Chapter 3 #2
Lady Eleanor reached over to pat her husband's arm with practiced patience. "Charles, darling, no one of consequence arrives precisely on time. It would be gauche."
"Eleanor, you and Catherine took so long with ribbons and jewels and heaven knows what other feminine mysteries that we have missed the receiving line entirely. The Duke will think we are either deliberately snubbing him or completely lacking in social graces."
Catherine exchanged an amused glance with her mother. The Earl's pre-social event nerves were legendary in their household—a combination of genuine concern for propriety and barely concealed excitement at the prospect of important networking.
"I am certain the Duke of Wexford has more pressing concerns than the precise timing of our arrival," Catherine said diplomatically, though privately she was grateful for the delay. The longer she could postpone the inevitable introductions and small talk, the better.
The carriage finally came to a stop before the imposing facade of Harrington House, and Catherine's breath caught despite herself.
Every window blazed with light, casting golden rectangles across the manicured gardens.
Footmen in pristine livery formed two neat lines leading to the entrance, while the soft strains of a string quartet drifted into the night air.
Even for a family accustomed to grand entertainments, the spectacle was impressive.
"My God," Lady Eleanor murmured as a footman handed her down from the carriage. "The Duchess has certainly spared no expense."
Inside, the transformation was even more remarkable.
The entrance hall, already magnificent under normal circumstances, had been elevated to something approaching palatial splendor.
Thousands of white roses and gardenias filled every available surface, their perfume mingling with the warm glow of what seemed like every candle in London.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors, reflecting the light from crystal chandeliers that cast rainbow prisms across the cream-colored walls.
But it was the guests that truly took Catherine's breath away.
London's most influential families had turned out in force—Dukes and Duchesses, Earls and Countesses, members of Parliament, wealthy industrialists, and even a smattering of foreign diplomats.
The cream of British society had gathered under one roof, all eager to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic Duke who had returned from the dead.
"Good heavens," the Earl breathed, his earlier irritation forgotten in the face of such assembled power. "Half the House of Lords must be in attendance."
Catherine was still absorbing the magnitude of the gathering when a familiar voice called out behind them.
"Catherine! Thank goodness you are finally here. I was bored to death waiting for you!"
Lady Anna Pemberton appeared at Catherine's elbow, resplendent in rose-colored silk that complemented her auburn hair perfectly.
At twenty-four, Anna possessed the kind of vivacious beauty that drew men like moths to flame, combined with enough wit to keep them interested once the initial attraction faded.
"What took you so long to arrive?" Anna continued, linking her arm through Catherine's with the easy familiarity of lifelong friendship.
The Earl fixed his daughter with a pointed look. "An excellent question, Anna. I wonder how Catherine will justify two hours of preparation now."
"Girls," Lady Eleanor interjected smoothly, recognizing the potential for embarrassment, "I will handle this stiff old Earl. You should go find some charming gentlemen to dance with."
"We most certainly will," Anna declared with enthusiasm that made Catherine's heart sink.
"Anna, dear," Lady Eleanor said, studying the younger woman's glowing complexion, "you seem completely recovered. Has the coughing stopped entirely?"
Anna blinked in confusion, glancing between Catherine and the Countess with obvious bewilderment. "Coughing? I..." She looked directly at Catherine, suspicion dawning in her green eyes. "I mean, yes, I was sick, but now I am in perfect health."
"How wonderful," Lady Eleanor smiled. "Catherine was so worried about you. Well, run along, girls. Enjoy yourselves."
As their parents moved away to join the other adults in their ritualistic exchange of pleasantries and political gossip, Anna immediately rounded on Catherine with the determination of a prosecutor.
"Catherine Fairfax, was I supposed to be sick?"
Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. "Anna, I can explain later—"
"Absolutely not," Anna interrupted, her voice low but fierce. "You used me as an excuse for something, and I demand to know why. What have you been doing during these mysterious visits to my supposedly ailing bedside?"
Desperate to deflect, Catherine gestured toward a woman across the room whose gown featured an unfortunate combination of purple satin and yellow trim. "Anna, look at Lady Thornfield's dress. Surely that shade of purple is completely wrong for her complexion—"
"Forget Lady Thornfield's fashion disasters," Anna said impatiently. "Forget everything else. Look at the stairs."
Despite herself, Catherine's gaze followed Anna's pointed finger toward the grand staircase that curved gracefully to the ballroom floor.
