Chapter 7
From across the terrace, she could hear Miss Worthing's tinkling laugh at something James had said.
Catherine glanced over to see the girl had maneuvered herself quite close to him, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke animatedly about something that apparently required a great deal of gesturing with her fan.
James, for his part, looked like a man calculating how much rudeness he could get away with before it became social suicide. His gaze found Catherine's across the distance, and for a moment, Miss Worthing might as well have not existed.
"Lady Catherine," Pemberton said suddenly, drawing her attention back. "I wonder if I might speak plainly?"
Oh no. Catherine recognized that tone. It was the "I'm about to say something significant" tone that usually preceded either a declaration or a proposal.
"Lord Pemberton..."
"Please, let me speak." He took her hand, and Catherine was too surprised to pull away.
"These past weeks, getting to know you, have been the happiest of my life.
You're everything a man could want—beautiful, intelligent, witty.
You have the bearing of an earl's daughter but none of the haughtiness that often comes with rank. "
"Lord Pemberton, please..."
"I know it's perhaps too soon for a formal declaration," he continued, apparently determined to get through his speech, "but I want you to know my intentions.
I plan to court you properly, with an aim toward marriage.
My mother adores you already, and I... well, I find myself quite utterly charmed. "
Catherine felt as if the terrace had suddenly tilted. She was aware of James watching them, of the way his body had gone completely still even as Miss Worthing continued chattering.
"That's very flattering," she managed.
"It's not meant to be flattery. It's meant to be truth." Pemberton squeezed her hand gently. "I don't need an answer now. I just wanted you to know where my heart lies, so you might consider whether yours might, in time, be persuaded to lie similarly."
It was a lovely speech. Romantic, sincere, everything a young lady should want to hear from a handsome, wealthy, titled gentleman who would make a perfectly wonderful husband.
But Catherine wanted to throw herself off the terrace.
"I... I need to think," she said weakly.
"Of course. Take all the time you need." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her gloved knuckles. "I'm a patient man, Catherine. I can wait."
Across the terrace, there was the sharp sound of crystal breaking. James had apparently gripped his punch glass hard enough to shatter it.
"Your Grace!" Miss Worthing exclaimed. "You're bleeding!"
Indeed, James's hand was cut, blood seeping through his white glove. He looked at it with the detachment of someone who'd noticed an interesting weather pattern.
"How clumsy of me," he said calmly.
Catherine found herself moving before she could think. "We should get that bandaged."
"It's nothing," James said, but Catherine was already pulling her handkerchief from her reticule—not the one from that night, which she kept hidden, but a proper one with her initials embroidered in the corner.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, taking his hand without thinking. "You're dripping blood on Mrs. Drummond-Burrell's terrace. She'll have apoplexy."
She carefully wrapped the handkerchief around his palm, trying not to think about how familiar his hand felt in hers, how she knew exactly the pattern of calluses from his years of sword work, how those hands had mapped every inch of her body with devastating thoroughness.
"There," she said, tying off the makeshift bandage. "You should have a proper physician look at it."
"Ever the caregiver," he said softly, his eyes on her face rather than his hand. "Even for those who don't deserve it."
"Everyone deserves basic medical attention," she said crisply, stepping back. "Even stubborn dukes who break glasses rather than deal with their emotions like adults."
His eyes flashed. "My emotions are perfectly controlled."
"Yes, I can see that. Very controlled. Practically glacial."
"Would you prefer I be less controlled?" The question was loaded with dangerous possibility.
"I would prefer," Catherine said, very aware that both Pemberton and Miss Worthing were watching with rapt attention, "that you exercise better judgment around glassware."
"I'll make a note of it. Avoid crystal when Lady Catherine is being proposed to. Good safety tip."
The words were light, but there was something raw underneath them and Catherine felt her heart twist.
"No one proposed," she said quietly.
"Not yet," Pemberton interjected cheerfully, apparently missing all the undercurrents. "But hopefully soon, eh, Lady Catherine?"
James's expression went completely blank. "Congratulations are in order then."
"They're really not," Catherine said quickly.
