Chapter 16 #2
“He will,” the Duchess said coolly. “The way he looks at you makes that inevitable. The question is not if but when. The only question is whether you will accept.”
“Why should you think I would not?” Catherine asked, more sharply than intended.
“Because you are no fool,” the Duchess replied at once. “You know precisely what marrying a duke entails—the ceaseless scrutiny, the suffocating responsibilities, the loss of privacy, the unending demands of rank. You strike me as a young woman who prizes her independence.”
Catherine’s heart lurched. She did value it.
The thought of being caged by rules and endless watchful eyes terrified her.
And yet the mere memory of James’s gaze on her skin made her shiver.
She hardly knew him. And still—still—something about him unsettled her very bones, made her body ache and made her thoughts betray her.
“I do value it,” she said softly.
“Then why would you sacrifice it for my son?”
That was the question Catherine had been circling for weeks.
She could have lied. She could have spoken of wealth, of security, of a match that would elevate her beyond imagination.
But something in the Duchess’s cool, commanding presence demanded honesty; if not with the world, then at least with herself.
“Because,” Catherine whispered, almost against her own will, “I cannot seem to stay away from him. I do not know him well, but… I cannot stop thinking of him. And that, I fear, is reason enough.”
The Duchess regarded her in long silence, her grey eyes unreadable, reflecting firelight and wisdom both. Silver glinted in her hair, and Catherine felt the weight of those eyes as though she were being measured on a scale. At last the Duchess spoke.
“Then the greater question is this: does he know?”
“I do not know,” Catherine confessed, her voice unsteady. “We’ve been… complicated.”
“James excels at complicated,” the Duchess said dryly.
“It is simplicity that unsettles him.” She rose, her movements graceful despite the severity of her mourning gown, and walked to the window, gazing out.
“His father and I had an arranged marriage. Duty, bloodlines, the neat joining of two great families. We respected each other, we produced an heir, we fulfilled our obligations. But love?” She shook her head once. “That was never part of the equation.”
“I am sorry,” Catherine said softly.
“Do not be. It was what we expected.” The Duchess turned, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But James… I wanted something different for him. Then that business with Lady Harrington occurred...”
“Lady Harrington?” Catherine repeated, startled. The name meant nothing to her, and a prickle of unease danced along her spine.
“You do not know?” The Duchess tilted her head, faintly surprised.
“I assumed… Well, it is of little consequence now. She is long since married and living in Italy. The point is, James was young, reckless, and thought himself in love. It ended badly, as such youthful follies often do. And from the ashes of that, he became the man you see now—controlled, distant, careful with his heart.” A faint smile curved her lips. “At least, until you.”
Catherine’s stomach tightened. She wanted to deny it, to protest that she had never sought to entangle him. “Your Grace, I never intended...”
“I know what you did not intend,” the Duchess cut in. Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “What I want to know is what you do intend. Because if you are to break his heart, I would have you do it now, swiftly and cleanly, rather than after he has laid himself bare.”
Catherine swallowed hard. Break his heart?
The very notion seemed absurd. He was a duke, powerful, commanding, a man who made her pulse quicken with a glance.
She was the one who had been undone—by his voice, his mouth, his maddening presence.
Yet here was his mother, warning her as though she were the greater danger.
“I have no intention of breaking his heart,” she said at last, though doubt flickered inside her like a candle guttering in the wind.
“Intentions and outcomes do not always align, Lady Catherine.”
The room fell quiet, the fire snapping in the grate. They looked at one another, two women, one young and uncertain, the other seasoned and formidable, each weighing, each measuring.
“You are very direct, Your Grace,” Catherine managed, forcing herself to meet that penetrating gaze.
“I find it saves time.” The Duchess returned to her chair with regal composure.
“So let me be even more direct. I do not care that you have no fortune. I do not care that your cousin inherited your father’s title.
I do not even care what transpired between James and you before the Season.
What I care about—what I must know—is whether you can make my son happy. ”
Catherine’s throat tightened. Could she? She wanted him, Heaven help her, she wanted him more than was wise, but desire was not happiness. Attraction was not love. Still, she whispered, “I do not know. I hope so.”
