Chapter 11 #2
His eyes darkened, grey storm clouds that seemed to strip her bare.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, though propriety kept him from touching her.
“Because that night you looked like something otherworldly, you looked like a goddess. Because I spent every wretched moment imagining what it would be like to undo each fastening, to bare you to my eyes, to my hands… to my mouth. I wanted to peel that gown from your skin and worship every inch of you until you forgot your own name.”
Her breath caught, traitorous warmth spiraling low in her abdomen once again. “You are impossible.”
“I am in torment,” he corrected, voice rough.
His hand lifted, hovered at her cheek, then drew back before he could break the fragile veneer of propriety.
“These last nights of restraint have been torture. Watching you glide past me at balls, smiling with polite distance, while I am burning—Catherine, it is agony.”
Her parasol slipped in her grip. She swallowed. “And yet you do it. For appearances.”
“For you,” he ground out. “Because you asked it of me. But know this...I am counting the days, the hours, until I may claim you without witnesses. Until I may put an end to this charade of civility and remind you—remind us both—what it is to burn together.”
Her knees weakened, memory of that night in the inn sweeping over her; the way he had possessed her, undone her, left her trembling with a pleasure she had never imagined.
“You’re incorrigible,” she whispered.
“I am in love,” he said, the words falling like an oath.
He leaned closer, until his lips brushed the shell of her ear, sending a violent shiver through her.
“Desperately, madly, properly in love. And if you wear that gown tonight, Catherine, I cannot promise I’ll survive the evening with my sanity intact. ”
Before Catherine could frame a reply to James’s devastating whisper, a voice, unwelcome, sharp, and calculated, cut across the quiet path.
“Your Grace! Lady Catherine! What an utterly delightful surprise.”
Miss Worthing approached on her glossy mare, her mother and Lord Ashford flanking her like attendants in some grim little pageant. Her smile gleamed brittle as cut glass, her eyes bright with malice barely concealed.
“Miss Worthing,” James said, his tone clipped to cool civility. “I was unaware you were in the habit of riding in the park so often.”
“Oh, I’ve only just taken it up,” she replied airily, patting her horse’s neck with theatrical delicacy. “Lord Ashford has been so very generous in offering his expertise. He is, after all, most accomplished with horseflesh.”
Ashford shifted in his saddle, visibly ill at ease beneath her simpering glance.
“Indeed,” James said flatly, the single word laden with disdain.
There was a pause, brief but heavy, before Miss Worthing leaned forward, her smile sharpening further. “And how goes the courtship?” she asked, her voice sugared with false sweetness. “The ton is simply beside itself with anticipation. Everyone longs to know when we might expect an announcement.”
Her gaze slid deliberately to Catherine, daring her to falter under the weight of so many watching eyes and whispered wagers.
“The ton will know when we decide they should know,” Catherine said, her voice calm though her pulse hammered.
“How mysterious,” Miss Worthing replied with brittle sweetness. “Though after such a dramatic beginning, I suppose you’d want to be more… circumspect.”
“What we want,” James said, voice sharp as steel, “is to be left in peace.”
“Peace?” Miss Worthing’s smile curved like a blade. “How very dull. Surely you want excitement. Passion. That was how it all began, was it not? With passion?”
The insinuation slithered through the air. Catherine felt James’s arm tighten beneath her hand, the tension in his body palpable.
“I wouldn’t know about your passions, Miss Worthing,” Catherine said smoothly. “Though I do understand desperation can often masquerade as passion. Easy to confuse the two, I’m told.”
Miss Worthing’s cheeks burned scarlet. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you? How refreshing. I do so admire innocence, even when it is only feigned.”
Mrs. Worthing cut in quickly, alarmed. “Ladies, that is enough. Come, Amelia.”
But Miss Worthing was not finished. “Do enjoy yourselves at the Cowpers’ ball tomorrow,” she said, her voice honeyed and poisonous. “I hear there will be… revelations.”
She wheeled her mare and rode off, leaving Catherine with a knot of unease twisting in her stomach.
“What do you think she meant?” she asked.
“Nothing good,” James said grimly. His jaw was a hard line, his eyes stormy. “But whatever game she plays, I’ll put an end to it.”
“We’ll put an end to it,” Catherine corrected. “I’m not a delicate flower, James.”
He turned on her, eyes blazing. “I know. But you are my flower. And I’ll see anyone who tries to touch you crushed beneath my heel.”
“James, you cannot fight every whisper.”
“Watch me.”
Before she could protest, he seized her arm and drew her behind a great oak, pressing her back against the rough bark with a force that stole her breath. The voices and hoofbeats of other riders drifted nearby, but in that moment they might have been utterly alone.
“James, what are you...”
Her protest dissolved as his mouth crashed down on hers.
This was no genteel kiss, no delicate brush fit for Hyde Park promenades.
It was raw, unrestrained hunger. His lips hard and consuming, his tongue thrusting past hers with ruthless command.
