Chapter 7
Catherine stood near the edge of the ballroom with Anna and several other young ladies, a glass of champagne warming in her gloved hand as she tried to appear engaged in their animated discussion about the latest fashions from Paris.
But her attention kept drifting to the entrance, her eyes scanning each new arrival with barely concealed anticipation.
The Pemberton ballroom sparkled under Anna's careful direction.
Hundreds of white roses and trailing ivy created intimate alcoves along the walls, while countless candles cast everything in warm, romantic light.
The guest list was notably younger than most London events, the atmosphere charged with flirtation and possibility that made the air itself shimmer.
"Catherine, you are not listening to a word we are saying," Miss Lydia Thornfield accused with good-natured exasperation. "We could be discussing dancing bears and you would still be staring at that doorway."
"I am simply admiring Anna's decorative choices," Catherine murmured.
"Certainly," Anna said with a knowing smile. "And I suppose you are not at all wondering whether a certain mysterious Duke will make an appearance tonight?"
Before Catherine could formulate a suitable denial, a subtle shift in the room's energy made her turn. Her breath caught.
Alexander appeared in the doorway alongside Anthony, both men resplendent in evening dress. Even from across the crowded ballroom, Alexander's presence commanded attention—conversations paused, fans fluttered with increased vigor, and more than one young lady straightened hopefully.
Catherine watched as his dark eyes swept the room with what appeared casual but felt more like careful assessment.
When his gaze found hers across the distance, she felt the same electric jolt of recognition she had experienced at his ball, followed immediately by a flutter of nervousness low in her stomach.
To her surprise, instead of being waylaid by eager admirers, Alexander made his way directly toward their group. The crowd seemed to part naturally before him, though she noticed how skillfully he acknowledged greetings without being trapped in conversation.
"Lady Anna," he said as he reached them, offering an elegant bow. "Thank you for such a gracious invitation. Your reputation for hosting the most delightful events in London appears entirely justified."
Anna glowed under the compliment. "Your Grace, what a pleasure. Though you are being far too generous about my modest efforts."
"Modest?" Alexander produced a small, elegantly wrapped package from his coat. "I think not. Please accept this small token of appreciation for your hospitality."
Catherine watched as Anna unwrapped the gift to reveal an exquisite music box, its surface decorated with intricate enamel work depicting dancers. When Anna wound the key, a hauntingly beautiful melody filled the air around them.
"It is absolutely perfect," Anna breathed, her eyes wide with genuine delight. "Your Grace, you should not have—"
"A hostess of your caliber deserves proper recognition," Alexander said warmly.
As Anna continued to exclaim over the gift, Catherine found herself studying Alexander's profile. The gesture was thoughtful, generous, and perfectly calculated to endear him to everyone present. But was it genuine kindness or masterful performance?
Other guests clustered around them, drawn by Alexander's presence and Anna's obvious pleasure. Catherine watched as he deflected questions about his missing years while making each person feel acknowledged.
"Tonight I am simply a guest," he said with disarming honesty when someone pressed him about his adventures, "grateful to be among friends both old and new."
The orchestra began a waltz. Several gentlemen immediately moved toward their group, but Alexander was faster. He turned to Catherine, his dark eyes finding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Lady Catherine," he said quietly, extending his hand. "Would you honor me?"
The request was simple, proper, entirely appropriate. But something in his voice, in the way he looked at her, made it feel like considerably more than a polite invitation to dance.
"I would be delighted, Your Grace," Catherine heard herself say.
She placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.
Other couples were already forming, but Catherine barely noticed them.
Her entire awareness had narrowed to the man beside her, to the warmth of his hand through the thin silk of her glove, to the sudden racing of her pulse.
They took their positions. Alexander's hand settled at her waist—proper, correct, the exact placement required by the dance.
But the weight of it burned through the fabric of her gown like a brand.
His other hand closed around hers, and even through two layers of gloves she felt the strength in his fingers.
