Chapter 5 #2
After three exhausting hours at the modiste, they visited the other shops. At Harding, Catherine was fitted for dozens of pairs of gloves in kid, silk, and lace. The proprietor, Mr. Harding himself, bowed deeply upon learning she was Lady Catherine.
"An earl's daughter requires the finest quality," he insisted. "The white kid from France—pre-war stock, of course."
Their carriage was stopped in traffic near Hyde Park when Vivienne suddenly gripped Catherine's arm. "Look there—that's Lady Jersey in the barouche. One of the Almack's patronesses. And with her... oh my."
"What?"
"That's Emily Cowper, another patroness, and I believe that's her newest protégé, Miss Amelia Worthing. They say she's aiming for a duke."
"Are there many dukes available?" Catherine asked, watching the elegant ladies.
"Well, there's Devonshire, but he's practically ancient at forty.
Bedford's heir is still unmarried, but he's reportedly odd.
And of course, there's Ravensfield, but he's been absent so long no one really knows him.
They say he was quite wild in his youth; some scandal with a married woman, then he disappeared into the military. "
The traffic cleared, and they continued on. That afternoon, they received their first callers. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell arrived with her daughter, a pinched-looking girl named Harriet who seemed terrified of her own shadow.
"Lady Catherine," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell said, examining Catherine through her lorgnette. "I knew your father slightly. The Earl of Westmont was a man of good principles. Such a pity about the title going to that Scottish branch."
"My cousin Frederick seems a worthy successor," Catherine replied diplomatically, though she'd never actually met the man.
"Hmm. And you've come for the Season? Rather late in the year to begin. Most girls of your rank start at seventeen."
"I preferred to wait until I was ready for society," Catherine replied, meeting the older woman's gaze steadily.
"Indeed. Well, readiness is important. Too many young girls throw themselves at the first title that shows interest. Though as an earl's daughter yourself, you'll be looking quite high, I imagine. Nothing below a viscount, surely."
After they left, Vivienne laughed. "Well done! You passed the dragon's inspection. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell could freeze blood with that stare of hers."
More callers followed—Lady Sefton (charming and witty), Lady Pemberton (warm and motherly), and several young ladies who were clearly there to assess the competition.
"You'll receive vouchers for Almack's," one of them, Miss Sarah Ponsonby, said with barely concealed envy. "Lady Sefton mentioned that Earl Westmont's daughter would be most welcome."
"I'm honoured if she thinks so," Catherine replied modestly.
"And I heard Lord Pemberton is already interested," another girl, Miss Diana Fitzgerald, added. "He's a perfect match—five thousand a year and a lovely estate in Kent. Perfect for an earl's daughter who doesn't need to marry for money."
Two days passed in a whirlwind of shopping and social calls. Then, on the third morning, Vivienne burst into Catherine's room with unprecedented excitement.
"My dear! Such news! The old Duke of Ravensfield died yesterday morning.
His son arrived just in time and they say the old man recognized him at the end.
And the Duchess, bold as brass, is going ahead with the ball in just four days!
She's calling it a memorial celebration—scandalous, but everyone will attend. "
Catherine's heart lurched. "That seems terribly soon after a death."
"The Duchess says the old duke would have wanted life to continue, and the new duke needs to be established in society immediately.
Something about urgent business matters requiring a settled succession.
" Vivienne's eyes gleamed. "Every unmarried lady in London is aflutter.
A duke in need of a wife; it's like something from a novel! "
Lord Pemberton called that afternoon, bringing roses and careful condolences about the duke's death, though of course they'd never met the man.
"It's all anyone can talk about," he said, settling into his chair. "The new duke—no one's seen him in years. There are a dozen different stories about why he left."
"What sort of stories?" Catherine asked, trying to sound only mildly interested.
"Oh, the usual wild tales. Some say he killed a man in a duel. Others that he was involved in espionage during the war. My personal favourite is that he fell in love with an unsuitable woman and his father banished him."
"How romantic," Catherine said weakly.
"Romance aside, he'll have every matchmaking mama in London throwing their daughters at him. Poor fellow." Pemberton paused. "You'll be attending the ball, I assume?"
