Chapter 8
"Lady Catherine, you're crushing the roses."
Catherine looked down at her gloved hands to find that she had, indeed, murdered a particularly lovely pink bloom. The petals lay scattered across Lady Sefton's immaculate lawn like casualties of war, which seemed rather appropriate given the battlefield that society events had become lately.
"My apologies," she murmured to Lord Ashford, who'd been attempting to engage her in conversation about his prized orchids for the past ten minutes. "I was wool-gathering."
"Thinking of someone special, perhaps?" Ashford asked with what he probably thought was a knowing wink but actually looked like he had something in his eye.
"Yes," Catherine said flatly. "The Archbishop of Canterbury. I find religious contemplation very soothing during garden gatherings."
Ashford blinked, clearly unsure if she was joking.
Catherine didn't enlighten him. She let him think she was having romantic thoughts about elderly clergymen.
It was better than the truth—that she was calculating exactly how many potted plants stood between the Duke of Ravensfield and her, who was currently holding court near the fountain, looking unfairly magnificent in a dark blue coat that made his eyes appear even more grey than usual.
Not that she was noticing. She was absolutely not noticing how the afternoon sun caught the lighter threads in his dark hair, or how his rare smiles, directed at everyone but her, transformed his face from merely handsome to devastating.
She certainly wasn't remembering how those hands, now holding a teacup with perfect propriety, had once. ..
"Twenty pounds says she faints before tea is served."
Catherine turned to find Lady Pemberton at her elbow, carrying two glasses of lemonade and an expression of unholy amusement.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Miss Worthing," Lady Pemberton clarified, nodding toward the fountain where the blonde beauty was practically prostrating herself before James, her fan fluttering with enough vigor to generate a small weather system.
"She's been circling him like a vulture for the past hour.
That level of sustained desperation has to be exhausting. "
Catherine accepted the lemonade gratefully, though what she really wanted was something significantly stronger. "She's merely being friendly."
"If that's friendly, I'd hate to see aggressive. The poor Duke looks ready to drown himself in the fountain just to escape."
Indeed, James did have the slightly hunted expression of a man who'd realized too late that he'd walked into a trap.
Miss Worthing had positioned herself strategically, blocking his most obvious escape routes while her mother, the formidable Mrs. Worthing, flanked his other side. It was a classic pincer movement.
"He could simply walk away," Catherine observed, trying not to feel satisfaction at his obvious discomfort.
"Could he? You know how these things work. One doesn't simply flee from unmarried ladies at garden gatherings. There are rules."
"Rules he seems perfectly happy to break when it suits him," Catherine muttered, then immediately wished she hadn't as Lady Pemberton's eyes sharpened with interest.
"Oh? Do tell."
"There's nothing to tell."
"My dear girl, you're a terrible liar. It's one of your most endearing qualities." Lady Pemberton sipped her own lemonade thoughtfully. "Though I notice my son isn't here yet. He was quite insistent about escorting you today."
Catherine's stomach performed an unpleasant twist. "Lord Pemberton had business at his club."
"Did he? How interesting, considering his club is closed for renovations."
"Perhaps he meant a different club."
"Perhaps he's avoiding you because he's working up the courage for a grand gesture," Lady Pemberton suggested gently. "He mentioned something about a special gift from Rundell and Bridge."
Rundell and Bridge. The jewelers. Where one purchased things like betrothal rings. Catherine felt the lemonade turn to acid in her stomach.
"Speak of the man," Lady Pemberton murmured. "Though he looks rather... intense."
Lord Pemberton was indeed approaching, and his usual cheerful countenance had been replaced by something grimmer. His jaw was set, his stride purposeful, and his gaze fixed on Catherine with an intensity that made her want to hide behind the nearest topiary.
"Lady Catherine," he said, bowing stiffly. "Might I have a word? Privately?"
"Of course," Catherine said, her heart sinking. She recognized that tone—it was the "we need to discuss something serious" tone that never preceded anything pleasant.
Lady Pemberton made a tactical withdrawal, though not before giving Catherine a meaningful look that seemed to convey both sympathy and warning.
