Page 25 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Yes." James mounted his horse, gathering the reins. But he couldn't resist one last look back at the inn, at the window of what had been their sanctuary from the storm.
"The young lady seemed quite charming," Peters ventured as they rode out.
"Did she?"
"If I may say so, sir, you seemed... that is, I haven't seen you look at anyone quite like..."
"You may not say so," James cut him off. "Miss Mayfer was a chance encounter, nothing more. We shared accommodation due to the storm. That is the end of it."
"Of course, sir."
But as they rode north, James found himself reaching for the handkerchief in his pocket—hers, dropped in their sitting room, scented with lavender and memories. He should throw it away, forget her, focus on the duty ahead.
Instead, he tucked it closer to his heart and urged his horse faster, as if he could outrun the memory of her skin under his hands, her voice calling his name, the way she'd looked at him in those final moments; proud and hurt and achingly beautiful.
Behind him, somewhere on the road to London, Catherine was traveling toward her future. A future that would hopefully include the happiness she deserved, the freedom she craved, the love she was brave enough to claim.
And ahead of him lay duty, death, and a title that would cage him more surely than any prison.
The storm had passed. The dream was over.
But Heaven help him, he knew he'd spend the rest of his life reliving that one perfect night when he'd been just James, and she'd been just Catherine, and nothing else had mattered but the space between heartbeats, between breaths, between two souls recognizing each other across a crowded inn.
"Faster," he said, spurring his horse on. But it wasn't his father he was trying to reach.
Chapter 5
"My darling Catherine! Oh, but you look absolutely frozen through! Sampson, do take Lady Catherine's things at once, and have Mrs. Hedgley prepare a hot bath immediately. Tea in the morning room—no, make it the blue parlor, it catches the afternoon sun. Heavens, child, you're positively blue with cold!"
Lady Vivienne Ashworth, Catherine's maternal aunt, was everything Catherine's mother was not—warm, effusive, and fashionably dramatic. At two and forty, she was still strikingly beautiful, with Catherine's same dark hair artfully arranged with jeweled combs and bright eyes that missed nothing.
"Aunt Vivienne," Lady Catherine Mayfer managed through chattering teeth, carefully descending from the carriage. The ache in her thighs made her wince—three days of carriage travel had not been kind to muscles already tender from... activities she refused to think about. "I cannot thank you enough for..."
"Nonsense! What else are aunts for if not to rescue their nieces from tedious butterfly collectors?" Vivienne embraced her warmly, enveloping Catherine in expensive perfume and genuine affection. "Your letter was quite desperate, my dear. Though I must say, fleeing during such weather! You must have been quite determined to escape."
Catherine followed her aunt into the elegant Mayfair townhouse, trying not to limp. Every step reminded her of that night—the unfamiliar soreness that marked her asfundamentally changed. She'd taken to sitting on extra cushions in the carriage, much to Martha's carefully unvoiced curiosity.
"You're exhausted," Vivienne observed, studying Catherine with those sharp eyes. "And you're walking strangely. Are you injured? That dreadful carriage ride, I suppose. These roads are absolutely criminal. I've been petitioning Parliament for improvements, but do they listen to women? Of course not."
Heat flooded Catherine's cheeks. "Just stiff from travel, Aunt. The carriage was... uncomfortable."
"Well, a hot bath will set you right. Mrs. Hedgley makes the most wonderful bath salts; lavender and chamomile, imported from France before this dreadful war made everything impossible to obtain."
The entrance hall was magnificent, with polished floors and a sweeping staircase. A footman in elegant livery took Catherine's sodden pelisse while another appeared with a tea tray as if by magic.
"Your household runs beautifully," Catherine observed.
"Twenty servants," Vivienne said with satisfaction. "Though between you and me, it's really Mrs. Hedgley who runs everything. I merely swan about looking decorative and occasionally remembering to pay the bills."
Two hours later, bathed, and grateful for the warm water that had indeed eased some of the lingering ache, fed, and wrapped in a borrowed silk dressing gown, Catherine sat in her aunt's private sitting room, trying to explain her situation.
"Mother is determined," she said, staring into her teacup. "Sir Reginald has already spoken to her, and she's given her consent. She says I'm being foolish, throwing away security for romantic notions."
"Your mother," Vivienne said crisply, "has always been practical to a fault. She married your father because it was expected, and while they found contentment, I'm not sure they ever found joy." She paused, adding another lump of sugar to her tea. "I wasn't supposed to find joy either, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"Harold—Lord Ashworth—was chosen for me. Twenty years my senior, terribly wealthy, excellent connections. My family was in debt, you see. Father had a weakness for hazard tables, and Harold offered to clear everything in exchange for my hand." Vivienne's expression softened. "I went to the altar feeling like a sacrifice to the family honour."
