Chapter 13
“Ithink you might expire if you keep looking at him like that,” Helen teased, tugging lightly at Catherine’s arm. “Your smile is lovely, yes, but your knuckles are white on that fan. You’ll snap it in two.”
Catherine startled, forcing her grip to loosen. “I am perfectly composed,” she lied, her voice a touch too high.
Helen snorted, blue eyes sharp with mischief. “Perfectly composed women do not stare after their husbands as though tethered to them with invisible string.”
Heat flared in Catherine’s cheeks. “I was not—”
“Oh, you were,” Helen interrupted, a wicked gleam in her eye. “And he knew it. Did you not see? He walked away as if he owned this very room, but his eyes were chained to you until the last possible moment.”
Catherine wished Helen would not say such things aloud, wished her friend would not give shape to the very thoughts she fought to suppress.
“You imagine it,” she said quickly, though her voice trembled. “He looks at everything with that same intensity. A person might mistake it for…for interest, when it is merely his nature.”
Helen gave her a look so dry that Catherine almost laughed. “Yes, of course. Intensity. That must be why you are flushed from throat to brow.”
“Will you hush?” Catherine hissed, though she could not keep a smile from tugging at her lips.
She glanced around them nervously, but the crowd pressed and swirled with its own chatter. None seemed to notice two young women by the gilt-edged wall exchanging silly nothings like schoolgirls.
Helen relented, squeezing Catherine’s hand. “I tease only because I am glad to see you. You clearly feared this ball, yet you shine like a jewel, even if you don’t believe it.”
Catherine exhaled, touched. “You are kind, Helen. I feel as though I might be accosted at any moment.”
“Then let me stand guard,” her friend declared, lifting her chin proudly. “No one shall challenge you without going through me first.”
A laugh escaped Catherine, light and grateful. She opened her mouth to answer—
“Pardon me.”
The male voice startled her. She turned, prepared to summon a polite smile for yet another stranger, but the words stilled on her lips.
He was not a stranger at all.
“Benjamin?” The name rushed out unbidden. Catherine knew that addressing him in such an informal manner was taboo, but even in this company, she could not control her impulses.
The man before her bowed with old-fashioned grace, his eyes warm with recognition.
His hair, once unruly straw, was now a darker blond touched with sun.
His shoulders looked broad, broader than she remembered, beneath the fine cut of his coat.
But the smile, that wide, boyish grin, was exactly as she recounted from Brightwater’s long summers.
“Miss Terrell,” he said, his voice deeper, steadier, but laced with unmistakable fondness. “Or should I say Your Grace, now?”
Her heart leapt, her hands flying to her lips before she caught herself. “Good heavens, it has been, what, years? How did you…When—” She shook her head, laughing in disbelief. “Benjamin Selkirk! I cannot believe it is truly you.”
Helen blinked, curiosity flaring. “You know one another?”
“Know one another?” Catherine turned to her, eyes shining. “Benjamin was…” She turned to Benjamin. “You do not mind, of course?”
Benjamin gave her a reassuring look. “It is all right, Your Grace. I believe everyone in this room is whispering about my origins.”
“Origins?” Helen echoed.
“Benjamin grew up at Brightwater. Well, we grew up alongside each other,” Catherine explained. “We often played together when my mother brought me with her to the orphanage. This is Mr. Benjamin Selkirk. Benjamin, this is my friend, Lady Helen Watton.”
Benjamin bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
Helen curtsied in return. “Likewise, Mr. Selkirk.”
Benjamin inclined his head. “At your service, my lady. Though I must insist upon plain Selkirk, or Benjamin, these days. Business leaves little time for titles.”
“Business?” Catherine chimed in. “But how can you make your living running a business? I remember he could never sit still for a lesson. Always climbing the orchard trees higher than the rest, dropping apples into my lap while I tried to read.”
Benjamin chuckled, eyes soft on her. “And you always scolded me for bruising them.”
She laughed, the sound bubbling up as though no time at all had passed. “Because you bruised half the harvest!”
