Chapter 6 #2
Signora Catalani launched into her first aria with the enthusiasm of someone being paid by the note.
Catherine tried to focus on the performance, but every nerve in her body was aware of James beside her; the way his breathing matched hers, the heat radiating from his body, the way his fingers drummed silently against his thigh in what she recognized as barely controlled agitation.
She knew that tell. She'd discovered it that night when she'd pushed him to the edge of his control, when he'd gripped her hips and...
No. She would not think about that. Not here, not now, not with Lord Pemberton's hopeful presence on her other side and half of London's elite watching them.
The aria reached a particularly ambitious crescendo. Signora Catalani's voice climbed higher and higher, reaching for notes that possibly only few could fully appreciate. Beside her, she heard James make a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh or possibly pain.
"She's quite... enthusiastic," he murmured, leaning slightly toward her under the pretense of adjusting his program.
"She's Italian," Catherine whispered back, as if that explained everything. "They're professionally enthusiastic."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer 'ear-splitting'?"
"I'd prefer honest, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"
The question was loaded with far more meaning than a discussion of Italian sopranos warranted.
Catherine felt her chest tighten with a familiar anger—the same anger that had sustained her these three months as she'd watched him at ball after ball, acting as if she didn't exist, as if that night had meant nothing.
"No," she said quietly, her voice carrying an edge sharp enough to cut. "We certainly can't. Some of us are better at accepting that than others."
He turned to look at her fully then, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. "And some of us," he said, his voice low and rough, "know that accepting and surviving are two very different things."
"Are you two quite all right?" Pemberton whispered from her other side. "You're being rather loud."
Several people around them were indeed shooting disapproving glances their way. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell looked torn between delight at the obvious tension and horror at the breach of musicale etiquette.
"My apologies," James said smoothly, sitting back in his chair. "I was simply overcome by the... artistry."
Catherine bit her lip to keep from laughing at the way he said "artistry" like someone might say "plague" or "revenue collectors."
The first aria ended to enthusiastic applause.
Signora Catalani curtsied deeply, her peacock feathers rustling like an offended bird.
She then launched immediately into her second piece, this one apparently about someone's heart being ripped from their chest and laid bare, if Catherine's limited Italian was correct.
"This is interminable," James muttered after five minutes of particularly violent vocal gymnastics.
"It's culture," Catherine corrected primly. "You're supposed to be elevated by it."
"The only thing being elevated is my desire to escape."
"No one's forcing you to stay."
"Aren't they?"
Again with the loaded questions. Catherine was beginning to think he did it on purpose, dropping these little emotional words into their conversation just to watch her scramble.
"I wouldn't know what forces compel you, Your Grace," she said coolly. "I'm not privy to your thoughts."
"Aren't you?" He turned to look at her again, and this time there was something almost vulnerable in his expression. "I rather thought you understood them perfectly."
Catherine's heart performed a complicated maneuver that would have impressed even Signora Catalani.
She opened her mouth to respond, though what she would have said, something cutting, something revealing, something catastrophically honest, she'd never know, because at that moment, Signora Catalani hit a note that could have shattered crystal.
Pemberton actually winced. "Heavens, was that intentional?"
"I believe," James said dryly, "that's what the Italians call 'passion.'"
"I call it assault," Catherine murmured before she could stop herself.
James made that sound again—definitely a laugh this time, quickly suppressed.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the careful walls they'd both built these past three months cracked.
She saw the man from the inn, the one who'd made her laugh even as he was seducing her, who'd been irreverent and witty and achingly real.
Then the moment passed, and the Duke was back, all proper distance and cool reserve.
The aria finally, mercifully, ended. The audience applauded with the enthusiasm of people who were either genuinely moved or desperately grateful it was over. Catherine suspected the latter.
"There will now be a brief interval," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell announced, "for refreshment and recovery—I mean, reflection."
The audience rose en masse, eager to escape to the refreshment room where they could gossip about the performance while drinking punch that was rumored to be at least half brandy.