"My aunt has invitations."
"Excellent! Then I hope I might claim the first waltz? That is, unless you're saving it for the Duke himself?"
His tone was light, but Catherine sensed genuine concern beneath it.
"I would be honoured to waltz with you, Lord Pemberton. I have no interest in joining the masses pursuing the Duke."
His face brightened considerably. "I'm delighted to hear it. Shall we ride tomorrow? Hyde Park at five?"
***
The ride in Hyde Park was an education in society's response to the ducal death. Everyone was discussing it, despite the impropriety of gossip about such a recent bereavement.
Catherine, mounted on a gentle mare from her aunt's stable, rode beside Lord Pemberton, trying not to wince as the movement aggravated her still-tender muscles.
"That's the Duchess of Ravensfield," Pemberton said quietly, indicating an imposing woman in deepest mourning in a black-lacquered barouche. "She doesn't look particularly grief-stricken, does she?"
Indeed, the Duchess appeared perfectly composed, acknowledging acquaintances with regal nods as if her husband hadn't just died two days ago.
"Are you quite well, Lady Catherine?" Pemberton asked with concern. "You seem uncomfortable."
"Just out of practice," she managed. "It's been some time since I've ridden."
"We can return if you'd prefer."
"No, I'm enjoying myself greatly."
Miss Ponsonby approached on her pretty grey mare, elegant in a deep green riding habit.
"Lady Catherine! Lord Pemberton! Have you heard? The Ravensfield ball is definitely going forward. My mother thinks it's shocking, but she's procured invitations anyway."
"As has all of London, I imagine," Pemberton said dryly.
"Well, naturally. When will we have another chance to see the mysterious Duke?
They say he's quite changed from his wild youth—all stern and military now.
" She looked at Catherine slyly. "As an earl's daughter, you'll be quite the competition for those of us of lower rank. The Duke will surely notice you."
"I have no intention of competing for anyone's notice," Catherine replied coolly.
"No? How refreshing. Though I suppose with Lord Pemberton so attentive, you needn't look higher." Her smile was sharp. "After all, a bird in the hand, as they say."
After she left, Pemberton apologized. "Miss Ponsonby can be rather..."
"Calculating?"
"I was going to say determined, but yes." He paused. "Lady Catherine, I hope you know that my interest in you has nothing to do with your rank. I find you... refreshing. Genuine. So many ladies of the ton are concerned only with titles and fortunes."
"You're very kind, Lord Pemberton."
"I'm very sincere. I hope, over time, you might come to return my regard."
Catherine felt a pang of guilt. He was a good man, offering her exactly what she should want. "I value your friendship greatly, my lord."
"Friendship is an excellent beginning," he said warmly.
***
The remaining days flew by. Catherine's gold gown arrived, even more spectacular than she'd remembered. Vivienne drilled her on the names and ranks of everyone who would attend the ball, and dancing masters were consulted to perfect her waltz.
The night before the ball, Catherine couldn't sleep. Her body hummed with nervous energy, though she couldn't say why. The Duke of Ravensfield meant nothing to her—he was just another aristocrat, probably proud and cold as everyone suggested.
She thought of James, as she did every night.
Had he reached his father in time? She'd wondered, when she heard about the Duke of Ravensfield's father dying, if James might be connected to the household somehow.
Perhaps he was a relative, or a family friend.
But no...he'd been traveling north, not to London.
Still, the coincidence nagged at her.
Her hand drifted down her body in the darkness, seeking relief from the constant ache of want.
She'd become shamefully accustomed to this nightly self-comfort, though it never satisfied the way his touch had.
Her fingers could never recreate the feeling of his hands, his mouth, his body moving over hers. ..
The morning of the ball dawned clear and bright. Martha spent hours preparing her. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style with gold ribbons and pearls, leaving several curls to frame her face. The gown, when she finally put it on, transformed her completely.
"You look like a princess, my lady," Martha breathed.
Catherine studied her reflection. The woman in the mirror was elegant, sophisticated, untouchable. The gold silk seemed to glow, making her skin appear luminous. The neckline revealed just enough to be tantalizing while maintaining propriety.
