Chapter 8 #2
"Don't answer now," he interrupted. "Think about it.
Really think about it. Because whatever fantasy you're harboring about the Duke, it's just that—a fantasy.
He's had weeks to court you properly if he wanted to.
Instead, he's left you in this horrible suspended state, prey to gossip and speculation. "
"There's been no gossip."
"Hasn't there? You haven't heard what people are saying?"
Catherine's blood chilled. "What are they saying?"
"Nothing specific. Yet. But there are whispers.
Questions about why two such eligible parties seem to avoid each other so studiously.
Speculation about what might have happened before the Season.
" He paused, his expression softening. "I don't care what happened before, Catherine.
I only care about what happens next. And I'm offering you a future free from scandal, from uncertainty, from the pain of loving someone who won't love you back. "
Before Catherine could form a single reply, a sudden disturbance rippled through the company gathered near the fountain. What had been an ordinary hum of conversation turned abruptly, for Miss Worthing’s voice pierced the night air, high and triumphant, carrying over every other sound.
“Oh, but I am quite certain of what I saw,” she declared, her tone shrill with breathless excitement, like a cat who had cornered her prey. “Lady Catherine was most assuredly in the study alone with the Duke and for a considerable length of time, I might add.”
The garden seemed to freeze upon her words.
A hush fell so complete that the trickling of the fountain sounded unnaturally loud, each droplet striking stone like a note of accusation.
Catherine felt the blood drain from her face, her hands suddenly cold against the silk of her gown.
It was as if the very earth had tilted beneath her feet.
Every head turned in unison, eyes fastening upon her with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and something far sharper. Whispers stirred at the edges of the gathering, fanning the embers of scandal before the flames had even properly caught.
“Whatever can you mean, Miss Worthing?” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell spoke at last, her voice deceptively mild, the very picture of polite inquiry.
Yet her eyes, keen and unyielding as a hawk’s, fixed upon Catherine with merciless intent, as though eager to strip away every shred of her composure before the assembled crowd.
“At the Fairfax ball,” Miss Worthing pressed on, her voice pitched to carry across the garden with theatrical precision, “I happened to lose my way whilst seeking the ladies’ retiring room—you must forgive me, the corridors of Fairfax House are positively labyrinthine—and in that wandering I came upon the most curious sight.
Lady Catherine, emerging from the study.
Alone. And looking, I must say, rather… disheveled. ”
A ripple coursed through the assembled guests. Fans stilled, conversations faltered, and a dozen pairs of eyes darted to Catherine with scandal-hungry fascination. The very air seemed to thicken, pressing down upon her shoulders, turning each breath into an effort.
The lie was so audacious, so artfully timed, that Catherine almost admired the sheer brazenness of it. Almost.
“I was in the library,” Catherine said at last, her voice carrying with calm precision. She stepped forward into the small circle of scrutiny, her chin lifted, her tone steady though her pulse thundered in her ears. “Reading. Alone.”
“The library?” Miss Worthing echoed, widening her eyes in feigned surprise.
Her lips curved into a smile too polished to be innocent.
“How very curious. For I could have sworn it was the study. But then, Fairfax House is so very confusing, is it not? All those rooms so very alike, all those corridors so very dark.”
The garden seemed to draw a collective breath, for the implication was unmistakable.
If the rooms looked alike and the corridors were dark, how could Lady Catherine have found the library?
It was a snare laid with elegance and cruelty, and Catherine, to her horror, saw how perfectly it had been sprung.
“I know where I was,” Catherine said, her tone edged with ice, though her hands trembled at her sides.
“Of course you do,” Miss Worthing replied sweetly, her smile sharpened to a blade. “However, I could not help but notice that His Grace was also absent from the ballroom at precisely the same time. Such a coincidence, is it not?”
The murmur of voices swelled at once, a restless tide that rose and crashed around her.
Every fan fluttered, every head craned closer, the glittering assembly quickening with the heady perfume of scandal.
Catherine felt the weight of their stares like lead pressing against her chest, the delicious thrill of gossip sparking from one whispered speculation to the next.
In that instant she knew she was balanced upon the knife’s edge of ruin, her reputation tossed like a bauble before the ravenous ton.
“That will suffice.”
The voice cut across the garden like a blade slicing through silk. The company startled, a hush falling so swiftly it was as though the night itself held its breath.
James.
He strode through the crowd, tall and unyielding, the gleam of the lanterns striking the severe planes of his face.
Guests shrank aside instinctively, parting before him, none daring to impede the Duke of Ravensfield in his fury.
His expression was carved from stone, a mask of ducal hauteur that permitted not the faintest flicker of weakness, yet Catherine’s heart jolted when she caught the fire raging in his eyes.
“Your Grace,” Miss Worthing simpered, dipping into a curtsy with artful innocence. “I was merely...”
“You were merely attempting to destroy the reputation of a lady whose character is above reproach,” James interrupted, his voice low and deadly calm. “And one cannot help but wonder what motive compels such venom, Miss Worthing.”
A flush crept up Miss Worthing’s throat, staining her face a mottled crimson. Still she lifted her chin, defiance clinging stubbornly to her. “I saw what I saw,” she said, the words trembling but loud enough to be heard by all.
"Did you? How fascinating. And what exactly were you doing wandering the private areas of the Fairfax house? Areas that, I might add, are quite far from the public rooms?"
