than simple employment."
Too perceptive by half, his Catherine. Not that she was his. Could never be his.
"What I am, what I'll become...it doesn't matter. What matters is that you understand why we cannot...why this must end here."
"I understand," she said quietly. "I do. We both knew this was temporary."
"Did we? Because I find myself remarkably reluctant to accept that."
Her breath hitched. "James..."
"Tell me you'll remember this," he said urgently, his hands framing her face. "Tell me that when you're married to some worthy gentleman who adores you properly, you'll sometimes think of the storm and the stranger who couldn't keep his hands off you."
"As if I could forget." Her voice broke slightly. "You've quite ruined me for worthy gentlemen, you know. How am I supposed to accept tepid kisses and fumbling caresses after... after you?"
"You'll find someone who makes you burn," he said, though the thought made him want to put his fist through the wall. "Someone who deserves you."
"And you? Will you find someone?"
"I'll find someone appropriate," he said bitterly. "Someone with the right bloodlines and connections and accomplishments. Someone who'll give me heirs and host dinner parties and never, ever make me feel the way you did last night."