Page 36 of A Game with the Rakish Duke
“Losing myself,” the Dowager Duchess stated with a small smile. “I was terribly attracted to Ralph, you see. I was fighting it, scared that I would lose myself if I submitted to it, that I would change into a person I no longer recognized. That in loving him I would transform into someone I did not wish to be.”
Catherine blinked rapidly. “How peculiar.”
The Dowager Duchess gazed at her steadily. “Yes. The foolishness of youth. But we are only young once. Shall we continue?”
They kept walking. The Dowager Duchess kept talking, pointing her walking stick at each portrait in turn, telling her about the person, an endless litany that Catherine was having a hard time keeping up with. She was certain she would never remember half of them or which one had fought in which battle or died of smallpox.
“Ah.” The Dowager Duchess stopped, leaning on her stick and gazing at the portrait of a beautiful golden-haired woman with soft gray eyes. “That is Letitia. She was the last Duchess of Newden before you, my dear.”
Catherine started. “This was my husband’s mother?”
Catherine’s heart flipped. She took a step closer, gazing at the portrait keenly. The Duke’s mother was wearing a voluminous blue ball gown in the style of the previous century with a wide white lace collar. Long golden ringlets framed her face. She looked serene and meditative with a small, curved smile that reminded Catherine of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
“What was she like?” Her heart flipped again.
The Dowager Duchess sighed heavily. “The artist did not capture her true spirit,” she said, shaking her head. “He has made her look dreamy and content when she was anything but that.” She hesitated. “Letitia was a restless, eternally dissatisfied woman. My son was sick with love for her, but she never returned the sentiment. She had him wrapped around her little finger.”
“I see,” Catherine mumbled.
“Do you?” The Dowager Duchess’s voice was sharp. “I do not know if you understand how destructive love can be. Or how quickly it can turn into hate.”
“Actually, I do,” Catherine retorted, her cheeks flaming. “I watched my own mother slowly disintegrate through yearning for a love that could never be.”
The Dowager Duchess raised her eyebrows. “Ah, yes. I knew your parents briefly. Your fatherdidlike the ladies… and your mother could never accept it. She kept trying to change him, did she not?”
Catherine’s stomach flipped again. “My mother let my father destroy her,” she murmured. “She died a bitter woman.”
“Thomas has a reputation with the ladies,” the Dowager Duchess said, raising her eyebrows. “But he was only sowing his wild oats. I believe that when he finally gives his heart, it will be for life. He is fiercely loyal, you know.”
Catherine tried to laugh. “Is he? I hardly know.”
The Dowager Duchess frowned. “I have talked with Mrs. Gray,” she revealed, leaning on her stick and gazing at her. “She informed me that you and my grandson do not share chambers and never have since you arrived here on your wedding day. The servants talk amongst themselves, you know. They see everything.”
Catherine reddened, glaring at the old lady. “That is personal…”
“You told me that you wished for a family,” the Dowager Duchess interjected, her frown deepening. “Was that a lie?”
Catherine stiffened, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest. She didn’t have to justify herself—or her marriage—to this prickly old lady. As the Duke had told his grandmother, it was none of her business.
“What is the problem?” The Dowager Duchess stared at her. “I can see that you and my grandson are attracted to one another.He looks at you as if he is dying of thirst, and yet you both circle each other like skittish cats.”
“He looks at any woman as if he is dying of thirst,” Catherine huffed, unable to help herself. “Your grandson is a rake, Duchess. And once he tires of me, he will swiftly move on to the next lady that catches his eye. That is the way of rakes.”
“So that is why you resist?” The Dowager Duchess snorted. “Silly girl! He has sown his oats and is ready to lay his heart at your feet, and you have the power to do it if you were not so obstinate.”
Abruptly, Catherine turned away, walking along to the next portrait in an effort to stop the conversation. Her heart flipped again. There he was, gazing out at her, slightly smirking, his blue-green eyes holding a challenge, his dark hair tousled, as if he had just risen from bed. A bed that he had undoubtedly shared with a breathlessly willing lady.
Her husband. The rake.
“I do not adhere to the belief that a leopard can change its spots,” she mused aloud, tilting her head to the side as she studied the portrait. “I believe that a person’s nature is manifest and cannot change.”
The Dowager Duchess stopped beside her. Her face twisted in amusement.
“You are young,” she began, arching her eyebrows. “I used to believe such a thing as well in my younger days.” She cleared her throat. “But peoplecanchange, Catherine. Some people are just waiting for the right person…” she trailed off, looking over Catherine’s shoulder.
Catherine turned around. The gentleman himself was standing there, next to his portrait.
“There you are,” the Duke said, frowning slightly. “I was wondering where the two of you were.”
