Chapter 12
That evening, Catherine stood before her mirror as Martha arranged the final touches to her hair. The gold gown gleamed in the candlelight, its décolletage perhaps a bit more daring than strictly proper for a dinner gathering, but still within the bounds of acceptability.
"You look beautiful, my lady," Martha said, securing a pearl comb. "The Duke won't know what hit him."
"The Duke specifically requested this gown," Catherine admitted.
"Did he now?" Martha's eyes sparkled. "And why might that be?"
"I couldn't say."
"Couldn't you? Perhaps because you wore it the night he first saw you in London? The night everyone says he looked like he'd seen a ghost?"
Catherine met her maid's eyes in the mirror. Martha had been with her through everything—the trip from Yorkshire, that night at the inn, the months of careful avoidance. If anyone deserved the truth...
"Can you keep a secret, Martha?"
"Always, my lady."
"The Duke and I... we'd met before. Before London."
Martha's eyes widened. "At the inn? He was the gentleman from the storm?"
Catherine nodded, and Martha sat down heavily on the nearest chair.
“Oh, my lady. Oh my stars. The Duke? That was the Duke? I hardly remembered the man from that night as I had the shock of Robert’s injury and having to help him all night along with Mrs Hartwell.
And the couple of times I saw the Duke I could swear he reminded me of someone but could not remember who. ”
"He was traveling to his father's deathbed. He didn't tell me who he was."
"And you... and he... that night..."
"Yes."
Martha was quiet for a long moment, processing this information. Then: "Well, that explains everything, doesn't it? The way you two circle each other like magnets. The way he looks ready to commit murder whenever another man speaks to you."
"Martha!"
"It's true, my lady. At the Sefton musicale, when Lord Pemberton was sitting so close? I thought the Duke might actually challenge him right there."
"He's protective."
"He's possessive," Martha corrected. "There's a difference. And you like it."
Catherine's cheeks heated. "That's inappropriate."
"But true." Martha stood, returning to her duties. "So this courtship—it's all for show?"
"No, it's real. We're trying to see if we can build something lasting, not just... passion."
"And can you?"
Catherine thought about their conversation in the park, about James's declaration of love, about the way he looked at her like she was his whole world.
"I think we might," she said softly.
The carriage ride to the Ravensfield townhouse was brief but gave Catherine time to gather her composure. Her aunt had wanted to accompany her, but the invitation had been specifically for Catherine alone, suggesting an intimate gathering.
When she arrived, she discovered just how intimate; only twelve guests, all carefully chosen.
The Duchess had assembled the most influential members of society: Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, Lord and Lady Pemberton, which would be awkward but the duchess wanted to make a point there as well, and a handful of others whose opinions shaped the ton.
"Lady Catherine," the Duchess greeted her warmly, which immediately put everyone on notice. "How lovely you look. That colour is magnificent on you."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"James is detained briefly, some tedious business with his steward, but he'll join us shortly. Lady Jersey was just telling us about the latest scandal involving Lord Mitchum and his valet."
Catherine was thus absorbed into the conversation, finding herself holding court as Lady Jersey regaled them with a story that grew more outrageous with each telling.
"But surely," Catherine said at one point, "a parrot couldn't actually learn to repeat that particular phrase?"
"My dear," Lady Jersey said with delight, "you'd be amazed what parrots can learn. Why, I once knew a bird that could recite entire passages."
The room laughed, and Catherine realized this was a test. Not of her bloodline or accomplishments, but of her ability to navigate society at its highest levels. To hold her own among people who could destroy her with a word.
"Lady Catherine," the Duchess of Devonshire said, "I understand you're from Yorkshire originally?"
"Yes, Your Grace. My father's estate was near Harrogate."
"Beautiful country. I visited once, years ago. Your father was the Earl of Westmont, wasn't he?"
"He was."
"I remember him. A man of principle. He once gave a speech in Lords about industrial reform that had half the peers ready to riot."
"He believed strongly in progress," Catherine said carefully.
"As should we all," the Duke of Devonshire said. "Though perhaps with less inflammatory rhetoric."
"Sometimes inflammation is necessary to cauterize a wound," Catherine suggested, then wondered if she'd gone too far.
But the Duke laughed. "Well said. You have your father's wit."
"And his courage, I'd wager," Lady Pemberton added, giving Catherine a meaningful look. "It takes courage to capture a duke's attention."
