Chapter 13
The Cowpers' ball was, as always, a glittering affair. Their ballroom was famous for its mirrors, which reflected the candlelight into infinity, making the space seem endless and everyone in it more beautiful.
Catherine arrived with her aunt, wearing a new gown of midnight blue silk that had cost more than she cared to think about. But Vivienne had insisted, saying that if Miss Worthing was planning something, Catherine needed to look unassailable.
“Remember,” Vivienne murmured as they entered the ballroom, her hand light but steady upon Catherine’s arm, “whatever happens, hold your head high. You are the daughter of an earl. You are courted by a duke. You have nothing to fear and nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know,” Catherine whispered.
“Do you? Because you look as though you are being led to the scaffold.”
“I simply… have a bad feeling.”
And she was not wrong. There was a tension in the air, an electric hum of anticipation, as though the entire company had gathered not merely for a ball, but for the unveiling of some long-awaited drama.
Fans fluttered too briskly, laughter rang a shade too brightly; every gesture sharpened with expectation.
James appeared almost at once, dark and commanding in his black evening clothes. His expression was grave, though his eyes softened when they found hers.
“Dance with me,” he said without preamble.
“The dancing has not yet begun,” Catherine replied, startled.
“Then walk with me. Stand with me. Just… be with me.”
Something in his tone made her chest tighten. “James, what is it?”
He drew a sharp breath. “Lady Harrington is here.”
The name struck like a blow. Catherine’s blood seemed to chill in her veins. “Your former...”
“Yes.” His voice was clipped, bitter. “Recently returned from Italy. And already making it abundantly clear she intends to rekindle what once was.”
Catherine’s throat constricted. “I see.”
“No, you do not.” He took her arm firmly, guiding her into the shadow of a pillar where their words could not so easily be overheard.
His face was carved from steel. “I do not care that she is here. She is nothing to me now. But she is clever and vindictive. And she has allied herself with Miss Worthing.”
“Of course she has,” Catherine muttered, her unease deepening.
“They are plotting something,” James said grimly, his hand tightening over hers as though to anchor her. “I can feel it in the air. And when they strike, they will aim for you.”
Before Catherine could gather her breath, the ballroom doors seemed to part for the lady in question. Lady Harrington did not simply enter—she commanded the space, every head turning as though pulled by invisible strings.
She was everything Catherine was not. Tall and statuesque, her golden hair arranged in a cascade of perfect curls that gleamed under the candlelight, her skin like porcelain kissed with rose.
Where Catherine’s frame was slender and unremarkable, Lady Harrington’s was lush and voluptuous, her curves displayed to their most dangerous advantage by a gown of crimson silk that clung scandalously to her figure.
The neckline plunged daringly low, a calculated defiance of propriety that had every man in the room sneaking glances—and every woman sharpening her fan.
Catherine, in her midnight-blue gown, suddenly felt drab, provincial, small.
Her décolletage, though carefully arranged, seemed modest by comparison.
Her dark hair, pinned neatly, lacked the dazzling shimmer of Lady Harrington’s gold.
She hated herself for the thought, but the truth bit deep: this was the sort of woman who belonged on a duke’s arm.
This was the sort of woman James had once chosen.
“James,” Lady Harrington purred, her voice honeyed venom. She did not walk so much as glide across the polished floor, the crowd parting instinctively as though unwilling or unable to impede her. “How wonderful to see you again.”
James’s expression chilled to marble. “Lady Harrington.”
“So formal!” Her laugh was a low ripple, designed to draw eyes and imaginations. “We were once much more… intimate.”
Her gaze slid, like the blade of a knife, to Catherine. She let her eyes linger in deliberate, insulting assessment, then curved her lips into a smile of triumph.
“And you must be the famous Lady Catherine,” she said sweetly. “I’ve heard so very much about you.”
"How fascinating," Catherine said coolly. "I've heard absolutely nothing about you."
It was a lie, but a satisfying one. Lady Harrington's perfect smile faltered slightly.
"How amusing. James always did like women with sharp tongues." She moved closer to James, close enough that her perfume would reach him. "Among other things."
"What do you want, Clarissa?" James asked flatly.
"Want? Can't an old friend say hello?"
"We were never friends."
"No," she agreed, her voice dropping to something intimate. "We were something much more interesting."
