Chapter 11
"If one more person asks me about the weather while obviously dying to interrogate me about the Duke, I shall scream. Right here. In the middle of Hyde Park. It will be spectacular."
Catherine's aunt Vivienne laughed, adjusting her parasol against the morning sun. "My dear, you're being courted by the most eligible bachelor in England after he literally fought for your honour. Of course everyone's desperate for details."
"There are no details to give. We've ridden in the park twice, danced at three balls, and had exactly one unchaperoned conversation that lasted all of ten minutes."
"How shockingly proper."
"How shockingly frustrating," Catherine muttered, then immediately wished she hadn't as her aunt's eyes lit with interest.
"Frustrating? Do tell."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Catherine, darling, you're gripping your parasol like you want to murder it. That suggests frustration of a very specific kind."
Before Catherine could respond, the crowd around them shifted, voices rising in excitement. She didn't need to look to know what—who—had caused the stir.
"His Grace, right on schedule," Vivienne murmured. "My, he does look particularly ducal this morning."
James was indeed approaching on his black stallion, cutting through the fashionable crowd with the ease of someone who'd never had to question his place in the world.
He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue riding coat that emphasized his broad shoulders, his tall hat set at just the right angle, his boots polished to a mirror shine.
Three months ago, Catherine would have seen only the Duke; the title, the authority, the distance.
Now she saw James, and all the tiny details that betrayed the man beneath the perfect exterior.
The slight tension in his jaw that meant he was annoyed by the crowd.
The way his gloved fingers drummed against his thigh—that nervous tell she'd discovered that night.
The way his eyes searched the crowd until they found her, and how his entire body seemed to relax when they did.
"Ladies," he said, dismounting with fluid grace. "Lady Ashworth, you look lovely this morning."
"Flatterer," Vivienne said cheerfully. "I look like a woman who was awakened at dawn by her niece pacing the floors like a caged tiger."
"Aunt Vivienne!"
"What? It's true." She looked between them with barely concealed amusement. "I believe I see Lady Jersey over there. I simply must speak with her about... something. Catherine, I trust His Grace will see you safely home?"
She was gone before Catherine could protest, leaving them standing together under the watchful eyes of what felt like half of London.
"Your aunt has all the subtlety of a cavalry charge," James observed.
"She means well."
"She means to see you married before the Season ends."
"Yes, well, she's not alone in that." Catherine nodded toward a cluster of matrons who weren't even pretending not to stare. "I believe there's actually a wager in the betting book at White's about when you'll propose."
"Three, actually," James said calmly. "One on whether I'll propose at all, one on when, and one on whether you'll accept."
"How romantic. Nothing says true love like gambling odds."
"The odds are in our favour, if it helps."
"Our favour for what?"
"Everything. Proposal, acceptance, even a Christmas wedding, though that one's rather ambitious given it's already late September."
Catherine's cheeks heated. "You're very confident."
"I'm very determined," he corrected, offering his arm. "Shall we walk? Standing still makes us even more of a spectacle."
They strolled along the path, maintaining perfect propriety—the correct distance between them, her hand resting lightly on his arm, both of them nodding politely to acquaintances. To any observer, they were the picture of a proper courtship.
Only Catherine could feel the tension in his arm, the carefully controlled strength.
Only she knew what those hands were capable of, how they'd mapped every inch of her body with devastating thoroughness.
Only she could see the heat in his eyes when he glanced at her, quickly masked but unmistakably there.
"This is torture," he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
"The walk?"
"Being this close to you and not being able to..." He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Two weeks of this careful dance, always watched, always judged. I'm going insane."
"You're the one who insisted on proper courtship."
"You're the one who demanded it," he countered. "And you were right. After the scandal with Miss Worthing, anything less than perfect propriety would fuel the gossips. But Catherine..."
"Yes?"
"I dream about you." The words were barely above a whisper, but they sent heat flooding through her. "Every night. I dream about that night, about the sounds you made, the way you felt, the taste of..."
"James!" She glanced around frantically, but no one was close enough to hear.