It was a masterful counterattack. Miss Worthing's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
"I was... that is..."
"She was looking for me," her mother interjected, coming to her daughter's rescue. "Amelia has such a poor sense of direction."
"Indeed?" James's smile was sharp as a razor. "Then perhaps she also has a poor sense of observation. Mistaking one room for another. Mistaking one person for another. Mistaking innocent behaviour for something scandalous."
"I know what I saw," Miss Worthing insisted, though with less certainty now.
“You saw Lady Catherine in a corridor,” James said, his tone flat, his authority absolute.
“A corridor, which by your own admission was dark, in a house where every door and room resembles the next. And yet you presume yourself qualified to cast aspersions upon her character based on this fleeting, mistaken glimpse?”
“I merely thought people should know...” Miss Worthing began, her voice tight with indignation.
“Know what?” James’s voice rang out, sharper now, cutting through the garden air.
“That Lady Catherine has the ability to read? That she, like any person with nerves and sensibilities, may sometimes seek a respite from the din of a crowded ballroom? Pray tell, Miss Worthing, what is so scandalous about that?”
A ripple of sound swept the company. Fans fluttered furiously, heads craned forward, eyes glittered with avid delight.
This was better than any performance at Drury Lane; a duke defending a lady’s honour, the scent of impropriety in the air, and the promise of spectacle hovering like lightning before a storm.
Mrs. Worthing, older and sharper than her daughter, spoke into the silence, her voice deceptively careful. “If there was nothing improper,” she said slowly, “then one must ask why Your Grace is so very eager to leap to Lady Catherine’s defence.”
It was the question everyone else had been thinking but none had dared to utter. At once the garden fell silent. The hush was profound, so complete that even the trickle of the fountain seemed to still. Every gaze fixed upon the Duke of Ravensfield, waiting, hungry.
James said nothing at first. His jaw tightened, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, but he maintained the picture of ducal control.
Yet Catherine, standing across the space, felt his eyes find hers with unerring precision.
The intensity of that gaze pinned her in place, her heart pounding against her ribs.
She knew—instinctively, with terrifying certainty—that he was weighing something, balancing on the edge of a choice from which there could be no return.
And then, before the entire assembly, he stepped deliberately into the abyss.
“I defend Lady Catherine,” James said, his voice low but carrying, “because she deserves defending. Because she is a woman of uncommon worth and remarkable character, who has been subjected to whispers and petty malice merely for existing in the same rooms that I do.”
A collective gasp rippled through the gathering, sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath. The implication was unmistakable.
“How noble,” Miss Worthing said, her smile thin and poisonous. She let her gaze drift across the assembly, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Though one cannot help but wonder; why should Lady Catherine require such passionate defence if she is as blameless as you insist?”
The words lingered in the charged air, poisonous and tantalizing.
The crowd leaned forward, hungry for what would come next.
Catherine’s breath caught in her throat, for she saw the fury ignite in James’s eyes, and she knew that whatever he spoke next might alter the course of both their lives forever.
“One might also wonder,” James said, his voice dropping to a level so dangerous it sent a shiver through the assembly, “why you are so determined to destroy her reputation. What crime has Lady Catherine committed to earn such vindictiveness? Did she offend by being more beautiful? More intelligent? More desirable?”
The last word cracked through the silence like a whip. Catherine felt the heat rush into her cheeks, her heart pounding so violently she feared the entire garden would hear it.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell interposed quickly, her fan snapping shut with a sharp crack, “while your loyalty to Lady Catherine is most admirable, perhaps we should...”
“Perhaps we should what?” James’s reply cut her off like a blade. His voice rang with fury, carrying easily to every corner of the gathering. “Pretend none of this ever occurred? Allow the whispers to fester unchecked? Permit a woman of impeccable character to be torn apart by malice and envy?”
“No one is suggesting...”
“Aren’t they?” James’s gaze swept the crowd, hard and merciless. “How many of you, when Miss Worthing spoke, were already half-convinced of her insinuations? How many of you, before this very night ends, would have quill in hand to send letters dripping with this poisonous tale?”
The uneasy rustle of skirts and the guilty shifting of several matrons spoke volumes.
“If Lady Catherine’s reputation is to be questioned,” James continued, his voice deepening to a terrible calm, “then let there be no doubt. To speak against her is to speak against me. To malign her character is to malign mine. And let it be understood by all that anyone who dares to harm her will answer to me personally.”
The weight of the threat hung in the air like a drawn sword. A few of the braver guests actually stepped back, as though scorched by the force of his words.
“That is rather… extreme, Your Grace,” ventured a voice from the crowd, Lord Ashford, if Catherine’s memory served, though she could not see past the wall of bodies pressing close.
“Is it?” James asked, his tone deceptively mild, though his eyes still burned with fury. “I find it perfectly appropriate, considering.”
“Considering what?” Miss Worthing demanded, her composure fraying at last, her voice rising shrill with disbelief.
James smiled then; a slow, devastating smile that froze Catherine’s blood, for she knew it well.
It was the same smile he had worn that night at the inn, when mischief and recklessness had sparked in him like a flame about to ignite.
A smile that preceded something spectacular… and ruinously inadvisable.
“Considering,” he said clearly, so that every guest, every whispering tongue, every listening ear could not mistake him, “that I intend to court Lady Catherine.”