Page 48 of A Game with the Rakish Duke
“Do you miss them?” he asked, gazing at her steadily.
She shrugged again. “I miss the idea of them,” she replied, looking pensive. “I miss the parents I should have had.” She hesitated. “It is my mother’s birthday today. I only just remembered. It is why I am looking at the portrait.”
She laughed awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears. She suddenly looked younger than she normally did. Less sure of herself.
“I am sorry,” he murmured softly. “Anniversaries are always the hardest.”
She stared at him with that wistful half-smile on her face.
“We both lost our parents,” she said eventually, her eyes flickering. “That is something we have in common at least.”
“Yes.” His heart started beating just a little faster. “We have. It is hard.” He gazed at her steadily. “It is common ground between us.”
Thomas knew he sounded awkward. It was always hard for him to talk about his parents, especially his mother. As far as Catherine knew, she was dead, just like her own mother. She didn’t know that his mother was probably still very much alive, living another life somewhere unknown to him.
But for all intents and purposes, it was as if his mother was truly dead. She was gone forever. He had lost her as surely as if death had taken her.
Catherine stood up, clutching the portrait tightly to her chest. “I am sorry,” she said, laughing awkwardly. “I should let you get to bed. And I should go to my own.”
He stood up as well, approaching her. “Please, do not say sorry,” he insisted, gazing down at her. “You are allowed to remember your mother on her birthday, Catherine. It is the most natural thing in the world.”
She shrugged, looking embarrassed again. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she sighed. “Even though I had a…troubledrelationship with her, she was still my mother.” She hesitated. “Thank you for listening.”
He smiled slightly. “It was my pleasure.”
She ducked her head, smiling at him, before scurrying out of the room. He stood in the same spot, not moving an inch, staring at where she had been standing.
She was right. They did have common ground. And when she had been speaking about her parents, he had felt the urge to talk about his own which surprised him.
Usually, he avoided the subject like the plague and would rather have been hung, drawn, and quartered before talking about it. But tonight, it had been different. He had felt that she would understand him. That perhaps she was the only person in this world who ever would.
He wanted to keep talking with her. It had felt like a loss when she left the room.
Thomas shook himself. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t given to flights of fancy about confiding in women. Or wanting to comfort them. Usually, he never got that far with them at all. It always remained on a physical level. It was the place he felt most comfortable.
It is just because we see each other daily, that is all. And as soon as that ends, this strange connection between us will end as well.
Thomas walked out of the room, feeling a strange sense of disquiet. The sooner his grandmother’s ball was over, the better. Then they could both start leading separate lives.
And he’d finally get Catherine out of his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Could you bring some more hot water, please?”
Catherine reclined in the bathtub, gazing at the maid in the corner as she made her request. Usually, she didn’t linger long when she was having a bath——she scrubbed herself briskly and thoroughly, attacking the chore with her usual forthright vigor. She also didn’t feel good about asking the maids to fetch more hot water, for she knew carrying heavy buckets upstairs was a backbreaking task.
But today, she was inclined to linger for a few reasons. For one, it was very relaxing in the tub, and she had been feeling tense in the lead-up to this ball. Very tense, indeed. It was blissful to just relax in the hot water for another half-hour or so before she had to climb out and begin the time-consuming task of getting dressed, coiffed, and bejeweled for the ball.
“Very good, Your Grace,” the maid said, bobbing a quick curtsey. Then she picked up the bucket and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
“Thank you, Pansy,” Catherine called. Then she frowned. Wasn’t the maid’s name Polly?
She had had to learn a whole new set of servants’ names since they had arrived at the London townhouse, and sometimes she forgot who was who.
She dipped her hand into the water and retrieved the sponge before wiping it desultorily across her chest and gazing towards the window. Her heart skipped a beat. The gown she had ordered for the ball had arrived an hour ago in a large box. It had been pressed and was now hanging in her bedroom, waiting for her. All she had to do was step into it.
She had blanched when she had seen it. It was so very daring. She hadn’t seen any lady wearing anything remotely like it to the stuffy balls in London. But Mrs. Slocombe had assured her that the stylewasthe latest fashion in Paris… though perhaps without such a heavy emphasis on the backline.
