Chapter 16
“If one more person inquires whether I am trembling for the wedding night, I shall be obliged to inform them, calmly and at length, precisely why I am not. Diagrams, however, shall be spared.”
Catherine stood before her glass while Martha set a coronet of orange-blossoms among her curls for the Pembertons’ ball—the last considerable engagement before the wedding in three days’ time.
Three days more of feigning ingenue serenity; three days more of a decorous distance from the very gentleman who had cured her of all maidenly apprehensions.
“Best not the diagrams, my lady,” Martha advised, drawing back to survey her work. “Though I confess the faces would repay the trouble.”
“Only imagine Lady Jersey’s expression were I to confess myself already...thoroughly instructed.”
“I can imagine it all too well,” Martha said, trying not to smile. “But let us keep such enlightenment strictly between ourselves.”
“You are a joyless person,” Catherine murmured, fastening a diamond at her throat so the flame-light might catch it. “Where is my aunt?”
“In the drawing-room, fortifying herself with a thimble of brandy. She maintains that to see you through this evening’s social campaign requires courage.”
“It is merely a ball,” Catherine said.
“It is your last as a maiden, my lady. The world will look on with all the attention of hawks.”
***
The world did indeed look. When Catherine entered the Pembertons’ mansion, the ballroom proved a sea of silk and scrutiny; glances slid and settled, whispers stirred like the rustle of skirts, and curiosity bloomed on every fan.
“The conquering bride!” cried Lord Pemberton at the threshold. He appeared in good charity with himself, Catherine was glad to observe; the bitterness of their former conversation had softened into something nearly playful.
“Marcus,” she returned, giving him her hand with warmth, “you look very well.”
“I look,” he said, “like a man who has discovered that heartbreak sometimes helps. I have composed three sonnets in as many days. My mother is appalled.”
“On what subject?”
“Lost love, of course. Though I have, to my shame, rhymed ‘duchess’ with ‘such fuss,’ which argues revision.”
Catherine laughed. “It argues annihilation.”
“We cannot all marry dukes and inspire epics,” he said lightly—though a flicker of the old pain crossed his features.
“Marcus...”
“Pray do not. I am sincerely happy for you, wounded vanity notwithstanding.” He offered his arm with mock ceremony. “Shall we advance upon the wolves?”
The wolves, well dressed in satin and armed with fans, and opinions, were ready. Catherine had scarce taken ten steps within the room before she found herself encircled, society’s politest curiosity pressing in on every side.
"Three days!" Lady Jersey exclaimed. "You must be beside yourself with anticipation."
"Or dread," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell added dryly. "Marriage is a permanent condition, after all."
"Like death," someone muttered, causing a ripple of nervous laughter.
"Where is the fortunate groom?" Lady Cowper asked, scanning the crowd.
"On his way, I believe," Catherine replied, though in truth she had no idea. They'd agreed to arrive separately to avoid giving the gossips more fuel.
"Probably at his bachelor festivities," Lord Ashford suggested with a knowing wink. "Last night of freedom and all that."
Catherine wanted to point out that James hadn't been free for months, not since that night at the inn when they'd effectively bound themselves to each other. But she smiled and nodded and played the blushing bride.
She was rescued by the arrival of Vivienne, who had come in a separate carriage, resplendent in purple silk that should have been garish but somehow wasn't.
"Ladies, gentlemen, you're crowding my niece."
"Lady Ashworth," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell protested, "we're simply offering our congratulations."
"You're simply fishing for gossip. There's a difference." Vivienne took Catherine's arm. "Come, my dear. I see refreshments calling."
They escaped to the punch table, though Catherine knew the reprieve was temporary.
"James is here," Vivienne murmured. "Just arrived. Looking like thunder."
Catherine turned to see him cutting through the crowd, and her breath caught as it always did. Three months since that night, weeks of formal courtship, and still the sight of him made her pulse race.
He was in evening black, severe and perfect, his face set in ducal lines. But his eyes when they found hers were hot with promise.
"Lady Catherine." He bowed formally. "Lady Ashworth."
"Your Grace." Catherine curtsied, playing the game. "How good of you to come."
"I wouldn't miss it. Your last public appearance as a maiden, after all."
