Chapter 17
They returned to find the ballroom in full swing, the drama having apparently elevated the evening from mere ball to Event of the Season. Everyone wanted to congratulate them, to assure them they'd never believed Miss Worthing's accusations, to express shock at her behavior.
"Jealousy," Lady Jersey pronounced. "Pure, poisonous jealousy."
"The girl couldn't accept defeat," Lady Cowper agreed. "Though attempting blackmail? That's beyond the pale."
"She should be prosecuted," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell declared. "Theft, slander, attempted extortion..."
"She's been punished enough," Catherine said, surprising herself with her mercy. "Social exile is worse than prison for someone like her."
The evening continued with a strange energy, as if Miss Worthing's dramatic exit had given everyone permission to enjoy themselves more freely. The dancing was livelier, the conversation louder, the champagne flowing more liberally.
Catherine found herself separated from James by social obligation, dancing with partner after partner. But she was always aware of him, could feel his gaze following her around the room.
"You handled that brilliantly," Lord Pemberton said during their dance.
"James handled it. I just stood there trying not to faint."
"You didn't look like you were going to faint. You looked like you were going to commit murder."
"That too."
Marcus laughed. "He really loves you, you know. The way he defended you...that wasn't just propriety. That was genuine rage that someone tried to hurt you."
"I know."
"Good. Make sure you remember that during the difficult times."
"You think there will be difficult times?"
"There are always difficult times. The test of a marriage isn't whether you face challenges, but how you face them together."
It was surprisingly insightful from Marcus, and Catherine told him so.
"I've been reading philosophy," he admitted. "Mother's suggestion for dealing with heartbreak. Though between you and me, I prefer brandy."
The ball continued past midnight, showing no signs of slowing. If anything, the energy was building, as if everyone wanted to celebrate having witnessed such drama.
Catherine was just escaping to the ladies' retiring room when she heard her name. She paused outside the door, recognizing Lady Jersey's voice.
"...handled it perfectly. Though we all know the truth, don't we?"
"What truth?" That was Lady Cowper.
"Oh, come now. The Black Swan, a storm, two attractive young people? Of course something happened."
Catherine's blood froze.
"You think they were really together?"
"I think," Lady Jersey said carefully, "that they fell in love that night and everything since has been them trying to do the right thing. Rather romantic, actually."
"Rather scandalous, you mean."
"The best romances always are. Besides, they're getting married in three days. What does it matter what happened three months ago?"
"It matters if she trapped him."
"Please. Did you see his face when that Worthing chit threatened her? That man would burn down London for Lady Catherine. That's not trapped, that's besotted."
"Still, if they did share rooms..."
"Then they're hardly the first couple to anticipate their vows. Half the ton has similar secrets. The difference is they're actually marrying each other instead of pretending it never happened."
Catherine backed away quietly, her mind spinning. Lady Jersey knew. Or at least suspected. How many others had guessed the truth?
She returned to the ballroom to find James waiting for her.
"Dance with me," he said immediately.
"Again? People will talk."
"Let them. After tonight's performance, we could dance naked and it would seem tame by comparison."
"Please don't dance naked at the Pembertons' ball."
"Would you prefer I wait for our wedding?"
"I'd prefer you wait for our wedding night."
His eyes darkened. "Promises, promises."
They danced, and this time Catherine didn't care who watched or what they whispered. In three days, two days and nineteen hours now, she would be his wife. Nothing else mattered.
The ball finally began winding down around two in the morning. Guests departed in clusters, all still discussing the evening's drama.
"That was eventful," Vivienne observed as their carriage pulled away.
"That was nearly catastrophic," Catherine corrected.
"But it wasn't. James protected you. That's what matters."
"He lied for me."
"He loves you. There's a difference."
***
Hours later, Catherine found herself pacing the length of her bedchamber like a caged thing.
The candles had burned low, their flames quivering, and yet sleep would not come.
The evening’s events ran and re-ran through her mind in an endless loop: Miss Worthing’s sudden arrival, the cold, triumphant gleam in her eyes; the whispered threat; the register produced like a weapon; and then James—her James—striding into the fray with his ducal composure, turning scandal into farce, danger into nothing more than gossip.
