Chapter 19
“Do sit up straighter, my dear. Dowagers can smell fear.”
Catherine blinked, startled, as the Dowager Duchess’s fan snapped open with military precision. “Fear?”
“Yes,” the older woman said firmly, settling herself in the carriage as if upon a throne. “It exudes from the young like cheap perfume. Best not to wear it.”
Catherine smothered a nervous laugh. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am not afraid of your friends.”
“Liar,” the dowager said pleasantly. “You’ve been pale since I mentioned their names.”
The carriage jolted forward, its wheels clattering against the cobblestones. Through the window, Hyde Park glimmered in the distance, all bright carriages and parasols fluttering like banners in the breeze.
Catherine folded her hands in her lap, attempting a smile that felt much too tight.
“I am simply uncertain what they will think of me,” she said at last.
“They will think whatever they please,” the dowager replied. “And you will charm them regardless. Youth and beauty forgive most sins, especially when paired with a title.”
Catherine flushed. “I hardly think—”
“My dear, a duchess who says she hardly thinks is the most dangerous creature of all. Remember that.”
Catherine bit her lip to hide a laugh. The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford was unlike any woman she had ever met: sharp as vinegar and twice as bracing. She possessed an authority that could quiet an entire room, yet wielded her fan like a duelist’s blade.
They rounded the final turn, the park opening before them in a wash of sunlight and green. Ahead, beneath a broad elm, three women waited in a neat semicircle of chairs and parasols, all glittering with brooches and bonnets far too grand for the hour.
“There they are,” the dowager announced with satisfaction. “The holy trinity of gossips. None of them can hold a secret longer than five minutes, so do choose your words carefully.”
Catherine swallowed hard. “I shall do my best.”
“See that you do. Ah, they’ve seen us. Brace yourself.”
The moment the carriage drew to a halt, three voices rose in overlapping exclamations:
“Marianne! At last!”
“Darling, you’ve been positively hiding!”
“And this must be the young duchess! How divine!”
Catherine barely had time to descend before she was enveloped in a flurry of lace, perfume, and exclamations of delight. The ladies were a force of nature: each one painted, powdered, and perfectly coiffed, their laughter filling the air like birdsong after a storm.
Lady Densham, tall and imperious, seized Catherine’s hands. “My dear, you’re prettier than I imagined.”
Lady Harbury, a round, rosy creature with mischievous eyes, leaned in. “Marianne always does that. Keeps the rest of us guessing.”
“Well,” Lady Harbury declared, fanning herself with exaggerated drama, “I must say, Your Grace, your husband is quite the sight. Last time I encountered him, half the room lost its wits the moment he walked in.”
“Half?” Lady Merrow arched a silvery brow. “I should think rather more. Even I, at my age, could admire the cut of his shoulders.”
“And that face,” Lady Harbury added with a sigh. “All angles and command. It’s positively unfair.”
“Unfair indeed,” Lady Merrow murmured, adjusting her spectacles with mock severity. “No man that handsome should be allowed to look quite so grim while being it.”
“Ah,” said the Dowager Duchess, lowering herself gracefully into a chair, “Duncan has never been one to hide his feelings. When he is pleased, it shows; likewise, when he is disappointed.”
Lady Densham gasped. “Surely, the Duke suffers no disappointments at present. He must be overjoyed to see his Duchess every morning.”
Catherine blushed and batted away the compliment. “My husband does wear his heart upon his sleeve, but I did not realize others could read him as easily as I do.”
Lady Merrow eyed her archly. “Perhaps we better understand the young Duke now that he is wed to you, Duchess. Methinks you have tamed the once wild Raynsford.”
“Tamed?” Catherine echoed faintly.
“Men,” Lady Harbury said, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret, “are like hounds. They bark, they growl, they preen, but what they truly desire is a firm hand and a soft voice.”
The other women murmured agreement. Catherine choked on a laugh.
The dowager raised an eyebrow. “Agnes, must you always sound as though you are offering advice on breeding livestock?”
Lady Harbury waved her fan. “It’s the same principle, my dear Marianne. A man either heels or bolts.”
Lady Merrow used her fan to stir the air. “I’m not sure which my husband does.”
“Bolts,” Catherine said without hesitation. “I can answer that query unequivocally.”
The others erupted in laughter. Catherine could not help but laugh too, though her pulse throbbed in her throat.
“Oh, she’s delightful,” Lady Densham said, patting her hand. “I like her already.”
Catherine relaxed slightly, warmth stealing into her chest. They were overwhelming, yes, but not cruel. Their teasing was like sunlight, bright and relentless, but not without affection.