Pemberton led her to a relatively secluded corner of the garden, near a trellis heavy with climbing roses. The scent should have been pleasant, but Catherine found it cloying, almost suffocating.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, though she suspected she knew exactly what was wrong. The way he was looking at her—hurt, confused, angry—told her everything.
"I need to ask you something," he said, his usual warmth replaced by careful formality. "And I need you to be completely honest with me."
"Of course."
"Is there... has there been... something between the Duke of Ravensfield and you?"
The question hung between them like a blade. Catherine's mind raced, calculating responses, weighing truth against lies, honor against self-preservation.
"Why do you ask?" she said finally, a coward's deflection.
"Don't." His voice was sharp, sharper than she'd ever heard it.
"Don't insult my intelligence, Catherine.
I've watched you these past weeks. The way you tense when he enters a room.
The way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching.
The way you both carefully maintain distance, like magnets with opposing poles. "
Catherine said nothing. What could she say? That yes, she'd given her virginity to a stranger in a coaching inn who'd turned out to be a duke? That every night she lay awake remembering his touch? That being in the same room with him was both torture and the only time she felt truly alive?
"There are rumours," Pemberton continued, his voice lower now, more pained. "Ugly rumours that I've been defending you against. But I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps..."
"If perhaps what?" Catherine's temper flared. "If perhaps I'm the sort of woman who would carry on inappropriately while accepting your courtship?"
"Are you?"
The blunt question hit like a slap. Was she?
"How dare you..."
"I saw you," he interrupted. "At the Fairfax ball last week. You disappeared for nearly an hour. So did he. And when you returned, your hair was different. Redone. Why would you need to redo your hair in the middle of a ball?"
Catherine's blood turned to ice. She remembered that ball—she'd escaped to the library for some peace, only to find James already there.
They'd argued, voices low and vicious, about absolutely nothing and everything all at once.
She'd left before she did something foolish like cry or kiss him, but her hair had indeed come partly undone from the violence of her emotions.
She'd fixed it hastily in a retiring room, never thinking anyone would notice.
"You're spying on me now?" she asked, deflecting again.
"I'm in love with you," he said simply. "So indeed, I notice everything about you. Including the fact that you're in love with someone else."
The words landed with devastating accuracy. Catherine felt tears prick at her eyes, though whether from guilt or grief, she couldn't say.
"Is it him? The Duke?" When she didn't answer immediately, he laughed bitterly. "Of course it is. I should have known. No one else could make you look so beautifully miserable."
"Nothing has happened between us," Catherine said, which was true in the present tense if not the past. "We've barely spoken beyond the requirements of social courtesy."
"But you want more."
It wasn't a question, but Catherine answered anyway, owing him that much honesty at least. "What I want is irrelevant. The Duke has made it clear he has no interest in... in anything beyond acquaintance."
"Has he?" Pemberton studied her face with disconcerting intensity. "Because from where I'm standing, he looks very much like a man in love who's convinced himself he can't have what he wants."
"You're imagining things."
"Am I? Then why is he currently staring at us like he wants to run me through with a sword?"
Catherine turned involuntarily. James was indeed watching them from across the garden, his expression thunderous. When their eyes met, she saw a flash of something raw and possessive before he turned away, saying something to Miss Worthing that made her giggle.
"You see?" Pemberton said quietly. "Whatever happened between you, and something did happen, Catherine, I'm not fool enough to believe otherwise, it's not over."
"Yes, it is," Catherine said firmly, as much to convince herself as him. "It ended before it began."
"Then marry me."
The words were so unexpected that Catherine actually stepped backward, her heel catching on the garden border.
"What?"
"Marry me," Pemberton repeated, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.
"I know you don't love me, not the way I love you.
But I could make you happy, Catherine. I could give you a good life, children, security.
And perhaps, in time, you might come to feel for me even a fraction of what I feel for you. "
He opened the box, revealing a beautiful sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds. It was elegant, tasteful, exactly the sort of ring a viscount would give his viscountess. Looking at it made Catherine want to cry.
"Marcus, I..."