“I was eight,” he said with mock indignation. “Surely, I’m forgiven by now?”
“Perhaps,” she laughed, though her cheeks ached with smiling. “Tell me about your business, then. I heard rumors that you had gone into shipping.”
“Indeed,” he said, a glint of pride in his eye.
“And by some stroke of fortune, it seems I have a head for it. Ships sail to the Indies now with my mark upon them. Tea, silk, spices, things I never dreamed I’d see as a lad running through Brightwater’s corridors.
” He smiled ruefully. “I feared I’d not be recognized among such company, but the Dowager is well acquainted with the Earl of Pembroke.
The Earl has dealings with me. It seems commerce opens doors even if the right blood does not. ”
Her chest swelled with genuine admiration. “I am so glad,” she said fervently. “You always had such determination. Do you remember the year the river froze? You swore you would skate the whole length, though the ice cracked beneath you every few yards.”
Benjamin laughed, shoulders shaking. “And you scolded me then too, standing on the bank with your arms crossed like some small governess.”
Catherine flushed, memories flooding—days of laughter, of grass-stained hems and wind-blown hair.
A simpler time, when duty had not yet weighed upon her shoulders, when her father’s debts were not her burden, when her heart had not been bound to a man who kissed like fire one moment and stood like stone the next.
She glanced around instinctively, searching for Duncan. But he was still across the room, tall and proud even among the lords, listening with that cool attention that gave nothing away.
Her stomach tightened.
Would he care that she was speaking with Benjamin? Would he even notice?
And why did it matter so terribly whether he did?
Helen nudged her, drawing her back. “You’ve gone pale,” she murmured, concerned.
“I am well,” Catherine said quickly, though her pulse raced, though her throat felt tight with the rush of so many emotions at once. She turned back to Benjamin, forcing brightness into her tone. “Tell me everything. Where you’ve been, what you’ve built. I must hear it all.”
His eyes softened, warm and familiar, carrying with them echoes of childhood summers. “Then I shall tell you,” he said gently, “if only you promise to scold me less than you did as a boy.”
She laughed again, lighter than before, and the sound mingled with the strains of violins, the rustle of silk, the murmur of Society all around.
For the first time that evening, the knot in her chest loosened, just a little. She could almost feel the warmth of her mother’s hand on her shoulder as she reminded Catherine to be kind and watch over the boys.
Catherine’s gaze slid past Benjamin’s shoulder, seeking a glimpse of Duncan against her will. Her smile held steady, though her stomach gave a sudden twist.
Instead of him, she found two matrons in heavy satin posted near the edge of the floor, their fans half-raised, their whispers concealed with all the subtlety of a dagger beneath lace.
Their eyes cut toward Benjamin with censure keen enough to wound, lingering upon him as though his very presence offended propriety itself.
Helen followed Catherine’s glance. Her lips curved into a sly little smile. “Do you see them? They look as though Mr. Selkirk has trampled their roses rather than stepped into a ballroom. One would think he had appeared with hay still clinging to his boots.”
Catherine’s fan snapped open with a quiet flick, disguising the sudden heat that rose to her cheeks. “Their stares cannot diminish what they lack themselves: grace enough to leave others in peace.”
Helen gave a soft laugh, but her eyes remained sharp on the whispering pair. “Pay them no mind, Mr. Selkirk. The ton must always have someone to whisper about, and tonight we seem to be their chosen diversion.”
Benjamin’s mouth curved, careless and warm. “Let them whisper. It would not be the first time I’ve been accused of lowering the tone of a room.”
Helen gave a soft laugh, though her gaze darted toward the pair of matrons. “They stare at you as though you’ve appeared barefoot.”
“He might as well have,” Catherine teased, finding it in her to lighten the mood and return to their previously playful manner. “When Benjamin first came to Brightwater, he insisted upon walking barefoot everywhere. I daresay the Duchess of Hereford would faint if she saw it.”