There was something in the way he said 'maiden' that made heat pool in her body. Because they both knew she hadn't been a maiden for months.
"Dance with me," he said, not quite a question.
"The dancing hasn't started."
"Then walk with me. Talk with me. Stand perfectly still and let me look at you. I don't care, as long as you're with me."
"Careful, Your Grace. That almost sounded romantic."
"I'm three days from making you my wife. I'm allowed some romance."
Before Catherine could respond, the orchestra began and James claimed her immediately.
"People will talk," she murmured as they took their positions.
"People always talk. At least now they're talking about our wedding instead of speculating about whether I'll actually go through with it."
"Are people speculating about that?"
"According to the betting books at White's, there's still a wager on whether I will be afraid to proceed."
"And will you?"
"The only cold thing about me right now is my patience." His hand tightened on her waist, still proper but somehow possessive. "Three more days, Catherine."
"Two days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-seven minutes."
"You're counting."
"Desperately."
They danced in charged silence for a moment, aware of being watched but past caring. Catherine could feel the tension in James's body, the careful control he was maintaining.
"You look beautiful," he said quietly. "That dress is..."
"Adequate?"
"Criminal. It should be illegal to look that good when I can't do anything about it."
"You could do something about it."
"Not without causing the scandal of the century." His eyes darkened. "Though I'm tempted. Oh, Catherine, I'm so tempted."
The music ended, forcing them to separate.
Catherine had danced with such a succession of partners that her smile was beginning to ache.
Lord Ashford, ever contrite—had apologized once again for “that unfortunate misunderstanding with Miss Worthing,” as though repeating the words could somehow erase the scandal.
Sir Rothingham had discoursed at such length on crop rotation and soil acidity that Catherine could feel her brain turning to dust. And poor Mr. Fitzgerald, barely out of Eton, had managed to stand on her toes no less than four times, each accompanied by a mortified apology that only made her pity him more.
At last, between sets, she slipped free of the crowd and made her way toward a quieter corner, fanning herself lightly.
Her cheeks were flushed, her pulse too quick, not from dancing, but from exhaustion.
She had been performing all evening: smiling, laughing, pretending not to see the speculative looks or hear the whispers that followed the soon-to-be Duchess of Ravensfield.
Three more days, she reminded herself. Just three more days, and all of this would be behind her.
But even as the thought soothed her, something in the atmosphere changed.
It was subtle at first; an almost imperceptible shift in the pitch of conversation, a collective intake of breath that rippled through the room like wind over tall grass.
Fans fluttered with renewed vigor. Heads turned toward the entrance.
Somewhere, a violin faltered mid-note before recovering.
Catherine knew that sound. That dreadful, delicious stir of gossip waiting to hatch.
She turned and her stomach dropped.
Miss Worthing had arrived.
The girl looked radiant in a gown of white satin that bordered on bridal, her hair gleaming like spun gold beneath the chandeliers.
She carried herself with the easy confidence of a woman who knew she was being watched and relished every second of it.
Catherine’s heart gave a slow, cold thud.
She had not seen Miss Worthing since that night at the Cowper’s ball—since James had chosen her instead.
She had hoped, prayed even, that the girl had retreated to the country to lick her wounds and find another victim for her charms.
But no. Here she was...uninvited, glowing, dangerous.
Their eyes met across the ballroom, and Catherine saw it: triumph.
“Lady Catherine,” Miss Worthing purred as she glided closer, all sweetness and poison. “How lovely to see you. And so close to your wedding! You must be positively beside yourself with excitement.”
“Miss Worthing.” Catherine’s curtsy was polite, her smile brittle. “What a surprise.”
“Isn’t it? Three days, is it not? Such a pity it’s all about to come apart.”
The words were spoken softly, but Catherine heard the knife beneath them. Her blood ran cold. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know, of course,” Miss Worthing continued airily, examining her fan as if the matter were of no consequence. “You weren’t at the Middleton dinner last week.”
Catherine forced her voice to remain steady. “No. I was otherwise engaged with wedding preparations. Was there… an announcement?”
“Of a sort.” Miss Worthing’s eyes glittered. “A fascinating little piece of news about a certain coaching inn...the Black Swan, I believe?”
Catherine’s world tilted. The words hit like ice water down her spine. She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat, but she willed her expression into stillness. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”