"How modest you are, Lady Catherine," Miss Worthing said sweetly. "Though I suppose when one has secured a viscount, one can afford to be modest. Those of us still seeking husbands must be more... aggressive in our pursuits."
She looked meaningfully at James as she said it.
"I haven't secured anyone," Catherine protested.
"Haven't you?" James asked quietly. "It seems to me you have Lord Pemberton quite thoroughly secured. Wrapped around your little finger, one might say."
The accusation in his tone made Catherine's temper flare. "How dare you..."
"We should return inside," Miss Worthing interrupted brightly. "Signora Catalani will be devastated if we miss her finale."
"Heaven forbid," James muttered.
They trooped back inside, Catherine's emotions in complete turmoil. The second half of the performance was torture—not because of Signora Catalani's enthusiastic assault on the upper registers, but because she was once again trapped between James and Pemberton, and very aware of both of them.
James sat rigidly, his bandaged hand resting on his thigh. Occasionally, she caught him flexing his fingers, and she wondered if the cut hurt. She wondered why he'd gripped the glass so hard. She wondered if the sight of Pemberton kissing her hand had affected him as much as it seemed.
But then she wondered why she cared.
No, that was a lie. She knew why she cared. She cared because despite three months of trying to forget, despite throwing herself into society's whirl, despite Pemberton's devoted attention, she was still hopelessly, helplessly, foolishly in love with James.
She'd fallen in love with him that night at the inn—not just in lust, though there had been plenty of that, but in love. With his wit, his unexpected kindness, the vulnerability he'd shown when talking about his father. With the way he'd looked at her like she was precious and powerful all at once.
And then he'd turned out to be a duke, and everything had gone the wrong way.
The performance finally ended with Signora Catalani hitting a note that could have summoned bats. The audience erupted in applause, though Catherine suspected they were mostly applauding the fact that it was over.
"Magnificent!" Mrs. Drummond-Burrell declared, but even she looked slightly stunned. "Simply magnificent! Now, we'll have dancing in the blue salon for those who wish to stay."
"Dancing!" Pemberton said eagerly. "Lady Catherine, might I claim the first set?"
But before Catherine could answer, James stood abruptly. "I'm afraid I must go. The hand, you understand. Should have it properly seen to."
"Of course," Miss Worthing said immediately. "Shall I accompany you? I have some experience with nursing..."
"That won't be necessary," James said curtly. He bowed to the group in general, his gaze lingering on Catherine for just a moment. "Good evening."
He left without another word, leaving Catherine feeling oddly bereft. Which was ridiculous. His presence was torture, his absence should be a relief.
"Well," Miss Worthing said with false brightness, "more gentlemen for the rest of us, I suppose."
The dancing was a blur. Catherine went through the motions—a country dance with Pemberton, a cotillion with Lord Ashford, another dance with someone whose name she immediately forgot. All the while, her mind was elsewhere, replaying every word, every look, every moment of tension from the evening.
It was near midnight when she finally escaped to the ladies' retiring room, desperate for a moment alone. She sat before the mirror, staring at her reflection. She looked the same as she had three months ago, perhaps a bit more polished, a bit more tired around the eyes, but essentially the same.
How was it possible to feel so fundamentally changed yet appear unchanged?
"You're rather monopolizing the mirror," a voice said behind her.
Catherine looked up to see Lady Pemberton entering, her expression thoughtful.
"My apologies," Catherine said, starting to rise.
"Sit," Lady Pemberton commanded, settling herself on the adjacent stool. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the fact that you're in love with the Duke of Ravensfield, and he's clearly besotted with you, and yet you're both acting like actors in a play, all meaningful glances and tortured longing."
Catherine's mouth fell open. "I... that's... how did you..."
"My dear girl, I've been watching romantic disasters unfold for thirty years. The Duke and you practically set the air on fire when you're in the same room. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," Catherine said firmly. "There's nothing to do. He's made it clear we have no future."
"Has he? Or has he made it clear he thinks you deserve better than what he can offer?"
Catherine blinked. "What?"
"Men," Lady Pemberton said with a sigh, "are remarkably foolish when it comes to grand gestures. They think they're being noble, protecting us from difficult choices, when really they're just being cowards."
