Chapter 5
"My darling Catherine! Oh, but you look absolutely frozen through!
Sampson, do take Lady Catherine's things at once, and have Mrs. Hedgley prepare a hot bath immediately.
Tea in the morning room—no, make it the blue parlor, it catches the afternoon sun.
Heavens, child, you're positively blue with cold! "
Lady Vivienne Ashworth, Catherine's maternal aunt, was everything Catherine's mother was not—warm, effusive, and fashionably dramatic. At two and forty, she was still strikingly beautiful, with Catherine's same dark hair artfully arranged with jeweled combs and bright eyes that missed nothing.
"Aunt Vivienne," Lady Catherine Mayfer managed through chattering teeth, carefully descending from the carriage.
The ache in her thighs made her wince—three days of carriage travel had not been kind to muscles already tender from.
.. activities she refused to think about. "I cannot thank you enough for..."
"Nonsense! What else are aunts for if not to rescue their nieces from tedious butterfly collectors?
" Vivienne embraced her warmly, enveloping Catherine in expensive perfume and genuine affection.
"Your letter was quite desperate, my dear.
Though I must say, fleeing during such weather!
You must have been quite determined to escape. "
Catherine followed her aunt into the elegant Mayfair townhouse, trying not to limp. Every step reminded her of that night—the unfamiliar soreness that marked her as fundamentally changed. She'd taken to sitting on extra cushions in the carriage, much to Martha's carefully unvoiced curiosity.
"You're exhausted," Vivienne observed, studying Catherine with those sharp eyes.
"And you're walking strangely. Are you injured?
That dreadful carriage ride, I suppose. These roads are absolutely criminal.
I've been petitioning Parliament for improvements, but do they listen to women? Of course not."
Heat flooded Catherine's cheeks. "Just stiff from travel, Aunt. The carriage was... uncomfortable."
"Well, a hot bath will set you right. Mrs. Hedgley makes the most wonderful bath salts; lavender and chamomile, imported from France before this dreadful war made everything impossible to obtain."
The entrance hall was magnificent, with polished floors and a sweeping staircase. A footman in elegant livery took Catherine's sodden pelisse while another appeared with a tea tray as if by magic.
"Your household runs beautifully," Catherine observed.
"Twenty servants," Vivienne said with satisfaction. "Though between you and me, it's really Mrs. Hedgley who runs everything. I merely swan about looking decorative and occasionally remembering to pay the bills."
Two hours later, bathed, and grateful for the warm water that had indeed eased some of the lingering ache, fed, and wrapped in a borrowed silk dressing gown, Catherine sat in her aunt's private sitting room, trying to explain her situation.
"Mother is determined," she said, staring into her teacup. "Sir Reginald has already spoken to her, and she's given her consent. She says I'm being foolish, throwing away security for romantic notions."
"Your mother," Vivienne said crisply, "has always been practical to a fault. She married your father because it was expected, and while they found contentment, I'm not sure they ever found joy." She paused, adding another lump of sugar to her tea. "I wasn't supposed to find joy either, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"Harold—Lord Ashworth—was chosen for me.
Twenty years my senior, terribly wealthy, excellent connections.
My family was in debt, you see. Father had a weakness for hazard tables, and Harold offered to clear everything in exchange for my hand.
" Vivienne's expression softened. "I went to the altar feeling like a sacrifice to the family honour. "
"How dreadful."
"It was, rather. But then the most extraordinary thing happened.
Harold was kind. Patient. He made me laugh during the wedding breakfast, told the most ridiculous story about his grand tour, and slowly, over months and years, duty transformed into genuine affection, then love.
" She smiled at the memory. "We had twelve wonderful years before he died.
Not everyone is so fortunate in arranged matches. "
"Which is why you support my escape from Sir Reginald?"
"Precisely. A man who bores you at twenty will drive you to distraction at forty. Now, tell me about your journey. You must have stopped at every inn between here and Yorkshire."
Catherine's hands tightened on her teacup, her body immediately responding to the memory. The ache in her thighs pulsed, as if her muscles themselves remembered being stretched around James's hips, her legs wrapped around him as he pressed her against the wall...
"The Black Swan primarily," she managed. "The storm made travel impossible for one night."
