Chapter 9 #2
"No." She stepped back, needing distance. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to ignore me for months and then suddenly decide you want me when another man shows interest. That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair," he said quietly. "It hasn't been fair since the moment I saw you in my ballroom and realized the woman I'd been dreaming about was the one woman I couldn't have."
"Why couldn't you have me?"
"Because you deserve better than what I can offer. You deserve someone who can give you joy, not just passion. Freedom, not obligation."
"What if I don't want better?" Catherine asked, the words escaping before she could stop them. "What if I just want you?"
His eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her right there in Lady Sefton's garden, scandal be damned. But then someone coughed nearby, and they both remembered where they were.
"Your Grace," Lady Pemberton appeared, having apparently appointed herself chaperone. "I believe Lady Catherine needs some time to compose herself. Perhaps you might continue this conversation at a more appropriate time and place?"
It was phrased as a suggestion but delivered as a command. James stepped back, though his eyes never left Catherine's face.
"Of course," he said formally. "Lady Catherine, might I call on you tomorrow?"
Catherine wanted to say no. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to run away to Scotland and become a sheep farmer where she'd never have to deal with dukes or proposals or society gossip again.
"I... yes," she heard herself say.
He bowed, properly this time, and walked away. Catherine watched him go, aware that Lady Pemberton was watching her with sympathy.
"Well," the older woman said after a moment, "that was certainly dramatic."
Catherine laughed, though it came out slightly hysterical. "That's one word for it."
"My dear, you're shaking. Come, let's get you somewhere quiet."
Lady Pemberton led her to a small gazebo at the far end of the garden, away from the main party. Catherine sank onto a bench, her legs suddenly unable to support her.
"Marcus must hate me," she said quietly.
"Marcus is a grown man who knew he was taking a risk," Lady Pemberton said pragmatically. "He's hurt, certainly, but he'll recover. Hearts are remarkably resilient things."
"I never meant to hurt him."
"I know, dear. But you would have hurt him more by accepting his proposal when you're in love with someone else."
"Am I that obvious?"
"Only to those who know what to look for." Lady Pemberton sat beside her, arranging her skirts carefully. "The Duke's declaration was rather unexpected."
"That's putting it mildly."
"But not unwelcome?"
Catherine was quiet for a moment, trying to sort through the chaos of her emotions. "I don't know. For three months, he's acted as if I don't exist. And now suddenly..."
"Now suddenly another man was about to propose, and His Grace realized what he stood to lose."
"That's just it; he doesn't stand to lose anything. I'm nobody. A poor relation living on her aunt's charity."
"You're Lady Catherine Mayfer, daughter of the Earl of Westmont."
"A dead earl whose title and estates went to a Scottish cousin I've never met."
"Nevertheless, you have breeding, education, accomplishments. You're hardly nobody."
"I'm nobody compared to what a duke could have. Should have."
Lady Pemberton was quiet for a moment. "May I tell you something in confidence?"
Catherine nodded.
"Twenty years ago, I was nobody too. My father was a country squire with pretensions.
My mother was the daughter of a merchant.
When the Earl of Pemberton started courting me, everyone said it was impossible.
That he was too far above me. That I'd embarrass him.
That our children would suffer for my inferior bloodlines. "
"But you married him anyway."
"We did. And yes, there were those who snubbed me at first. Who whispered behind their fans and made cutting remarks. But George didn't care. He loved me, and eventually, society accepted it because they had no choice. A determined man of sufficient rank can overcome almost any obstacle."
"The Duke of Ravensfield certainly has sufficient rank."
"The question is whether he has sufficient determination."
Catherine thought of the look in James's eyes when he'd faced down Miss Worthing, the way his voice had gone deadly quiet when he'd said anyone who harmed her would answer to him.
"I think he might," she admitted.
"And you? Do you have sufficient courage to let him try?"
Before Catherine could form a reply, a disturbance erupted from the main garden. Raised voices split the evening calm, followed by the crash of furniture and the unmistakable shriek of a lady in distress.