Catherine whimpered against him, her body betraying her, her hands fisting in his coat as though she could anchor herself against the storm he unleashed.
He pressed her back against the tree, caging her there, his thigh wedged shamelessly between hers.
The hard lines of his body left no room for doubt—every inch of him was taut with need, his arousal pressing bold and unyielding through the fine fabric of his trousers.
She gasped at the unmistakable ridge against her hip, heat flooding through her at the memory of exactly how he had felt inside her that night.
“My goodness, I cannot do this anymore,” he growled against her mouth, his breath ragged. “The pretending. The distance. The cursed propriety while every part of me screams for you. I need you, Catherine. To taste you. To have you. To remind you you’re mine.”
Her head tipped back helplessly, his mouth searing down her throat, biting lightly at the hollow where her pulse leapt. She should have pushed him away, should have warned him that riders were only yards away, but instead her hands slid lower, desperate, reckless.
Her fingers brushed the hard length straining against his breeches.
James shuddered violently, his breath breaking into a hiss. His head dropped to her shoulder, his body jerking as though the touch had undone him utterly.
“My goodness, Catherine,” he rasped, his voice dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her hand daring to press more firmly, feeling the rigid proof of his desire beneath the taut fabric. “You ache for me. Just as I ache for you.”
A filthy groan escaped him, muffled against her neck.
He seized her wrist, holding it tight, though not before her touch had wrung another shiver from him.
“You wicked little temptress. Do you mean to ruin me here, against a tree like some common rake?” His eyes burned into hers, pupils blown wide, his control unraveling.
Her lips curved despite the heat suffusing her cheeks. “I only meant to remind you you’re not the only one suffering.”
He growled, low and feral, and pressed himself harder against her hand before shoving it back against the bark, pinning it above her head.
“One more second of that,” he said roughly, “and I would have taken you here, in daylight, in full view of half the ton. Is that what you want? For them to see you undone, spread for me while they ride by?”
Her thighs trembled, her breath caught, shame and need twisting deliciously inside her. “No,” she whispered. “But I want you.”
His forehead pressed to hers, his jaw taut with restraint, his body vibrating with it. “You’ll have me,” he vowed darkly. “But not here. Not where others can steal the sight of what belongs only to me.”
He kissed her again, fierce and punishing, before dragging himself back a fraction, though his arousal still pressed hot and insistent against her.
His hands gripped her waist like shackles.
“Three weeks,” he said, the words half a curse.
“Three cursed weeks until I can strip you bare and make you scream my name. Heaven help us both if you test me like this again before then. Like the first time I ruined you.”
“You did not ruin me the first time,” she whispered, her lips swollen from his kiss.
“Did I not?” His grey eyes burned into hers, sharp and unrelenting. “You were innocent. I should never have touched you.”
“You made me alive,” she said fiercely, voice trembling with passion. “You showed me what desire could be. Gave me something to cling to in these endless weeks of silence.”
His mask slipped then, the cold ducal hauteur collapsing into something raw, tortured, hungry. “Catherine…”
“Your Grace? Are you there?”
Lord Ashford’s voice, too close, shattered the moment.
James tore himself back at once, his hands unerringly efficient as he smoothed her gown, tugged her shawl into place, even brushed a stray curl from her flushed cheek before retreating.
By the time Ashford appeared around the tree, they stood side by side, a perfectly proper distance between them—though Catherine’s racing pulse and heated cheeks betrayed how false the tableau was.
“Ah, there you are,” Ashford said, his eyes narrowing, gaze flicking between them with keen suspicion. “I was concerned. She thought Lady Catherine had stumbled.”
“How very kind of her,” Catherine replied dryly, gathering what composure she could. “As you see, I am perfectly well.”
“Indeed.” Ashford’s tone suggested doubt. He let his gaze linger a fraction too long before adding, “Though perhaps you should return home, Lady Catherine. The sun grows rather warm.”
The air was crisp and cool, not remotely warm, but Catherine seized the lifeline. “You are right. Your Grace,” she said, turning to James with as much dignity as she could muster, “would you be so kind as to escort me?”
“Of course.” His bow was impeccable, but his eyes when they met hers were anything but—dark, promising, possessive.
As they walked away, Catherine could feel Ashford’s scrutiny prickling between her shoulder blades, and she knew that whispers would follow before the hour was out.
They left Ashford standing there, suspicious but without proof. The ride back to her aunt's house was silent, both of them too aware of what had almost happened.
At her door, James helped her dismount, his hands lingering on her waist longer than necessary.
"Tonight," he said quietly. "The dinner party."
"I'll be there."
"Wear the gold gown."
"You mentioned that."
"It bears repeating." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles. But his eyes held promises of other kisses, other touches, other repetitions. "Until tonight."
Catherine watched him ride away, her body still humming from their stolen moment. Two weeks of courtship, he'd promised. Two weeks to decide their future.
At this rate, she wasn't sure she'd survive one.
hater 8C