"The Black Swan! I know it well. Mr. Hartwell still runs it, I suppose? Excellent establishment, though it can become rather crowded during bad weather."
"Very crowded," Catherine agreed, taking another sip of tea to avoid meeting her aunt's eyes. "I was fortunate to secure accommodation at all."
"Hmm." Vivienne's expression was thoughtful. "You look different, my dear. Travel can change a person, I suppose. Though you seem... older somehow. More aware of the world."
Catherine felt panic flutter in her chest. Could her aunt somehow tell? "I'm just tired, Aunt. And relieved to be here."
"Of course. Well, tomorrow we begin your transformation. We must visit Madame Delacroix for gowns—she's the only modiste worth knowing. As the daughter of an earl, even with your father gone, you have a certain standing to maintain."
"I'm still just Lady Catherine now," Catherine said quietly. "The title went to cousin Frederick. I barely remember him, as he lives in Scotland and never visited."
"Distant relations are often the worst," Vivienne agreed. "But you retain your courtesy title, which is something. Lady Catherine Mayfer sounds much better than plain Miss, doesn't it? It will help immensely in society."
A knock interrupted them. "Come," Vivienne called.
A butler entered, silver salver in hand. "The afternoon post, my lady."
Vivienne sorted through the cards and invitations with practiced efficiency. "Lady Worthington's card party—deadly dull but necessary. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell's musical evening—she fancies herself a patroness of the arts but has the musical sense of a deaf badger. Oh! The Ravensfield ball!"
"Ravensfield?"
"The Duke of Ravensfield. His father is apparently at death's door; has been for weeks but the old duke is stubborn.
They say the son is rushing back from abroad.
The Duchess is already planning a ball to present him officially once the mourning period is properly observed.
Though knowing her, she'll host it scandalously soon after the funeral. "
Catherine's stomach clenched inexplicably. "That seems rather heartless."
"The Duchess isn't one for excessive sentiment. Besides, the Duke needs a wife, and the Season waits for no one. Every unmarried female from sixteen to sixty will be there, fans at the ready." Vivienne examined the invitation. "A week hence. Though if the old duke lingers, it may be postponed."
That night, in the luxurious guest chamber her aunt had assigned her, Catherine lay in the unfamiliar bed thinking about the social whirlwind she was about to enter.
The bed was enormous—she could stretch out fully without touching the edges.
Nothing like the narrow bed at the inn where she'd been pressed against James all night, his arm around her waist, his breath warm against her neck. ..
She pressed her thighs together, wincing at the lingering soreness but unable to stop the pulse of want that accompanied it. Her body was betraying her, constantly reminding her of what she'd done. What she'd let him do. What she'd begged him to do.
Shame washed over her, hot and familiar. A proper lady would be horrified by her behavior. But the shame couldn't stop the wanting. In the darkness, with no one to see, her hand drifted down her body, trying to recreate even a fraction of what he'd made her feel.
It wasn't the same. Nothing would ever be the same.
***
The next morning, Vivienne swept into her room at eleven o'clock, already dressed for the day in an elegant morning gown of green silk.
"Up, my dear! Bond Street awaits! And we must stop at the circulating library to add your name. As Lady Catherine, you'll have immediate access to the best subscription."
Their first stop was Madame Delacroix's establishment, an elegant shop with bow windows displaying the latest fashions. Inside, assistants glided between customers while Madame herself, a striking woman with an elaborate French accent, held court.
"Lady Ashworth! And this must be Lady Catherine. Oh, mais oui, the daughter of an earl; one can always tell the true aristocracy. The posture, you see."
Catherine stood on a pedestal while Madame and her assistants swarmed around her with measuring tapes and fabric samples.
"The décolletage, it must be precise," Madame declared, adjusting her measuring tape. "Too high, you look like a governess. Too low, you look like a..." she paused delicately."
"We're aiming for somewhere between governess and courtesan, then?" Catherine asked dryly.
Madame laughed. "Exactly! Lady Catherine understands fashion already."
They ordered twelve morning gowns, eight day dresses, ten evening gowns, and four ball gowns, each more elaborate than the last.
"The gold silk," Madame said, holding up a shimmer of fabric that seemed to capture sunlight. "For the special occasion. It will make you unforgettable."