Chapter 15
They went first through Hyde Park, and when the promenade became too crowded, James suggested a brief call at the British Museum. His mother’s name was sufficient to procure them a private viewing under the care of an elderly curator who seemed charmed by the young couple’s evident affection.
Within the echoing halls, the cool air carried the faint scent of dust and ink. James guided her toward the Egyptian gallery, his knowledge of the artifacts both unexpected and precise.
“You are well acquainted with this place,” Catherine observed, watching him pause before a towering statue.
“I spent much of a summer here when I was sixteen,” he replied, almost absently. “It was quieter here than at home.”
“Quieter?”
“My parents were at war—an elegant, frozen kind of war. No arguments, no reconciliation. Only silence. Separate chambers, separate lives.” His gaze drifted to the hieroglyphs. “I could not bear the sound of it.”
“So you came here?” she asked softly.
He inclined his head. “Every day. The attendants knew me by name. I daresay they pitied me—a lonely boy seeking wisdom among the dead.”
They stopped before a painted sarcophagus, its colours still vivid despite the centuries. Catherine regarded the serene face upon it.
“Do you suppose they were happy?” she asked after a moment. “The ancients?”
“I suppose they were human,” he said. “Some happy, some wretched, most somewhere between the two.”
“How very unromantic of you.”
He smiled faintly. “Would you prefer I claimed they possessed some forgotten secret of contentment?”
“Perhaps.”
He turned to her then, his gaze softening. “The secret, Catherine, is the same in any age. To find someone who sees you...not for title, fortune, or duty, but for yourself. And, once found, to hold fast.”
Her breath caught. “Is that what you have done?”
“It is what I am doing.” His voice was low, intimate, and for one dizzying instant she forgot entirely that they were standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of a museum.
He lifted a hand as though to touch her cheek, but thought better of it. The restraint in the gesture made it all the more tender.
“What your mother said...” he began quietly.
“...was cruel,” she interrupted. “And I would rather not speak of it.”
“But it has wounded you.”
“Not today,” she said softly. “Today, I would prefer to pretend that we are merely a very ordinary betrothed couple admiring very ancient relics.”
His smile deepened, wry and affectionate. “Nothing about us has ever been ordinary.”
“No,” she agreed, her lips curving. “But I should like to imagine it, all the same.”
In retaliation, she composed impromptu verses in praise of a particularly shapeless Greek vase, reciting them with the solemnity of a tragedian. The echo of her laughter, bright and free, rang through the corridors, startling the few remaining visitors and scandalizing the attendants.
“His Grace is causing a scene,” she whispered, trying and failing to suppress her mirth as one of the uniformed guards began to approach.
James leaned close, his voice warm against her ear. “If the British Museum expels me for unseemly behaviour, I shall consider it my proudest distinction.”
“James,” she hissed, still laughing.
“Come,” he said, capturing her gloved hand with easy confidence. “Let us escape before they insist upon a written apology.”
They left the museum arm in arm, the brisk October air washing over them like a benediction. The afternoon had softened into that golden hour between day and dusk, when London’s rooftops glowed and the scent of smoke and autumn leaves mingled on the wind.
They walked without hurry, saying little. The city moved around them: carriages rattling by, the distant sound of a monger calling his wares, the rhythmic clip of their footsteps on the pavement.
James had removed his gloves, and when his fingers brushed hers again, she did not pull away. It felt entirely natural, that slight pressure of his hand over hers—steady, warm, unspoken.
“I love you,” Catherine said suddenly. The words escaped before she could call them back. They hung between them, startling in their simplicity.
James stopped walking. “What brought that on?”
She smiled a little, embarrassed. “Today. Everything. You didn’t have to settle those debts.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
He studied her for a long moment, the lamplight catching the edges of his expression; affection, gravity, something fiercely protective.
“Because they were chains,” he said at last. “Binding you to her, to that man, to a life that should never have been yours. I could not bear to see you fettered.”
“Twenty-five thousand pounds, James,” she whispered. “That is no trifling sum.”
He shrugged lightly, though the gesture carried more tenderness than indifference. “What is fortune, Catherine, if not meant to secure the freedom of the one person who makes it worth possessing?”
Her throat tightened. “You cannot say such things,” she murmured.
“It’s nothing compared to you.”
His voice was a low growl, the kind that seemed to travel along her skin.
Before Catherine could respond, James caught her hand and drew her through a narrow gate into a small, overgrown garden tucked behind the park.
It was half-wild—ivy climbing over a crumbling wall, the air damp with the scent of earth and rain.
Beyond the wrought-iron fence, London roared, but here it was all shadows and heartbeat.
“I would pay ten times that,” he said, stopping beneath an arch of yew. “A hundred. Anything to keep you free.”
“I’m not free,” she whispered. “I’m marrying you.”
“That is different.”
“Is it?”
“You are choosing me.” He said it softly, as if the words themselves were dangerous. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, a single motion that seemed to scatter her thoughts. “That makes all the difference.”
Her breath trembled. “James...”
He silenced her with a kiss.
It wasn’t polite or tentative. It was a claiming, hungry, deep, tasting of rain and restrained sin. His hand slid to the back of her neck, angling her closer until she could feel every controlled breath he fought to steady. When he broke away, both of them were breathing as if they’d run a race.