"Or foolishness," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell observed, though not unkindly.
"Often the same thing," Catherine agreed, which earned another laugh.
James entered then, and the entire room shifted. He was in evening dress, perfectly turned out, every inch the Duke. But his eyes went immediately to Catherine, and something in his expression softened.
"Ladies, gentlemen," he greeted. "My apologies for the delay."
"Estate business?" The Duke of Devonshire asked sympathetically. "It never ends, does it?"
"Unfortunately not." James moved to Catherine's side, not quite touching but close enough that everyone noticed. "I hope you've been kind to Lady Catherine in my absence."
"She hardly needs our kindness," Lady Jersey said. "She's been entertaining us beautifully. Did you know she speaks three languages?"
"Four, actually," James said, his eyes never leaving Catherine's face. "She's too modest to mention her Italian."
"You speak Italian?" Lady Cowper asked with interest.
"Poorly," Catherine admitted. "Though well enough to understand that most opera plots are nonsensical."
"Blasphemy!" the Duchess of Devonshire declared with mock horror. "Opera is high art!"
"Opera is an excuse for people to dress expensively and gossip during the intervals," James said dryly.
"Cynic," his mother accused.
"Realist," he countered.
Dinner was announced, and James offered Catherine his arm. The precedence was carefully orchestrated—as an earl's daughter, Catherine ranked high enough to be escorted by the Duke, but the placement still sent a message.
She was seated at James's right hand, the position of honor usually reserved for the highest-ranking lady. The Duchess of Devonshire, who technically outranked her, was placed elsewhere without complaint. Another message.
The meal was exquisite, course after course of perfectly prepared dishes. The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine, touching on politics, literature, the upcoming Season's events.
"What think you of the new poetry from Lord Byron?" Lady Jersey asked Catherine.
"Overwrought," Catherine said honestly. "He writes as if every emotion must be a tempest."
"You prefer subtlety?" James asked.
"I prefer honesty. Real passion doesn't need excessive adjectives."
"Hear, hear," Lord Pemberton said, raising his glass. Catherine caught his eye, grateful that he seemed to have forgiven her for refusing his proposal.
"Speaking of passion," Lady Cowper said with a sly smile, "when might we expect an announcement? The ton is quite beside itself with speculation."
Catherine felt the room hold its breath. This was the question everyone wanted answered.
"When Lady Catherine agrees to have me," James said simply.
All eyes turned to her.
"And what would persuade you, Lady Catherine?" the Duchess asked.
Catherine looked at James, at the man who'd shown her passion and was now showing her partnership. "I suppose that remains to be seen."
"A sensible answer," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell approved. "Too many young ladies rush into marriage."
"And too many gentlemen assume acceptance is foregone," Catherine added, which earned approving nods from the ladies.
"You're right, of course," James said. "A woman's acceptance should be earned, not assumed."
"Pretty words," the Duchess of Devonshire said. "But what actions back them up?"
"Would you like a list?" James asked dryly. "I've been properly courting Lady Catherine for two weeks. Public rides, attended balls, appropriate conversations under careful chaperonage. I've been a model of propriety."
"How unlike you," his mother murmured, which made everyone laugh.
"I'm reformed," James claimed. "Lady Catherine has a civilizing influence."
"Heaven help us all if I'm considered civilizing," Catherine said.
"Why?" Lady Jersey asked, intrigued.
"Because I have distinctly uncivilized thoughts most of the time."
The room erupted in delighted laughter. James's eyes darkened with something that made Catherine's pulse race.
After dinner, the ladies withdrew, leaving the men to their port. Catherine found herself surrounded by the most powerful women in society.
"Well," Lady Jersey said without preamble, "you're clearly in love with him."
"Is it that obvious?"
"My dear, you practically glow when he enters a room. The question is whether you're prepared for what comes with him."
"The dukedom?"
"The scrutiny," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell corrected. "Every move you make will be watched, judged, commented upon. Every mistake magnified."
"Every triumph minimized," Lady Cowper added. "You'll be expected to be perfect—the perfect duchess, the perfect hostess, the perfect mother to the future duke."
"No pressure," Catherine said weakly.
"Immense pressure," the Duchess corrected. "But also immense reward. The position, the influence, the ability to actually change things. As Duchess of Ravensfield, you'd be one of the most powerful women in England."