"Three months I stayed away," he continued, his voice rough. "Three months of thinking distance would cure this need. Instead, it's worse. Every proper dance, every chaperoned conversation, every moment I can't touch you the way I want to...it's torture of the sweetest kind."
Catherine's breath caught. Her body was responding to his words, to his proximity, to the memories he evoked. She could feel heat pooling low in her abdomen, her skin sensitizing beneath her riding habit.
"You can't say things like that," she managed.
"Why not? It's true."
"Because we're in public. Because people are watching. Because if you keep talking like that, I might do something spectacularly inappropriate."
His eyes darkened. "Such as?"
"Such as drag you behind those trees and remind myself what your mouth tastes like."
James actually stumbled, his usual grace deserting him. "Catherine..."
"You're not the only one who dreams," she said quietly. "You're not the only one being tortured by propriety."
They walked in charged silence for a moment, both trying to regain composure. Around them, Hyde Park continued its morning ritual; riders showing off their mounts, ladies displaying their newest fashions, gossips gathering material for the afternoon's calls.
"There's a dinner gathering tonight," James said finally. "My mother's. She specifically requested your presence."
Catherine's stomach dropped. "Another interrogation?"
"A show of support, actually. She's invited only the most influential members of society. It's her way of publicly endorsing you."
"How thrilling. Nothing says acceptance like being displayed for the ton's approval."
"I know it's not ideal..."
"James," Catherine interrupted, stopping to face him. "I need you to understand something. I don't care about your mother's approval or society's acceptance. I care about you. About us. About whether we can build something real despite all these ridiculous rules and expectations."
He stared at her for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable in his expression. "You mean that."
"Of course I mean it."
"Even knowing what being my duchess would entail?"
"I'm beginning to understand it, yes. The scrutiny, the responsibilities, the constant performance. It's daunting."
"But?"
"But you're worth it," she said simply. "At least, I think you are. These two weeks of proper courtship will tell me for certain."
"And what have they told you so far?"
Catherine considered. "That you're punctual to a fault. That you have opinions about everything from trade policy to flower arrangements. That you're surprisingly knowledgeable about novels for someone who claims to despise them."
"You asked my opinion on The Mysteries of Udolpho!"
"And you gave me a detailed analysis of its narrative structure and symbolic imagery."
"I was trying to impress you."
"With novel criticism?"
"I was desperate. Do you have any idea how limiting proper courtship is? I can't show you my other impressive qualities."
The suggestion in his tone made her blush. "Your other qualities are precisely what got us into this situation."
"My other qualities are what made you say my name like a prayer."
"James!"
"What? We're discussing our courtship. That night is part of our history, whether society knows it or not."
They'd reached a more secluded part of the park, where the trees provided some shelter from prying eyes. James stopped, turning to face her fully.
"I need to know something," he said seriously. "These two weeks—are they genuinely helping you decide, or are they just delaying the inevitable?"
"What do you think is inevitable?"
"Us. Together. Married." He stepped closer, still maintaining proper distance but somehow making it feel intimate. "I knew it that morning at the inn when I had to leave you. I've known it every day since. You're the one for me, Catherine. The question is whether I'm the one for you."
Catherine's heart was racing. "You're very certain."
"I've never been more certain of anything in my life."
"Even though I'm not what a duke should want? No fortune, no grand connections, just the daughter of a dead earl whose estate went to a Scottish cousin?"
"You're everything I want," he said simply. "Your bloodline is impeccable, but that's not why. You're brave and brilliant and you make me laugh. You challenge me, infuriate me, inspire me. You're the only person who's ever seen past the title to the man beneath."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? Everyone else sees the Duke of Ravensfield. Even Lady Harrington only saw a young man with a future title. But you? You saw James, just James, and you wanted him anyway."
"I did," Catherine admitted. "I do."
They stood there, looking at each other, the space between them charged with possibility and constraint.
“Tonight,” James said at last, his voice low and taut, as though speaking cost him dearly. “My mother’s dinner party. Wear the gold gown.”
Catherine arched a brow. “The one from your father’s memorial ball?”
“Yes.”
“Why that one?”