Benjamin’s eyes lit with mischief. “And if memory serves, you joined me several times, Your Grace.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks despite herself. “An accident.”
“An adventure,” he corrected with a grin. “Though I was soundly scolded for leading the virtuous Miss Terrell astray.”
Helen arched a brow, her tone wry. “I cannot imagine Catherine ever straying. Not then. Not now.”
“Do not be so certain, my lady,” Benjamin said lightly. “Our Duchess here was braver than she knew, even then.”
Catherine’s lips curved, though her fingers tightened around her fan. Brave. Perhaps once. But bravery felt far away now, with Duncan’s gaze heavy upon her from across the ballroom, as though he could hear every word spoken, see every smile she offered.
The first notes of a waltz rose above the hum of conversation. Benjamin extended his hand, his smile unguarded. “May I have this dance, Your Grace?”
Her heart leapt in part relief, part dread. Duncan was watching. She felt his gaze like a brand on the nape of her neck.
Still, she laid her gloved hand in Benjamin’s. “Gladly.”
The crowd parted as they stepped onto the floor. The familiar patterns of the waltz guided her feet, the rise and fall of the violins steadying her breath. Benjamin’s hand rested respectfully at her waist, his other enclosing hers with gentle strength.
“You look well,” he said as they turned. “Being a Duchess suits you more than I imagined.”
Catherine forced a smile. “And you look unchanged. Still laughing too easily, still too certain that every lady will fall at your feet.”
Benjamin laughed, boyish and unrepentant. “Not every lady.”
Catherine arched a brow with mock severity. “Oh? And what precisely do you mean by that, sir? Am I to believe there is a woman somewhere in London who has withstood your charm?”
“Several, I suspect,” he said with exaggerated gravity, though the glimmer in his eyes betrayed him. “My powers are waning. A tragic fate for a man of my youth.”
Catherine gave a gasp, before she playfully fluttered her eyelashes. “Impossible. Tell me, is London prepared for such devastation? Must we send word to the papers that Mr. Benjamin Selkirk’s charms are in decline?”
“Do not jest,” he returned with a grin. “It has been quite the fall from grace. Why, only last week I attempted to compliment a lady’s gown and was met with silence so cold I feared I should freeze upon the spot.”
Her laughter spilled out, easy and genuine. “Perhaps you deserved it. I cannot imagine you managed the compliment without some irreverence tucked inside.”
“True,” he admitted, still smiling, though a faint color rose at his collar. “But even so, I begin to think I have met my match.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Come now, confess. Who is it that has humbled you so? Which lady has survived the hurricane of your flattery and lived to tell the tale?”
Benjamin hesitated. His grin softened, losing its boyish mischief for something gentler, more earnest. “Her name is Margaret. A baron’s daughter.
She is clever, far too clever for me, and yet she listens.
She does not dismiss me as a jester, Catherine.
She… steadies me.” He paused, a rare flicker of uncertainty shadowing his expression. “I think I may love her.”
Catherine’s heart eased, the laughter still bright in her eyes, though now warmed with relief.
“Then you must tell her so,” she urged, her voice sincere, her smile unfeigned. “For if she is sensible, she will love you in return. Few women can resist a man who makes them laugh.”
Benjamin’s grin broke wide, boyish and irrepressible once more. “You have not changed, Catherine. Always urging others toward happiness.”
As Benjamin spun her about the ballroom, Catherine caught a glimpse of her husband. She longed to hear him laugh again. His happiness was tied to her own, after all, and even though she was pleased for her friend, she wanted something of her own, too.
“I wish you every joy,” she said as the waltz continued. “Truly, I do. And promise me you shall visit Brightwater soon. The children will be eager to hear your tales.”
“Then I will come,” he vowed, his grin bright as he caught her hand and spun her neatly beneath his arm.
Her skirts flared, and laughter bubbled between them.
As she twirled once more, Catherine sought a second glimpse of her husband, but Duncan was suddenly absent. He was nowhere to be found.