The music began.
Alexander led with the confident skill of someone who had learned to dance before he could properly walk, but there was nothing mechanical in the way he moved.
Each turn, each step brought them close and then apart in the prescribed pattern of the waltz.
Catherine found herself acutely aware of everything—the breadth of his shoulders, the clean masculine scent of him, the way candlelight caught in his dark hair.
They had not spoken since taking the floor. The silence between them felt charged, heavy with things neither seemed ready to name.
"You dance well, Lady Catherine," Alexander said finally, his voice low enough that only she could hear it over the music.
"As do you, Your Grace." Her own voice came out slightly breathless. "Though I imagine dancing in London ballrooms is considerably different from wherever you spent the past eight years."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Considerably."
Another turn brought them closer. Catherine could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could see the faint scar along his jaw in sharp detail.
She had the sudden, inappropriate urge to trace it with her fingers, to ask him about the man who had given it to him, to understand every experience that had marked him.
"You are staring," Alexander observed, though his tone held no reproach.
"Your scar is worth staring at," Catherine replied before she could stop herself.
His hand tightened fractionally at her waist. The movement was so slight she might have imagined it, but she felt it nonetheless—a response he had not entirely controlled.
"Careful, Lady Catherine," he said quietly. "People will talk."
"Let them." The boldness surprised her, but she meant it. "Anna has made it quite clear that discretion is the rule tonight."
"Has she." It was not a question. Alexander's gaze held hers as they turned again, and Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing.
The music swelled toward its conclusion. Other couples around them began to separate, to prepare for the final measures. But Alexander kept her close for one beat longer than strictly necessary before finally, reluctantly, releasing her.
They stood facing each other on the ballroom floor as applause rippled through the room. Catherine's heart hammered against her ribs. She felt flushed, unsettled, as though something fundamental had shifted between them during those three minutes.
"Thank you for the dance, Lady Catherine," Alexander said with perfect courtesy. But his eyes told a different story entirely.
"The pleasure was mine, Your Grace."
He offered his arm to escort her back to where Anna stood with several other guests. But before they reached the group, he leaned close enough that his breath stirred the loose curl near her ear.
"I wish to speak with you," he said quietly. "Properly. Not here."
Catherine's pulse jumped. "The terrace—"
"Will be full of other couples seeking the same privacy." His hand tightened briefly on hers where it rested in the crook of his arm. "Upstairs. The gallery overlooking the garden. Five minutes."
He did not wait for her answer. They reached Anna's group, and Alexander released her with a bow before melting back into the crowd. Catherine stood rooted, her mind racing.
This was dangerous. Improper. The sort of thing that could ruin her reputation despite Anna's rules of discretion.
She was already moving toward the stairs.
◆◆◆
The gallery was long and elegant, lined with portraits of Pemberton ancestors, lit only by moonlight streaming through tall windows overlooking the garden below.
Catherine could hear the distant sounds of the ball — music, laughter, the murmur of conversation — but here it felt removed, private, like a world apart.
Alexander stood near the far window, his profile sharp against the darkness beyond. He turned when he heard her approach.
"You came," he said.
"You asked me to." Catherine stayed near the door, maintaining the distance between them. "Though I confess I am curious why we could not continue our conversation downstairs, among the other guests."
"Because what I wish to discuss cannot be said where others might overhear." Alexander moved away from the window, closing half the distance between them. "The wrong person hearing the wrong thing could be... problematic."
"For me?" Catherine asked. "Or for you?"
"For both of us." He paused. "And for what I am trying to accomplish."
Catherine studied his face in the moonlight. "So you brought me here to protect me."
"To protect us both," Alexander corrected. "And my work. They are not separate things, Lady Catherine. Everything is connected — my safety, yours, the mission I returned to London to complete."
"Is your mission more important than people?" The question came out sharper than she intended. "More important than your family, for instance?"