A man stood at the top, one hand resting lightly on the balustrade, surveying the assembled company below with an air of complete and unhurried calm.
He was tall and lean, dark-haired, his evening dress immaculate — and yet something about him sat at a slight remove from the room, as though he occupied it without entirely belonging to it.
This, Catherine understood without needing to be told, was Alexander Harrington.
He began to descend.
"My God," Anna whispered. "He is absolutely—"
"Watch the room," Catherine said quietly.
Anna blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Do not watch him. Watch everyone else."
Anna, after a moment's hesitation, did as she was told. And gradually her expression shifted from admiration to something more uncertain.
The effect of Alexander's descent on the assembled guests was immediate and difficult to name precisely.
Conversation did not stop — it continued, as conversation at such gatherings always did — but it changed in quality.
Voices dropped. Fans slowed. Groups that had been engaged in animated exchange turned, almost involuntarily, toward the staircase with the particular attention of people who have detected something they cannot immediately classify.
Several of the men near the card tables straightened almost imperceptibly.
A woman Catherine recognized as Lady Pemberton senior leaned toward her companion and said something behind her hand.
The guests nearest to Alexander as he reached the floor greeted him with warmth — smiles, bows, clasped hands — yet even from this distance Catherine could observe something beneath the warmth.
A slight stiffness. A careful selection of words.
The particular posture of people who wished to appear at ease and were not entirely succeeding.
"How curious," Anna murmured.
"Is it not," Catherine agreed.
"They behave as though — I am not quite certain how they behave. It is not what I expected from a homecoming reception."
"No," Catherine said. "It is not."
Anna was quiet for a moment, watching a senior member of Parliament attempt an expression of uncomplicated delight and produce something considerably more complicated. "He is a Duke," she said finally, as if offering an explanation. "Rank commands a certain deference."
"They are not deferring to his rank," Catherine replied. "They have been deferring to rank their entire lives. That is not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
Catherine studied Alexander as he accepted a glass from a passing footman, exchanging pleasantries with a cluster of society matrons who laughed a little too readily at whatever he said. He was composed, gracious, entirely correct in every observable particular. And yet.
"He has been somewhere they have not," she said slowly.
"He has seen things they cannot imagine and will not ask about directly.
They do not know what he is now — only what he was, and that the distance between those two things is considerable.
" She paused. "People are not cautious around what they know, however grand.
They are cautious around what they do not. "
Anna considered this with the expression of someone revising an assumption. "So it is not his title that unsettles them."
"His title is the most familiar thing about him. It is everything else that gives them pause."
They watched as a young lord — one of the season's more confident bachelors — approached Alexander with the easy swagger of a man accustomed to commanding rooms. Within thirty seconds of conversation, the swagger had moderated itself into something more measured.
The young lord laughed again, touched his cravat, and found a reason to address the person standing beside him instead.
"I confess," Anna said, dropping her voice to something that was not quite a whisper, "that not knowing makes me want to get closer to him. Is that very foolish of me?"
"It is entirely human," Catherine said. "But not knowing is also precisely the thing that should make one cautious." She glanced at her friend. "The two impulses are not contradictory. They arrive together."
At that moment, as if responding to some shift in the room's attention, Alexander's gaze moved across the ballroom in a slow, deliberate sweep — the observation of a man accustomed to reading his surroundings before committing to any particular movement within them.
Catherine felt the moment his eyes reached their corner of the room. She held herself quite still.
His gaze passed over her without pausing.
Continued its unhurried survey of the room. Moved on.
Catherine became aware that she had been holding a breath she did not remember drawing. She released it with great care.
"You are already studying him," Anna said beside her. Her voice carried the particular note of someone who has noticed rather more than they were meant to.
Catherine did not deny it. "I study everyone," she said.
Anna looked at her for a moment with an expression that suggested this answer was simultaneously true and entirely insufficient. Then she turned back toward the room where Alexander Harrington had been absorbed into the crowd, visible now only as a dark head moving through a sea of pale ones.
"Well," Anna said at last, accepting a glass of ratafia from a passing footman with the air of someone preparing for an event of uncertain outcome, "it will be a most interesting ball."
"Yes," Catherine agreed, her eyes still moving through the room.
She had a feeling she was right about him — about the distance between what he had been and what he was now, about the weight of whatever he carried beneath that composed exterior. Whether that feeling would prove to be insight or mere imagination remained to be seen.
But she intended to find out.