“Two weeks,” she gasped.
“Twelve days,” he corrected, his lips tracing the delicate line of her jaw.
“Who’s counting?”
“I am.” His voice had roughened, thick with need. “Every hour. Every blasted minute.”
She tried to laugh but failed. “You’re impossible.”
“Accurate,” he murmured, mouth grazing the tender spot beneath her ear.
Her fingers curled tighter in the thick wool of his coat, knuckles white, as though she might anchor herself against the tide of heat rolling off him. The world dissolved into the scent of him, spice and starched linen, and the hard plane of his chest pressing her back into the ivy-clad wall.
“James, we shouldn’t…” Her voice fractured like spun glass.
He dipped his head, his breath a caress against the curls at her temple. “Do you think I don’t know?” His lips barely brushed her ear, the whisper equal parts confession and threat. “Every night I dream of you. That night. The next one. Every time I close my eyes.”
Her pulse tripped over itself. “James…”
“I dream of unfastening that infernal gown,” he murmured, the words grazing the delicate skin of her throat. “Of easing you out of satin and stays, of seeing you again as I saw you then—wild, unguarded, mine.”
Her knees softened, her body swaying into him despite her mind’s protest. “We are in public,” she breathed, the words a tremor.
“I know.” His gloved hand slid to her waist, fingers flexing against the silk of her gown as though testing his own resolve. “It is the only thing keeping me from forgetting myself entirely.”
“You already lost yourself once,” she managed, but the retort was weak, trembling.
His jaw grazed her temple. “That was different,” he said, voice thick and ragged. “That was perfect. This...this is exquisite torment.”
He drew her closer still, until his mouth hovered a breath above hers, not kissing, only tasting the air she exhaled. The faint brush of his hands as they skimmed down to the small of her back sent heat sparking through her blood.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
“I can’t.”
“Catherine.” Her name came out like a prayer torn from his chest. He pressed his forehead to hers, shuddering with the effort of restraint. “Twelve days,” he said, low and almost broken. “Twelve days, and then no walls, no rules, no one to keep me from touching you the way I think of every night.”
She trembled, her fingers clutching him harder. “You promise?”
“I swear it,” he breathed. His thumb traced a slow, maddening circle at her waist before he tore himself back a single step, as though ripping free from his own desire. The air between them felt too cold, too empty.
“Soon,” he said, his voice steadier now but still heavy with heat. “Soon, my love.”
She nodded, unable to speak, her body still pulsing with the ghost of his hands. Around them the city clattered on—carriages rattling past, bells chiming—but inside that walled garden everything was suspended, dangerous, and achingly theirs.
“Your mother will be wondering where we are,” Catherine managed at last, though her voice was a whisper of smoke.
"Let her wonder."
"She's hosting a dinner for me tomorrow."
"She'll survive."
"James."
"Fine." He stepped back reluctantly. "But I'm walking you home. The long way."
"Is there a long way?"
"There is now."
They took the very long way, stopping at Gunther's for ices despite the cool weather, window shopping on Bond Street, generally doing everything possible to delay their arrival.
"You're stalling," Catherine accused as James stopped to examine a bookshop window.
"Absolutely."
"Why?"
"Because once we get to your aunt's house, I have to leave you. Again. For the thousandth time in two weeks."
When they finally reached Vivienne's house, the sun was setting. The windows glowed warmly, and Catherine could see her aunt in the drawing room, reading.
"She's been good to you," James observed.
"She saved me. From my mother, from Sir Reginald, from a life of quiet desperation."
"Remind me to send her something magnificent for Christmas."
"She doesn't need anything."
"Everyone needs something."
"What do you need?"
"You," he said simply. "Just you. In eleven and a half days."
"Such a long time."
"An eternity." He kissed her hand formally, properly, but his eyes promised entirely improper things. "Until tomorrow."
"The dinner."
"Wear something devastating."
"I always do."
"Yes," he agreed, his gaze heating. "You really do."
Catherine watched him walk away, her hand still tingling from his kiss. Inside, she found Vivienne exactly where she'd expected.
"Good day?" her aunt asked without looking up from her book.
"Strange day."
"Those are often the best ones." Vivienne set aside her book. "Your mother left. Took the money and the evening coach to Yorkshire."
"Good."
"Catherine..."
"I don't want to talk about her."
"All right. What do you want to talk about?"
Catherine sat down, tucking her feet under her in a way that would have horrified her mother. "Tell me about your wedding."
Vivienne's face softened. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. How did you know Harold was the one? How did you know it would work?"
"I didn't. That's the secret, my dear. You never really know. You just... jump and hope the person you're jumping with will catch you."
"Did Harold catch you?"
"Every time. Even when I didn't know I was falling." Vivienne smiled at the memory. "We had really wonderful years together. Not perfect—no marriage is perfect. But wonderful."
"I want that. The wonderful, not perfect part."
"I think you'll have it."
"Even after today? Even knowing what my mother is?"
"You're not your mother, Catherine. You're brave where she was afraid, generous where she was selfish. You're choosing love where she chose security."
"What if I'm making a mistake?"
"Then you'll make it with your whole heart. That's all any of us can do."