Page 60 of Duke of Destruction
Bowing to someone you encountered on the street was polite. It was correct. It was the kind of thing that thousands of men did every day to thousands of women—and that was thinking of London alone.
But Percy had never beenpoliteto her. Catherine felt it settle over her like a hair shirt.
“Um,” she said—she, whoneverdithered! “Good day. I trust you have been well since I have seen you last?”
The words were automatic, brought forth by decades of training in the bland politeness that most social encounters required. As soon as they left her lips, however, she realized that he did not look at all as though he had been well since she’d last seen him. He looked a bit wan, as though he hadn’t been sleeping well. He was still handsome, of course, though she hated to admit it, even to herself. But he did not look particularly well.
She was seized with the sudden, frantic urge to demand that he report every detail of his health to her. Was his head bothering him? Was he eating enough? Did anything hurt?
Fortunately, good sense prevailed. One simply did not ask a near stranger on the street—which is what theywere,despite what they’d shared, and certainly what they needed to appear to be—about his health. Particularly not after already making the horrifying slip of using his Christian name.
She was lucky nobody (except perhaps her maid, who had taken a sudden intense interest in the cobblestones) had overheard her. The gossip would light up London in a flash.
“I have been well, thank you,” Percy said, stiff as a board. “And you?”
“Quite well,” she said, though this wasn’t quite true. She’d been consumed with the very man standing before her. It was highly irritating.
In their previous encounters, she’d let her irritated thought spill right out into irritable words, had poked and pinched at himuntil he had needled and prodded right back. And if she hadn’t started things, he had always done so.
Now they were being so hideously polite.
She had told him things would be different in London. They had agreed that things would be different in London.
So why was it so painful to find out this was true?
“Fine weather we’ve been having,” said the horrible creature that had taken over Catherine and replaced her with an unending series of platitudes.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Percy, who evidently suffered from the same affliction. “Quite fine, particularly for autumn.”
Every Englishman knew that once you started talking about the weather, you had reached the very end of your conversation. Catherine was grateful, in part, because, God help her, this wasunbearable.
But she also felt a distinct pang of sadness, because as soon as she walked away, she would have to return to her previous business of forgetting all about Percy. She would never get to know if he was truly doing well or not. She would likely never get to have a real conversation with him again. Eventually, he would marry, and she would descend further into spinsterhood, and their paths would never intersect, not any longer.
That was right, she reminded herself. That was what they needed—both of them.
But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
There was a long, terrible pause.
“Well,” she forced herself to say. “It was very lovely to see you, but I must be going.”
“Of course.” Percy’s voice sounded very far away. “It was good to see you, as well, Lady Catherine.”
He bowed.
She curtseyed.
Then they stepped around one another, and each continued on their respective paths. It physically hurt Catherine not to look over her shoulder, but she held herself firmly in check.
When they returned to the carriage, Catherine’s maid looked at her with an expression of concern.
“Is everything well, my lady?” she asked quietly.
Catherine forced a cheerful smile to her face. It felt a bit wobbly, but it held.
“Of course it is,” she said lightly. “By the by, I’ve got a little something for you. I know that you have been eyeing this ribbon…”
Something had to change.