“Oh dear,” Lady Pemberton exclaimed, rising in alarm. “That cannot bode well.”
They hurried back only to be met with chaos.
Miss Worthing was in hysterics, her mother wringing her hands and fluttering ineffectually at her side.
The punch bowl lay overturned, its crimson contents spreading like blood across the terrace and staining the gowns of several scandalized ladies.
And at the very center of the uproar stood James and Lord Pemberton, both looking decidedly battered.
James’s lip was bloodied, while Pemberton’s eye was already swelling shut to a livid purple. The two men strained against the hands of gentlemen restraining them, each looking moments away from breaking free and resuming the brawl.
“What in heaven’s name is the meaning of this?” Lady Pemberton demanded, her voice sharp with outrage.
“His Grace,” Pemberton spat, struggling against his captors, “took offense at a perfectly reasonable observation.”
“You called her a...” James began, then cut himself off, visibly choking on the word. His fury was palpable.
“I called her confused,” Pemberton said smoothly, though the sneer curling his mouth betrayed him. “A young woman too inexperienced to know her own mind. A girl dazzled by a title and fortune she could never hope to deserve.”
A horrified murmur rippled through the onlookers. Catherine felt the heat rush to her cheeks, equal parts humiliation and fury.
“You said more than that,” James snarled, lunging forward before being dragged back again.
Pemberton’s laugh was low and ugly. “Did I? Well then, perhaps I remarked that His Grace has quite the history of seducing young ladies and casting them off when his interest wanes. Historical fact, is it not?”
Gasps rang through the crowd at the cruelty of the insinuation.
Several matrons exchanged scandalized looks, while others leaned in eagerly, scenting gossip.
Pemberton, seeing their reaction, lifted his chin with smug satisfaction, as though wounding Catherine’s reputation were no more than a clever move in a game he intended to win.
The crowd gasped. This was beyond gossip now, this was direct insult, the kind that led to dawn appointments and pistols at twenty paces.
"Take it back," James said quietly, dangerously.
“Why? Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? Or did I perhaps strike rather too near the truth?” Pemberton sneered.
“Enough!” Catherine’s voice rang out, sharper than she intended, but she did not falter. She stepped firmly between them, her spine straight, every line of her figure vibrating with righteous indignation. “This disgraceful spectacle will end now.”
“Catherine...” Pemberton began.
“Lord Pemberton,” she interrupted, her tone cool and formal, her chin lifted. “I regret deeply if my actions have caused you pain. You are a gentleman, and you deserve a lady’s honesty. That said, your disappointment does not entitle you to insult me or to presume the state of my affections.”
For the first time that evening, Lord Pemberton’s bluster faltered. Colour rose in his bruised face, and he bowed stiffly. “You are correct. I beg your pardon.”
Catherine turned then, her eyes flashing toward James. “And you, Your Grace. Brawling in a garden full of ladies and clergymen? Is this your notion of protecting my reputation?”
“He slandered you.” James’s voice was still taut with fury.
“And you insult me more by supposing I cannot withstand such words without your fists to defend me,” she returned, her voice cutting through the murmuring throng. “I am neither helpless nor voiceless. And I will not be made a spectacle of.”
Around them, the crowd shifted uneasily, whispers rising and falling, eyes wide with avid curiosity.
Catherine drew herself up to her full height, her gaze sweeping the onlookers with contempt.
“I shall take my leave. And I suggest you all find better amusement than gaping like fish at a scene unworthy of civil society.”
With that, she turned and walked away, skirts sweeping gracefully over the gravel, her head held high though her heart was pounding. This time, not a soul dared to impede her.
She found her aunt waiting in the carriage, her expression already alight with curiosity, having no doubt gleaned the tale from half a dozen excited tongues.
She had not been present as she had not been feeling well and she had gone to rest in Lady Sefton’s private room but the gossip tongues quickly informed her.
