Chapter 16
Despite everything, Catherine found herself smiling at the postscript. It was so very James; the James she'd known that night, who could make her laugh even in the midst of intensity.
"Good news, my lady?" Martha asked.
"I don't know," Catherine said, folding the letter carefully. "I suppose I'll find out tomorrow."
But sleep eluded her. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day. Miss Worthing's calculated cruelty, Pemberton's proposal and subsequent anger and James's public declaration.
It was that last that she kept returning to. The way he'd stood there, facing down society's judgment, and claimed her. Not physically, he was too proper for that, but with his words, his protection, his determination.
Anyone who harms her will answer to me personally.
The words sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with cold.
Tomorrow, he would come. Tomorrow, they would have to talk—really talk, not the careful dance they'd been doing for months. Tomorrow, everything would change.
But tonight, she allowed herself to remember. The weight of his body over hers. The way he'd whispered her name like a prayer. The perfect peace of lying in his arms as the storm raged outside.
Tonight, she could pretend that love was simple, that wanting someone was enough, that two people who'd found each other in a storm could weather anything together.
Tomorrow would bring reality. But tonight, she could dream.
***
The next morning came too soon, bringing with it a flood of calling cards and letters. News of yesterday's drama had spread through the ton like wildfire.
"Lady Jersey has written," Vivienne announced over breakfast, reading through the correspondence. "She wants to know if the Duke has formally approached me as your guardian. Oh, and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell is reconsidering your vouchers for Almack's."
"Reconsidering?" Catherine set down her teacup. "Because of yesterday?"
"Because you're now at the center of the most delicious scandal of the Season. She's probably worried you'll cause a riot at Almack's."
"This is disaster."
"This is fame, my dear. There's a difference, though I admit it's sometimes hard to tell."
"What else?"
"Let's see... Lady Cowper wants to know if you'll attend her gathering next week—she's probably hoping for more drama. Lord Ashford has withdrawn his interest, citing 'an abundance of excitement.' And... oh my."
"What?"
"The Duchess of Ravensfield has written."
Catherine's blood chilled. "James's mother?"
"The very same." Vivienne held up an elegant cream envelope sealed with the Ravensfield crest. "Addressed to you personally."
Catherine took it with trembling fingers, breaking the seal carefully.
Lady Catherine,
I believe it would be beneficial for us to speak privately regarding my son's intentions. Would you do me the honour of calling this afternoon at three o'clock?
I trust you understand the importance of discretion in this matter.
Margaret, Duchess of Ravensfield.
The writing was elegant, controlled, revealing nothing of the writer's feelings. But the summons itself said everything—the Duchess wanted to assess her son's choice.
"What does she say?" Vivienne asked.
"She wants to see me. This afternoon."
"Alone?"
"It appears so."
Vivienne whistled softly. "That's either very good or very bad."
"Which do you think?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. The Duchess of Ravensfield is notoriously hard to read. She could be planning to welcome you with open arms or threaten to ruin you if you don't stay away from her son."
"How encouraging."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Catherine considered. It would be safer with her aunt present, more proper. But something told her this was a conversation that needed to happen between just the two of them.
"No," she said finally. "I'll go alone."
"Brave girl. What about the Duke? He said he'd call today."
"Send him a note explaining I'm visiting his mother. That should give him something to think about."
Vivienne laughed. "You're developing quite a devious streak, my dear."
"I'm learning that society rewards deviousness more than honesty."
"Sad but true. Now, what will you wear? First impressions are crucial with duchesses."
They settled on a morning dress of dove grey silk, elegant but not ostentatious. Catherine's hair was arranged simply but flatteringly, and she wore her mother's pearl earrings; the only truly fine jewelry she possessed.
"You look like a lady," Martha pronounced. "Proper but not trying too hard."
"I feel like I'm going to my execution," Catherine confessed.
"Courage, my lady. You've faced worse than disapproving duchesses."
Had she? Catherine wasn't sure. A passionate night with a stranger seemed less terrifying than facing the mother of the man she loved.
***
The Ravensfield townhouse was even more imposing than she'd remembered from the ball. The butler who answered the door looked like he could freeze blood with a glance.