Lady Merrow leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Tell us, Your Grace, how fares married life, really? The ton is already quite taken with the match. They say His Grace has never appeared so… domesticated.”
Catherine nearly choked on her tea. “Domesticated?”
Lady Harbury smirked. “You must understand, my dear, your husband has tripped along, flirting with and consorting with half of London for years. To think of him now with a wife! It gives us all hope for our rakish grandsons and nephews.”
Catherine’s lips twitched. “I’m not certain I’ve domesticated him in the slightest.”
“Ah, so you’re still in the taming stages,” Lady Densham said with a knowing nod. “That’s when it’s most thrilling.”
The dowager sighed. “You’ll give her the wrong impression. The only thrill my grandson has ever inspired is lust.”
Lady Harbury giggled. “Lust can be thrilling.”
“Agnes!” Lady Merrow scolded, swatting her friend’s arm with her fan. “Behave.”
Catherine tried, and failed, to hide her laughter behind her hand.
“So,” Lady Harbury said at last, lowering her fan to peer at Catherine with conspiratorial delight. “Tell us, Duchess…does the duke satisfy you?”
The world went silent.
Catherine froze mid-sip. The tea nearly sloshed from her cup. “I—beg your pardon?”
Lady Merrow gasped. “Agnes!”
Lady Densham fanned herself violently. “Really, my dear, you cannot simply ask a duchess such things!”
“Why ever not?” Lady Harbury demanded. “We were all brides once. And curiosity keeps one young.”
“Curiosity will get you barred from polite society,” the dowager said dryly. “Though I suspect that would delight you.”
Lady Harbury grinned, unabashed. “It would.”
Catherine was still red to her ears, utterly at a loss. “I I should think that is hardly a suitable topic for—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Lady Harbury interrupted. “It’s the only topic worth speaking of. Love, passion, the marriage bed…it’s what keeps the world spinning.”
Lady Merrow groaned. “You are scandalous.”
“And you are envious.”
“I am bored,” Lady Merrow retorted. “And I’ve been married long enough to know that passion is for fools and poets.”
“Then God made me both,” Harbury said with a wink.
The women erupted in laughter again, the sound infectious. Catherine pressed her hands to her cheeks, mortified, and yet, against all reason, amused.
The dowager observed her keenly. “You may answer her, you know. Agnes thrives on embarrassment. Best to give her none.”
Catherine swallowed hard. “I—he—”
Four expectant faces turned toward her.
She cleared her throat. “His Grace is… attentive.”
A chorus of delighted shrieks met this declaration.
“Attentive!” Lady Harbury crowed. “Oh, the delicacy of youth! I adore it.”
Lady Densham leaned forward eagerly. “And how attentive, exactly?”
Catherine very nearly dropped her teacup. “Lady Densham… I truly appreciate your interest, but I… I can’t…”
“Enough,” the dowager said sharply, though there was unmistakable amusement in her eyes. “You’ll frighten her off before I’ve a chance to show her the rose gardens.”
Catherine exhaled shakily, half laughing. “I doubt anything could frighten me more than this conversation.”
“Then you’ll do well in this family,” the dowager said, rising with a faint smile. “Come. Let us walk.”
They strolled along the gravel path, the sunlight glinting through the trees. Birds sang overhead; the air smelled of lilac and rain. The older women chatted easily among themselves, but Catherine’s thoughts wandered.
Attentive. She had said it without thinking, but now the word echoed in her mind, bringing heat to her skin.
Was he?
Yes—and no. Duncan had not touched her since a few nights ago at the ball, and nothing beyond that. And yet every look, every brush of his gaze, every breath that seemed to catch when they stood too close, had left her trembling. His nearness granted a kind of attention she could feel in her bones.
She remembered his mouth, the slow, devastating way it had claimed her at the bench. The rough edge of his voice. Her pulse fluttered. She lifted her chin, forcing composure, but her mind betrayed her.
“Are you quite well, my dear?”
Catherine blinked, startled from her thoughts. The Dowager was peering at her, concern mingling with curiosity.
“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Quite.”
“Good. You looked rather flushed. The park can be stifling in spring.”
“Indeed,” Catherine murmured, though the heat had little to do with the weather.
The dowager’s knowing glance did not help matters.
They paused by a fountain, the sunlight dancing across the water. The other matrons caught up to them then, and Lady Harbury dipped a gloved finger into the stream before flicking the droplet of water playfully at Catherine. “Admit it, darling. You’re thinking about your husband now.”
Catherine scoffed. “I am not.”
“You are,” Lady Harbury sang, triumphant. “You’ve the look of a woman picturing her husband in some most indecent way.”
“Agnes!” Lady Merrow hissed, scandalized.