"Lady Catherine," Pemberton said immediately, offering his arm, "allow me to fetch you some refreshment."
But before Catherine could accept, James stood and turned to face them both. "Actually, Pemberton, I was hoping to have a word with Lady Catherine. About a matter concerning her late father's estate."
Catherine's heart stopped. "My father's estate?"
"Yes. I've recently discovered some documents that might be of interest to you. Papers concerning certain properties that may have been overlooked in the transition to your cousin."
It was a lie. Catherine knew it was a lie. James knew she knew it was a lie. But Pemberton, dear, trusting Pemberton, merely looked concerned.
"Oh, well, of course. Estate matters are important. I'll fetch punch for all of us, shall I?"
He wandered off before either could protest, leaving Catherine and James standing awkwardly in the rapidly emptying room.
"Documents concerning my father's estate?" Catherine hissed as soon as Pemberton was out of earshot. "Really?"
"Would you have preferred I tell him the truth?
" James asked mildly. "That I needed to speak with you because the sight of you in that dress is slowly driving me insane and if I had to sit beside you for another moment listening to that Italian harpy while Pemberton calls you 'my dear,' I might have done something spectacularly inappropriate? "
Catherine's mouth fell open. She quickly closed it, looking around to make sure no one had heard. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"The truth," Catherine said carefully, her voice shaking slightly, "is not always appropriate for public consumption."
"No," he agreed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Some truths are better shared in private. In the dark. Behind locked doors."
Heat flooded through her so fast she felt dizzy. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"You know what. This... whatever this is. You made it very clear three months ago that we were to go our separate ways."
"I did."
"You've ignored me at every social function since."
"I have."
"You've acted as if that night never happened."
"Would you prefer I acknowledge it publicly? Should I perhaps announce to the ton that I know exactly what sounds you make when you..."
"Don't." The word came out as barely a whisper, her entire body responding to the memory his words evoked. "Please."
Something in his expression softened. "Catherine..."
"No," she said firmly, taking a step back. "You don't get to talk to me like that. Not after three months of 'Lady Catherine' and cold bows and treating me like a stranger."
"What would you have me do?" he asked, and for the first time since that night, she heard real emotion in his voice. "Acknowledge you properly? Court you? Marry you?"
The last word hung between them like a blade.
"I never asked for marriage," Catherine said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "You asked for freedom. And I can't give you that. Being a duchess isn't freedom, it's a different kind of cage. A prettier one, perhaps, with better jewels, but still a cage."
"How fortunate then that you've never offered it to me."
"How fortunate," he agreed, though his expression suggested it was anything but.
They stood there, looking at each other, three months of carefully maintained distance crumbling between them. Catherine could feel herself swaying toward him, drawn by the same magnetic pull that had brought them together that night.
"Your Grace!" A shrill voice shattered the moment. "How delightful to find you here!"
Miss Amelia Worthing descended upon them like a particularly determined butterfly, all fluttering lashes and strategic décolletage. She was this Season's incomparable, with golden hair, blue eyes, and a dowry that could fund a small war.
"Miss Worthing," James greeted with notably less enthusiasm than her arrival seemed to expect.
"I was just telling Mama that you looked positively thoughtful during Signora Catalani's performance.
So few gentlemen truly appreciate fine music.
" She turned to Catherine with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Lady Catherine, how lovely you look. That's last year's style, isn't it? How clever of you to bring it back."
Catherine felt her cheeks burn. The gown was indeed from last Season as she couldn't afford an entire new wardrobe, despite her aunt's generosity.
"Fashion is cyclical, Miss Worthing," James said coolly. "Unlike some things, quality never truly goes out of style."
The compliment was subtle but unmistakable. Miss Worthing's eyes narrowed slightly.
"How philosophical of you, Your Grace. I do so admire a man with depth. Perhaps you might escort me to the refreshment room? I find myself quite parched."
It was a bold move, essentially forcing him to either accept or publicly slight her. Catherine watched James's jaw tighten.