Catherine wanted to scratch the woman's eyes out. Instead, she smiled sweetly. "Were you? How nice for you both. Though I understand it ended rather... dramatically. Something about a duel that never happened and a quick trip to Italy?"
Lady Harrington's eyes flashed. "You've been telling stories, James?"
"The truth isn't a story," he said. "Now if you'll excuse us..."
"Oh, but you can't leave yet!" Miss Worthing appeared, looking triumphant. "The entertainment is about to begin."
"Entertainment?" Catherine asked warily.
"Oh yes. Lady Cowper has arranged for a reading. From Lady Harrington's new memoir."
The blood drained from Catherine's face. A memoir. Of course.
"You didn't," James said, his voice dangerous.
"I did," Lady Harrington said with satisfaction. "It's all perfectly discreet, of course. No real names. But those who know... well, they'll recognize the truth."
"You vindictive..."
"James," Catherine interrupted, putting a hand on his arm. "Don't."
The crowd was gathering now, drawn by the promise of scandal. Lady Cowper, looking uncomfortable but trapped by social convention, stood near a small platform where Lady Harrington was preparing to read.
"My dear friends," Lady Harrington began, "I've recently penned a small memoir of my time in Italy. Just a few observations about love and loss. I thought you might enjoy a selection."
She opened a leather-bound book and began to read. At first, it seemed innocent enough—descriptions of Italian scenery, the warmth of the Mediterranean sun. Then:
"But it was in England where I first learned the true meaning of passion," she read, her voice carrying clearly. "He was young, untitled then but with the promise of greatness. Dark-haired, grey-eyed, with hands that knew exactly how to make a woman forget propriety."
The crowd murmured, everyone recognizing the description. James stood rigid beside Catherine.
"Our affair was glorious," Lady Harrington continued. "Secret meetings, stolen moments, the kind of desperate passion that consumes everything in its path. He would come to me at night, scaling garden walls, risking everything for just an hour in my arms."
"This is lies," James said loudly. "Fiction dressed as memoir."
"Is it?" Lady Harrington asked innocently. "How would you know, Your Grace, unless you were there?"
It was a trap perfectly sprung. To deny it was to admit involvement. To stay silent was to let the story stand.
"Perhaps," Catherine said clearly, stepping forward, "Lady Harrington is simply a very creative writer. After all, fiction is so much more interesting than truth."
"Oh, but this is truth, my dear," Lady Harrington said. "Every word. Including the parts about how insatiable he was. How demanding. How he liked to..."
"Stop." James's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Enough."
"Why? Embarrassed? Or perhaps you don't want your little innocent to know what you're really like in..."
"I said enough." He turned to the crowd. "Yes, I had an affair with Lady Harrington. When I was twenty-two and a fool. It lasted three months and ended when her husband challenged me to a duel. I'm not proud of it, but I won't stand here and let her rewrite history for revenge."
"Revenge?" Lady Harrington laughed. "My dear James, this isn't revenge. This is truth. And the truth is, you'll never be satisfied with some innocent little earl's daughter. You need a woman who can match your... appetites."
The implication hung in the air. She could flee. She could faint. She could cause a scene.
Instead, she laughed.
"My goodness," she said, her voice carrying clearly. "All this drama over a three-month affair from seven years ago? How terribly... sad."
"Sad?" Lady Harrington's voice rose.
"Well, yes. Here you are, a beautiful woman, recently widowed, with the world at your feet, and you're pining over a man who clearly forgot you the moment you left for Italy. It's rather pathetic, really."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lady Harrington's face went white, then red.
"How dare you?"
"How dare I what? Point out the obvious? You've written a memoir about a brief affair from nearly a decade ago. That suggests it was the highlight of your life. How depressing for you."
"You little..."
"I'd be very careful," James interrupted, his voice lethal. "Very, very careful about what you say next."
Lady Harrington looked between them, realizing she'd miscalculated. The crowd wasn't titillated by her revelations, but instead they were embarrassed for her.
"This isn't over," she hissed.
"Yes," Catherine said calmly, "it is. You're a footnote in James's past. I'm his future. And everyone here can see which one of us he's choosing."
She turned to James, ignoring the crowd, ignoring everything but him. "Dance with me."
"The music hasn't..."
"Then let's give them something worth watching."