Chapter 14 #2
“No.” Catherine’s voice was low but unwavering. “Everything you’ve done has been for your pride. For your image. For that precious illusion of control you’ve clung to since Father died. You can’t admit that your perfect, dutiful marriage was a disaster.”
The slap came before she even saw it coming. A sharp, ringing crack that seemed to echo off the walls.
“Margaret!” Vivienne cried, stepping forward, but Catherine lifted a trembling hand, halting her.
“It’s fine,” she said, though her cheek burned and her throat ached. She touched the spot gently, almost contemplatively. “It’s actually perfect. Now we’re being honest.”
“You ungrateful child,” Margaret hissed. “After everything I’ve sacrificed.”
Catherine laughed then, brittle and raw. “What did you sacrifice, Mother? Really? You married for position, got the title you wanted, and when it all fell apart, you decided I should pay the price.”
Margaret’s face twisted, her voice turning venomous. “The Duke of Ravensfield is using you. Men like that don’t marry beneath them without reason. What have you done, Catherine? What have you given him?”
The air left the room. Vivienne’s expression hardened into something lethal.
“Margaret,” she said, her tone low and dangerous. “Be very careful what you say next.”
“Oh, please,” Margaret sneered. “She runs away in the middle of the night, disappears for days, and suddenly reappears betrothed to a duke? Either she’s compromised herself or...”
“Or what?”
The voice came from the doorway. Deep. Steady. Carrying the unmistakable weight of command.
All three women turned.
The Duke of Ravensfield stood there, framed by the doorway’s pale light, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fury and something far more dangerous. His presence seemed to fill the room, pressing against the walls until Catherine could scarcely breathe.
Her heart lurched painfully.
Of all the moments for him to appear, fate had chosen the one where her mother’s words still hung in the air like a stain that could never be washed away.
James stood in the doorway, immaculate in his dove-grey morning coat, every inch the duke—composed, commanding, and cold as a blade fresh from the forge.
Light from the corridor caught on the gold seal of his signet ring as he stepped forward, the embodiment of control.
Behind him stood the Duchess of Ravensfield, tall and imperious, her expression coolly unreadable but her eyes sharp with disapproval.
Catherine’s breath caught. The room seemed to shrink until there was nothing left but the sound of her heart hammering in her chest.
“Your Grace,” Margaret said, recovering with the polished instinct of a woman who’d spent her life playing to audiences she could not afford to offend. “I was just...”
“You were just insulting my betrothed,” James said evenly, stepping fully into the room. The calm in his voice was more dangerous than fury; it carried the weight of power restrained. “Questioning her virtue. Suggesting impropriety. Would you care to continue?”
Margaret’s spine straightened, chin lifting in brittle dignity. “I’m concerned for my daughter’s reputation.”
“No,” James said, his tone turning glacial. “You’re concerned for money.”
He crossed the room with measured steps, the faint scent of starch and bergamot preceding him, and took his place beside Catherine. His fingers brushed hers—not enough for impropriety, but enough to anchor her, to let her know she wasn’t alone.
“I know about the debts, Lady Westmont,” he continued, his gaze never wavering. “Two thousand pounds owed to various creditors. Sir Reginald holds the majority of the notes.”
Margaret’s face blanched. “How could you possibly...”
“I’m a duke,” James said simply. “I have resources. I also have an offer.”
Her lips parted, confusion flickering. “An offer?”
James withdrew a folded bank draft from his breast pocket and set it neatly on the table between them. “Twenty-five thousand pounds. Enough to clear every debt and provide you with a modest income besides.”
Margaret stared at the slip of paper as if it were a loaded pistol. “Why would you...”
“Because Catherine shouldn’t have to pay for her father’s sins,” James said quietly. “Because no one should have to marry for any reason other than love. And because I want you gone.”
“James,” Catherine murmured, shock and awe warring in her chest, but he squeezed her hand; a gentle warning, a silent trust me.
“You have two choices, Lady Westmont,” he said, each word precise, deliberate. “Take this money and leave. Never contact Catherine again unless she initiates it. Or refuse it, and I’ll pay the debts directly to the creditors myself—leaving you with nothing.”
“You can’t...”
“I can,” he interrupted, his voice quiet but absolute. “And I will. Either way, Catherine is free. The only question is whether you leave with something or with nothing.”
Margaret’s eyes flashed. “This is blackmail.”
“This is liberation,” the Duchess said, her voice silken but edged like steel. “Something you clearly know nothing about.”
Margaret turned toward her, aghast. “You approve of this?”
“I approve of my son protecting the woman he loves from a mother who sees her as chattel,” the Duchess replied coolly.
“How dare you?”
“Oh, do hold your tongue, Margaret,” Vivienne said wearily, rubbing her temple as if the entire affair had become tiresome. “You’ve lost. Take the money and go.”
Margaret looked from face to face; her sister, her daughter, the duke who had outmaneuvered her, the duchess who saw straight through her. Her composure wavered, the mask slipping to reveal something raw and ugly underneath: desperation.
“You’ll regret this,” she said to Catherine, voice shaking with bitterness. “When the glamour fades, when you realise what you’ve given up...”
“What I’ve given up?” Catherine let out a breath that was almost a laugh, bitter and bright. “I’ve given up nothing. I’ve gained everything. Love. Respect. A partner who sees me as a person, not a commodity.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Love fades.”