"Thank you, Martha."
Vivienne's reaction was gratifying. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Every man there will fall at your feet, duke included."
"I don't want the Duke," Catherine said quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
"Of course not. You have Pemberton. Though it never hurts to have options."
***
The carriage ride to the Ravensfield mansion seemed both endless and far too quick. Catherine's stomach churned with inexplicable anxiety.
"Now remember," Vivienne was saying, "the Duchess is formidable but fair. Be polite but not obsequious. The Duke... well, we'll see what he's like. Probably still in shock from his father's death, poor man."
Through the carriage window, Catherine could see the Ravensfield mansion ablaze with lights. It was enormous, with classical columns that seemed to glow in the darkness.
"Ready?" Vivienne asked as their carriage pulled up.
"As I'll ever be," Catherine replied.
They climbed the ornate staircase among a crowd of others. Black crepe was draped tastefully here and there, the only acknowledgment of the recent death. At the top of the stairs, they were announced to the ballroom.
"The Countess of Ashworth and Lady Catherine Mayfer."
The ballroom was magnificent despite the subtle mourning touches—black ribbons among the flower arrangements, the orchestra in somber dress. But the guests glittered as brightly as ever, jewelry catching the light from hundreds of candles.
"There's Pemberton," Vivienne murmured. "He's coming this way. Smile, darling."
Catherine smiled automatically as the Viscount approached. He looked handsome in his black evening clothes, his face lighting up when he saw her.
"Lady Catherine, you look absolutely radiant," he said, bowing over her hand. "I shall be the envy of every man here during our waltz."
"You're very kind, Lord Pemberton."
"Not kind, merely honest. Have you heard? The Duke is about to make his entrance. His first public appearance as Duke."
"How exciting," Catherine said, trying to match the anticipation rippling through the crowd.
"Everyone's quite curious. They say he only arrived in time to see his father for a few minutes before the end. Traveled day and night from wherever he was."
A hush fell over the ballroom when the butler appeared at the top of the interior stairs.
"His Grace, the Duke of Ravensfield."
Catherine turned with everyone else to see this mysterious duke, this subject of so much speculation.
Her heart stopped.
James.
It was James descending the stairs, but transformed.
Gone was the rain-soaked traveler. In his place stood a duke in full evening dress, magnificent despite the black armband of mourning, his coat fitted perfectly to those shoulders she knew so well.
His dark hair was styled fashionably, his expression remote and aristocratic.
But those eyes, those storm-grey eyes that had looked at her with such hunger, such possession, they were the same.
Their gazes met across the ballroom.
She saw the moment he recognized her. His step faltered slightly, his eyes widening. For an instant, his careful mask slipped, and she saw shock, desire, and something else, flash across his face.
Then the Duke's expression smoothed back into aristocratic indifference, and he continued his descent as if he hadn't just seen the woman he'd bedded four nights ago standing in his ballroom.
"Lady Catherine?" Pemberton's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you well? You've gone quite pale."
"I..." Catherine couldn't form words. Her body was responding to seeing him; her thighs clenching with remembered pleasure, her breasts tightening beneath the silk, every place he'd touched her suddenly alive with memory.
James was the Duke of Ravensfield.
The man who'd taken her virginity, who'd made her beg and plead and shatter apart, who'd told her they could never meet again because of duty…he was the Duke of Ravensfield.
"Perhaps some air?" Pemberton suggested, concerned.
"Yes," Catherine managed. "Air would be... yes."
But as Pemberton led her toward the terrace doors, she could not stop herself from glancing back.
The Duke of Ravensfield was watching her, his grey eyes blazing with an intensity that stole the very breath from her lungs, her body aching with the memory of his touch and the dangerous promise of more.
Then, suddenly and ruthlessly, he looked away. His face shuttered, his shoulders rigid with cold resolve, as if she were no more than a stranger. He ignored her completely, a deliberate cruelty that cut as deeply as it protected him.
Not once for the remainder of the night did he look her way again.
And with that, Catherine understood that whether from punishment or self-preservation, the Duke of Ravensfield had chosen to erase her.