“That is a more honest answer than most would dare to give.” The Duchess inclined her head approvingly. “Then tell me about yourself. Not your bloodlines, not your accomplishments—James can recite those by rote. Tell me who you are.”
So Catherine did. She talked about growing up in Yorkshire, about her father's death, about her mother's determination to see her married well. She talked about her love of reading, her terrible embroidery, her tendency to say what she thought even when silence would be wiser.
The Duchess listened, occasionally asking questions, her expression giving nothing away.
Finally, as the clock chimed four, she rose. "Thank you for coming, Lady Catherine."
"Thank you for inviting me."
"I haven't decided about you yet," the Duchess said bluntly. "But I'm not opposed, which is more than I can say for any of the other young ladies who've pursued my son."
"I haven't pursued him," Catherine pointed out.
"No," the Duchess agreed, a small smile playing at her lips. "Perhaps that's why he's pursuing you."
As Catherine descended into the entrance hall, she nearly started; James was there, as if he had materialised from the shadows. He looked as though he had only just arrived...or perhaps, more dangerously, as though he had been waiting for her all along.
“Catherine.” He spoke her name with a softness that made it feel like both invocation and possession, and her pulse leapt in betrayal of her composure. “My mother did not eviscerate you, then?”
“She considered it,” Catherine replied, keeping her voice level. “But ultimately she chose to reserve judgment.”
James’s mouth curved faintly. “That is practically approval from her.” He took a step nearer, close enough that she caught the faint scent that always seemed to cling to him, and it unsettled her far more than she wished to admit.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have warned you she would want to see you.”
“Yes,” Catherine returned, lifting her chin. “You should have. Along with quite a number of other things you failed to mention.”
His brows drew together. “Such as?”
“Lady Harrington.” She did not flinch as she said it, though the name tasted sour.
At once his face darkened, the shadow in his eyes deepening until he seemed another man entirely. “My mother told you about that?”
“She mentioned it,” Catherine said, her voice cool though her heart thundered. “Would you care to elaborate?”
"Not particularly."
"James..."
"Not here," he said quietly, glancing at the hovering servants. "Will you come for a carriage ride with me?"
She should say no. Should return to her aunt's house and maintain proper distance. But she was tired of proper distance.
"Yes," she said.
His curricle awaited them at the steps, a gleaming vehicle of elegant design, drawn by a perfectly matched pair of high-stepping grays.
With practiced ease, James handed her up, his gloved hand closing over hers and lingering a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
The touch sent an unwelcome thrill through her, though she schooled her features into composure.
They set off at a smart pace, the polished wheels rattling lightly over the cobbles as they passed through the bustling streets. The clatter of hooves and rumble of traffic wrapped them in a peculiar kind of privacy, as though the noise itself shielded them from the world’s curiosity.
At length, James guided the grays into Hyde Park, the wide green expanse opening before them.
He steered with confidence down a quieter avenue, shaded by great chestnut trees, until they reached a more secluded path where the press of carriages and riders thinned and the hum of society faded to a murmur.
"Lady Harrington," he said without preamble, "was a mistake."
"That's rather not gallant."
"But accurate. I was two and twenty, just down from Oxford, full of romantic notions. She was eight and twenty and married to a man forty years her senior, and bored."
"You had an affair."
"We had a flirtation that I thought was love and she thought was amusing. It ended when her husband found out and challenged me to a duel."
Catherine's breath caught. "Did you...?"
"Fight? No. I would have, but my father intervened. Paid Harrington off, sent his wife to Italy, and strongly suggested I join the military to avoid further scandal."
"So you left."
"I left. Spent six years trying to forget what a fool I'd been. Succeeded, mostly. Then I met you."
He pulled the curricle to a stop under a large tree, turning to face her.
"You asked me about Lady Harrington. Now let me ask you about Lord Pemberton."
"What about him?"
"Do you love him?"
"No."
"But you let him court you."
"I let him be kind to me," Catherine corrected. "I let him treat me like I was worth something more than secret meetings and hidden feelings."
"Is that what you think you are to me? A secret?"