“Did it?” Vivienne asked softly, her tone cutting through the tension like a needle through silk. “Did love fade, Margaret? Or did you never have it to begin with?”
Margaret flinched as if struck. “Not all of us got to choose, Vivienne. Not all of us were pretty enough or charming enough to make men fall at our feet.”
Vivienne’s expression gentled, though her words did not. “That’s not what happened and you know it.”
"Isn't it? You married Harold for love. I married Westmont for duty. You were happy. I was..." She stopped, seeming to realize she'd said too much.
"You were what?" Vivienne asked softly.
"Nothing. It doesn't matter."
"Margaret..."
"Take the money," Catherine said quietly. Everyone turned to look at her. "Mother, take the money. Go back to Yorkshire. Be free of the debts, of Sir Reginald, of all of it."
"And of you?"
"We both know you've never really wanted me. I was a duty, an obligation, a disappointment when I wasn't a son. Take the money and we can both stop pretending."
Margaret stared at her daughter for a long moment. Then she took the bank draft from James's hand.
"I'll need time to make arrangements," she said stiffly.
"Of course. Peters will assist you with travel." James's tone was perfectly polite, perfectly cold.
Margaret moved toward the door, then paused. "The wedding is in two weeks?"
"Yes," Catherine said.
"I suppose you don't want me there."
Catherine was quiet for a moment. "You're my mother. You're welcome if you can be happy for me. If you can't, then no, I don't want you there."
Margaret nodded once and left without another word.
The room was silent for a moment after her departure. Then Catherine sank into a chair, shaking.
"Well," the Duchess said dryly, "that was bracing."
"Mother," James warned.
"What? It was. I haven't seen drama like that since Lady Caroline Lamb set herself on fire at Devonshire House."
"She didn't actually set herself on fire," Vivienne corrected. "Just her letter from Byron."
"Two thousand pounds," Vivienne said suddenly. "Margaret, you fool. I would have given it to you. All you had to do was ask."
"She couldn't," Catherine said quietly. "Asking you would mean admitting she'd failed. That her perfect, dutiful marriage had been a disaster. Her pride was worth more than my happiness."
"Pride is expensive," the Duchess observed. "It costs us more than money ever could."
James knelt beside Catherine's chair. "Are you all right?"
"I don't know. I should feel something, shouldn't I? Sadness? Loss? Instead, I just feel... empty."
"That's shock," the Duchess said pragmatically. "You'll feel plenty later. For now, you need sweet tea and possibly brandy."
"It's barely noon," Catherine protested.
"Perfect timing then." Vivienne was already pouring. "Margaret always did drive one to drink."
"How long has it been?" the Duchess asked. "Since you've seen each other?"
"Five years. Not since Harold's funeral." Vivienne handed Catherine a generous brandy. "She came to gloat, I think. To see me brought low. Instead, she found me happy. She never forgave me for that."
"Happy without a husband?"
"Happy with freedom. Happy with choices. Happy with a life I'd built myself." Vivienne sat down heavily. "She couldn't understand it. In her world, a woman without a husband was nothing."
"In her world, a woman with a husband was nothing too," Catherine said bitterly. "Just a more comfortable nothing."
"Is that what you think marriage is?" the Duchess asked.
"It's what I thought it was. What I was taught it was."
"And now?"
Catherine looked at James, still kneeling beside her chair. "Now I think it can be whatever two people make it."
"Wise girl." The Duchess stood. "James, might I have a word?"
Mother and son stepped into the hallway. Catherine could hear their low voices but not the words.
"She'll come around," Vivienne said quietly.
"Who? The Duchess? She seems fine."
"Your mother. Margaret. She'll realise what she's lost and she'll come back."
"I don't want her back."
"Yes, you do. Not now, not soon, but eventually. She's your mother, Catherine. That means something, even when it hurts."
"She sold me, Vivienne. She literally tried to sell me to Sir Reginald."
"She was desperate. Frightened. Two thousand pounds... she must have been terrified."
"That doesn't excuse it."
"No, but it explains it." Vivienne sighed. "Margaret was always afraid. Even as a child. Afraid of being poor, of being overlooked, of being ordinary. Fear makes people do terrible things."
"Were you ever afraid?"
"Constantly. But I was more afraid of not living than I was of making mistakes."
James returned some minutes later, his expression thoughtful yet unreadable.
“My mother proposes a dinner tomorrow evening,” he said, his tone deliberately measured. “A small affair, to formally welcome you into the family.”
Catherine arched a brow. “Another examination of my manners?”
His mouth curved faintly. “A celebration, she insists. She was much impressed by how you bore yourself with your mother.”
Catherine let out a quiet breath. “I did nothing remarkable. You are the one who managed her.”
“I merely settled an account. You faced her.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I should like to take you away from all this—if only for an hour.”
“Take me away?” she repeated, startled by the intimacy of the phrase.
“A walk in the park, perhaps,” he said. “Or ices at Gunther’s. Anything to restore a little colour to your cheeks.”
“James, we ought to...”
“What we ought,” he interrupted gently, “is to see to your peace of mind. The rest may wait.”
It was hopeless to resist him when he spoke in that tone—quiet, steady, offering not command but care. She allowed him to lead her downstairs, where his carriage waited.