She had been saved from the brink of ruin, and though gratitude filled her, so too did guilt.
He had lied for her. Lied brilliantly, devastatingly, but lied all the same.
She pressed her palms to her temples and forced herself to breathe.
She ought to be preparing for sleep; tomorrow would be another gauntlet of dressmakers, letters, and obligations.
Instead she walked, restless and unsettled, until a faint sound at her window broke her reverie; a soft, deliberate tap.
Then another. Pebbles, she realised with a start.
She crossed to the window, heart hammering.
The curtains were drawn, and she parted them cautiously.
Below, in the moon-silvered garden, stood James.
Or rather, James slouched on the path in his shirtsleeves, holding a handful of small stones like a boy caught at mischief.
Even from above she could see the loose, rakish tilt of his posture.
“Catherine!” he called up in what he must have supposed was a whisper. His deep voice rolled through the quiet garden like thunder over velvet. “Catherine...my beautiful, brave, brilliant Catherine!”
“James!” she hissed, half in exasperation, half in alarm. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Bachelor dinner,” he announced grandly, swaying slightly. “Dull as ditch-water. Escaped. Had to see you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Magnificently drunk. Majestically drunk. Monumentally drunk.” He grinned up at her with the reckless delight of a schoolboy. “And desperately in love.”
Catherine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “You are going to wake the entire street.”
“Do not care,” he said with solemn gravity. “Must tell you something. Urgent. Important. Life and death.” He beckoned with one unsteady hand. “Come down!”
There was no resisting him—nor, if she were honest, any real wish to.
She snatched up a shawl, wrapped it tightly about her shoulders, and crept from the room, taking the back stair to avoid the creak of the main steps.
The air in the hall smelled faintly of beeswax and wood smoke; the garden, when she slipped out, was cool and damp, the scents of night-blooming jasmine and wet grass rising like perfume.
The moon hung low, catching on the dew-pearled hedges.
James had abandoned his handful of stones and was seated on the wrought-iron bench beneath a tree. He looked up as she approached, and even in his inebriated state his face transformed at the sight of her—light and warmth and something like reverence all at once.
“You came,” he breathed, as though he had not truly believed she would.
“Of course I came. You were about to serenade the neighbourhood.”
“Was going to,” he admitted cheerfully. “Had poetry ready. Byron, perhaps. Or that fellow with the daffodils…”
“Wordsworth.”
“That’s the one. Except...” He squinted, searching for a comparison. “Except you’re better than daffodils. You’re like… like…” He frowned, swaying. “Like the finest brandy.”
“I am like brandy?”
“The best brandy,” he said, leaning closer, “the kind kept locked away, too precious for common use.” He tried to draw himself up and nearly toppled. “You’re absolutely foxed,” she murmured.
“I am absolutely in love with you.” His voice lost every trace of jesting.
It was rough now, low and dark, like velvet dragged over stone.
“Completely, utterly, desperately in love with you.” He reached for her, and though his movements were a little unsteady, his grip was sure; his hands slid around her waist, tugging her down beside him until she felt the warmth of his thigh pressed to hers through the layers of her gown.
His scent—brandy, horse, and James—enfolded her until she could hardly breathe.
“I know,” she whispered, though her heart twisted and fluttered at the look in his eyes.
“Do you?” His grey gaze was fixed on her as if she were the only living thing in the world.
“Do you truly? Because you must. At the ball, when that viper threatened you...Catherine, I wanted to destroy her. Not merely ruin her name at cards, but ruin her utterly for daring to touch you with her malice.”
“That is rather extreme,” she murmured, but the shiver that passed through her belied the evenness of her tone.
“That,” he said simply, “is love. The real kind. The kind that drives a man out of his senses.” His unsteady fingers slid down, enclosing hers, then traced up her arms in a slow, possessive stroke.
“I have been drunk on you since that night at the inn. Nothing helps. Not distance, not propriety, not even actual brandy. You’re in my blood, Catherine. You’ve become my every waking thought.”
“James...”
“Marry me.”
She laughed softly, but there was a tremor in it. “We are to be married in three days.”
He leaned in until his forehead rested against hers, his breath warm, his smile that of a man both foolish and certain. “Too long,” he whispered. “Far too long.”