"He's not a coward."
"No? Then why hasn't he pursued you properly?"
"Because... because he doesn't want me that way."
Lady Pemberton laughed. "My dear child, that man wants you so desperately he shattered a glass rather than watch my son court you. That's not indifference, that's barely controlled passion."
"Even if that were true..."
"It is."
"...it doesn't matter. He's a duke. He needs a proper duchess. Someone like Miss Worthing, with connections and polish and..."
"The personality of wet lettuce?"
Catherine choked on a laugh. "That's unkind."
"But accurate. Can you imagine her as a duchess? She'd redecorate everything in pink and throw balls where people played charades."
"Some people like charades."
"Those people are wrong."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Then Lady Pemberton said gently, "You should know that Marcus plans to propose properly. Soon."
Catherine's stomach dropped. "Oh."
"You don't love him."
It wasn't a question, but Catherine answered anyway. "I care for him deeply. He's a good man."
"But you don't love him."
"No," Catherine admitted quietly. "I don't."
"Then you must refuse him. It would be cruel to do otherwise."
"But..."
"No buts. Marcus deserves a woman who loves him completely, just as you deserve a man who makes you feel alive.
" Lady Pemberton stood, smoothing her skirts.
"Even if that man is currently being a fool about it.
And even if what I am saying I know will hurt my son, I need to protect him from a loveless life. "
She left Catherine alone with her thoughts, which was rather like leaving someone alone with a pack of wolves; dangerous and likely to end badly.
Catherine stared at her reflection, seeing not herself but that night three months ago. The way James had looked at her when he'd first kissed her. The way he'd held her afterward, as if she were something precious he'd never expected to find.
The way he'd said goodbye, as if it were killing him.
Perhaps Lady Pemberton was right. Perhaps he was being noble and foolish rather than indifferent. The thought sent a dangerous hope spiraling through her chest.
She rose, determination filling her. She couldn't go on like this, existing in the same circles, pretending they were strangers when they were anything but. Something had to change.
She just hadn't expected change to come in the form of a scandal that would rock the entire ton.
But that would come later. First, she had to survive the rest of the evening, pretending her heart wasn't breaking every time she thought of grey eyes and a voice that had once called her perfect.
The music from the blue salon drifted through the house—a waltz, slow and melancholy. Catherine closed her eyes, remembering another night, another dance of sorts, when the music had been rain on windows and the rhythm had been two hearts beating as one.
"Lady Catherine?" A footman appeared in the doorway. "Lord Pemberton is looking for you. Something about the supper dance?"
"Of course," Catherine said, straightening her spine. "Tell him I shall be there momentarily."
The footman bowed and departed.
Catherine took one last look in the mirror, squaring her shoulders.
She would dance with Pemberton. She would smile and be charming and pretend her heart wasn't elsewhere.
She would be the perfect image of what she was supposed to be; an earl's daughter, a lady of rank, a suitable bride for a viscount.
And if her heart broke a little more with every moment of pretense, well, that was the price of propriety.
She made her way back to the blue salon, where couples were already forming for the supper dance. Pemberton's face lit up when he saw her.
"There you are! I was beginning to worry you'd abandoned me for more interesting company."
"Never," Catherine lied smoothly, taking his offered hand.
As they took their positions, she caught sight of a familiar figure in the doorway. James hadn't left after all. He stood there, his bandaged hand tucked behind his back, watching her with an expression she couldn't read.
Their eyes met across the room, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the music, the other dancers, even Pemberton's cheerful chatter. There was just James, looking at her with such intensity it made her knees weak.
Then Miss Worthing appeared at his side, saying something that made him look away, and the moment shattered.
The dance continued, and Catherine threw herself into it with determined gaiety. She smiled at Pemberton's jokes, laughed at his observations, played the part of a woman being properly courted.
But every time the dance turned her, she found herself looking for James. And every time, he was watching her, his grey eyes dark with something that looked very much like the longing she felt in her own chest.
Three months of pretense. Three months of torture.
Something had to change.
She just prayed that when it did, they'd both survive the explosion.