Chapter 12 #2
"I don't want power."
"No? Then what do you want?"
Catherine thought about it. "Him. Just him. If he were a farmer or a merchant or a soldier, I'd still want him."
The ladies exchanged glances.
"That's the right answer," Lady Pemberton said softly. "The only answer that matters."
When the gentlemen rejoined them, there was music. The Duchess had arranged for a pianist, and there was an impromptu dance. James claimed Catherine immediately.
"Surviving?" he murmured as they waltzed.
"Your mother's friends are terrifying."
"They're not."
"They're sharks. Elegant, well-dressed sharks."
"And they adore you."
"How can you tell?"
"Because they're actually talking to you instead of about you. That's the highest compliment they can give."
They moved together in easy, elegant time, the waltz carrying them through a sea of candlelight and mirrored faces.
People watched, of course, all of them seemed to be tracking their every step, but Catherine no longer cared.
Not with James’s hand firm at her back, not with his grey eyes holding hers like a vow.
“You look stunning,” he said at last, voice pitched so low only she could hear. “That dress should be illegal.”
Her lips curved. “You specifically requested it.”
“I like torturing myself,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the bare skin just above her glove.
“You’re a fool,” she whispered back, trying not to shiver at the touch.
“Your fool, though.”
“Are you?” she challenged softly, lifting her chin. “Mine?”
“Completely. Utterly. Eternally.”
The words slid through her like warm wine. She felt the music falter, her body sway closer to his. “James...”
“I know.” His grip tightened fractionally, just enough to make her heart flutter. “Not here, not now. But soon, Catherine. I can’t maintain this distance much longer.”
“Two weeks,” she reminded, her voice steadier than she felt.
“It’s been two weeks,” he said, and for a moment something in his expression cracked—the carefully controlled duke vanishing, leaving the man beneath. His eyes darkened, his thumb swept again over her pulse, and the promise in his voice made her knees weaken.
Around them the orchestra swelled, couples gliding past in perfect decorum. But Catherine could feel the storm coiled beneath his stillness, the heat simmering just below propriety, waiting for the moment they would finally be alone.
"It's been twelve days."
"The longest twelve days of my life."
The dance ended, and they were forced to separate as social convention demanded they dance with others. Catherine found herself partnered with the Duke of Devonshire, who was surprisingly light on his feet for such a large man.
"You're good for him," the Duke said unexpectedly."James. He's been different since you appeared. More alive."
"He was perfectly alive before."
"No, he was existing. Going through the motions. Now he has fire again." He spun her expertly. "Don't let society dim that fire, my dear. It would rather see you both cold and proper than happy."
Before Catherine could reply, the music came to its natural conclusion and the couples parted. In the next instant, she was claimed with practiced courtesy by Lord Pemberton.
“Lady Catherine,” he said, his tone warm though touched with gravity. “You look quite radiant this evening.”
“Lord Pemberton,” she returned with a smile. “I am glad you are here tonight.”
“My mother was most insistent,” he admitted with a wry tilt of his mouth. “She declared it important that we show our support.”
“Support?” Catherine echoed, her brow lifting.
“For you. For your choice.” His hand tightened slightly at her waist as they turned through the steps. After a pause, he added, more quietly, “He loves you, you know. The Duke. It is plain to any who care to see.”
“Marcus...” she began, moved and troubled at once.
But he only shook his head faintly. “I wished you to know that I understand. And that I wish you happiness, truly.”
Her throat tightened. “You are a good man, Marcus.”
“I am,” he said with a self-deprecating smile that made her chest ache. “A tolerably good man, at any rate. Some other lady will discover herself fortunate to have me.”
“She will indeed.” Catherine said.
The evening dwindled into gentle farewells and the rustle of departing gowns, until only Catherine remained in the great hall, her cloak about her shoulders, waiting for her carriage to be called.
“I shall see Lady Catherine home,” James said, rising with easy authority.
“Of course you shall,” the Duchess replied dryly. “Do try to deliver her to her door without becoming mysteriously detained along the way.”
“Mother!” James exclaimed, scandalised.
“What?” The Duchess’s smile held a hint of mischief. “I was young once. I know precisely how these things go.”
Catherine flushed scarlet, but the Duchess merely reached out and patted her cheek with unexpected gentleness. “You did very well this evening, my dear. Very well indeed.”
The carriage ride was exquisite torment. James sat opposite her, as propriety demanded, yet the confined space seemed to crackle with unspoken things. Each jolt of the wheels, each brush of the lamps against the windows, only sharpened the tension strung taut between them.
“Thank you,” Catherine said at last, her voice soft. “For tonight.”
“It was my mother’s idea.”
“Still—it matters. Their approval matters.”
“You have more than approval,” James answered, his gaze unwavering. “You have their admiration.”
“I did nothing remarkable.”
“You were yourself. That is remarkable enough.”
Their eyes held across the carriage, the inches between them feeling at once intolerable distance and dangerous closeness.
“The Cowpers’ ball is tomorrow,” James said, his tone low.
“Yes. Miss Worthing seemed quite intent on promising some drama.”
“Let her,” James said flatly. “I am finished with letting others dictate our story.”
“Our story?” she echoed, heart quickening at the claim.
“Yes. Ours. Whatever comes, Catherine—it shall be by our choice, not theirs.”
The carriage drew up before her aunt’s townhouse. James descended first and offered his hand. His touch lingered at her waist longer than custom allowed as he helped her alight.
“Catherine,” he said, his voice low enough to make her pulse leap.
“Yes?”
“Two more days. Grant me two more days of this proper courtship—and then…”
“Then?” she whispered, her breath misting in the chill night air.
“Then I shall do something spectacular.”
Her lips curved despite herself. “Spectacularly good, or spectacularly disastrous?”
“That,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her hand before he let it go, “depends entirely upon your answer.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he was back in the carriage, leaving her standing on her doorstep with her heart racing and her mind spinning.
Two more days.