"Lady Catherine Mayfer to see Her Grace," she said, proud that her voice didn't shake.
"Her Grace is expecting you. This way, please."
He led her through corridors lined with the stern visages of former Dukes of Ravensfield, their painted eyes following her every step.
Catherine could not shake the uneasy sensation that each ancestor glowered in silent judgment, measuring her against some invisible standard and finding her wanting.
The Duchess received her in a sitting room Catherine had not expected; warm, intimate, and appointed with comfortable chairs rather than stiff formalities.
A cheerful fire glowed in the hearth, its light softening the black folds of her mourning gown.
She wore grief’s uniform, yet upon her it seemed less like sorrow than stately command, regal rather than oppressive.
She was a beautiful woman, no longer young but in full possession of herself, her bearing that of one accustomed to deference.
Grey eyes, James’s eyes, regarded Catherine with calm authority, softened only when her lips curved into a smile that was devastating in its familiarity.
Catherine had seen that smile before, rare and disarming, upon the Duke himself.
“Lady Catherine,” the Duchess said with measured grace. “I thank you for calling.”
“Your Grace.” Catherine sank into a curtsy, low and respectful. “The honour is mine.”
“Pray, be seated. Will you take tea?”
“Thank you.”
With movements refined by years of practice, the Duchess poured. Even the simple act carried elegance, each gesture economical and deliberate. Catherine accepted the delicate cup, fingers steady despite the storm within, and waited.
At last the Duchess spoke, her tone conversational yet weighted. “I am told my son has caused no small stir.”
Catherine inclined her head. “The stir, I believe, arose from Miss Worthing’s falsehoods.”
“Perhaps.” The Duchess’s mouth quirked, neither smile nor frown. “But James’s manner of reply was… dramatic. To raise his fists in Lady Sefton’s garden—how very unlike him.”
“You sound surprised,” Catherine said cautiously.
“I am,” the Duchess admitted. “My son is many things, but rarely impulsive. He is a creature of calculation and control. For him to abandon that control in so public a fashion…” Her gaze sharpened, unblinking. “You must be quite extraordinary.”
Catherine lowered her eyes to her cup. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am entirely ordinary.”
"I doubt that very much. James has shown no interest in any young lady since his return. Then suddenly he's making public declarations and brawling like a common soldier. That suggests something more than ordinary."
Catherine said nothing, unsure how to respond.
“How did you meet my son?” the Duchess asked suddenly.
The question Catherine had been dreading.
Her teacup nearly slipped in her hand, and she had to force her grip to steady.
She could not tell the truth, Heaven forbid she admit to a rain-soaked coaching inn and a night of reckless abandon, but lying to this woman, with those piercing grey eyes, felt impossible.
“We were introduced at a social event,” she said carefully, clinging to the half-truth. After all, an inn full of stranded travelers was a kind of gathering, if one stretched definitions to their breaking point.
“Which event?”
Catherine’s stomach tightened. “I do not recall specifically. There have been so many.”
The Duchess’s expression did not soften; if anything, it sharpened, as though she could slice through falsehood with nothing but a raised brow.
“Curious. My son has an unerring memory for names and faces. And yet I distinctly recall the shock upon his countenance when he saw you at his presentation ball.”
Heat flooded Catherine’s cheeks. She prayed it appeared no more than the effect of the fire.
“Perhaps he did not recognise me immediately,” she said lightly, though her heart hammered with the memory of that moment.
The way his gaze had struck her like lightning across the ballroom, familiar and dangerous all at once.
“Perhaps,” the Duchess echoed, though her tone suggested disbelief.
She set her teacup down with a precise, deliberate click that made Catherine’s pulse jump.
“Let me be frank, Lady Catherine. I know something occurred between my son and you before the Season began. I do not know what, nor do I require the details. What I must know are your intentions.”
“My intentions?” Catherine repeated, her throat tight.
“Yes. Do you intend to marry him?”
The bluntness of the question stole her breath.
Her first thought was indignation—marry him?
As though it were her decision to make. Her second thought, more treacherous, was an image of James’s hands braced on either side of her, his mouth descending upon hers, and how utterly helpless she had felt in his arms. Not helpless with fear but helpless with want.
“I… he has not proposed,” she managed.