“My dearest girl,” Lady Vivienne said as the carriage lurched into motion, “what sort of tempest have you contrived this evening?”
“I do not know,” Catherine whispered, tears at last slipping free. “Truly, I do not know.”
“The Duke of Ravensfield has publicly declared his intention to court you?”
“Yes.”
“And Lord Pemberton offered for your hand?”
“Yes.”
“And the two of them actually came to blows in front of half of London society?”
“Yes.”
Lady Vivienne was silent for a long, deliberate moment. Then her lips twitched. “How perfectly splendid.”
“Splendid?” Catherine stared at her aunt, horrified. “How can you possibly call this splendid?”
“My dear child, you have two eligible gentlemen, one a duke, no less, fighting for your favour. Do you not comprehend? Half the unmarried ladies in London would commit any number of sins to find themselves in precisely such a position.”
"It's not a problem, it's a disaster. By tomorrow, I'll be the talk of the ton."
"You're already the talk of the ton. At least now it's interesting talk."
"Aunt Vivienne!"
"What? Would you prefer the usual gossip about who's wearing last season's gowns and who's been caught kissing in the garden? This is much more entertaining."
"I'm glad my life provides entertainment," Catherine said bitterly.
Vivienne's expression softened. "That's not what I meant.
Catherine, something has been going on between the Duke and you since you arrived in London.
Don't deny it—I'm not blind. The way you two carefully avoid each other, the tension when you're in the same room. It's been obvious to anyone with eyes."
"Has it?"
"Oh yes. The only question was when it would explode. I'm just surprised it took this long."
Catherine was quiet, watching the London streets pass by the window.
"Do you love him?" Vivienne asked gently.
"Does it matter?"
"It's the only thing that matters."
"Then yes," Catherine admitted. "I love him. I've loved him since..." She stopped, not ready to confess about the inn.
"Since you met," Vivienne finished. "However that happened."
Catherine looked at her aunt sharply. "What do you know?"
"I know you arrived in London different than you left Yorkshire. I know the Duke returned from his father's deathbed changed. I know that two people don't develop that kind of tension from a few polite conversations at balls."
"It's complicated."
"Love always is. The question is whether it's worth the complication."
Catherine thought about James's face when he'd defended her, the fierce protectiveness in his voice. She thought about the pain in his eyes when he'd said watching her with Pemberton would kill him.
She thought about that night at the inn, when everything had been simple and perfect and theirs.
"I think it might be," she said quietly.
"Then fight for it," Vivienne said firmly. "Society will gossip regardless. At least give them something worth gossiping about."
That evening, Catherine sat in her room, Martha brushing her hair for bed. The events of the day felt surreal, like something from one of the novels she secretly read.
"The whole household's talking about it, my lady," Martha said carefully. "The Duke fighting for your honour."
"He wasn't fighting for my honour. He was fighting because Lord Pemberton bruised his pride."
"If you say so, my lady. Though Tom, he's the second footman, he was there delivering a message to Lady Sefton's butler, and he says the Duke looked ready to commit murder when Lord Pemberton said you'd been seduced."
Catherine's hands clenched in her lap. "I haven't been seduced."
It was a lie, of course. She'd been thoroughly seduced, just not in the way everyone assumed. Not by a title or fortune, but by grey eyes and clever hands and a voice that could make her melt with a word.
"Of course not, my lady," Martha agreed, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "Will you accept his courtship?"
"I don't know."
"He's a duke, my lady. You'd be a duchess."
"I don't care about being a duchess."
"Then what do you care about?"
Catherine was quiet for a long moment. "Being happy," she said finally. "Being free. Being with someone who sees me as more than a title or a conquest."
"And the Duke? Does he see you that way?"
Catherine thought about the way James looked at her; like she was a miracle and a torment all at once.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I thought I knew, once. But that was before..."
"Before?"
"Before everything became complicated."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Martha went to answer it, returning with a letter on a silver salver.
"From His Grace," she said, her eyes bright with curiosity.