Page 32 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Well, I think it's marvelous," Pemberton declared. "All that passion and emotion set to music. Though I confess, I don't understand a word of Italian. Lady Catherine has been trying to educate me, haven't you, my dear?"
The casual endearment made Catherine's stomach clench, especially when she felt James stiffen beside her.
"I've attempted to explain the basic plots," Catherine said carefully. "Though Italian opera plots are notably... repetitive."
"Oh? How so?" Pemberton leaned forward, genuinely interested.
"Well," Catherine said, warming to the topic despite herself, "they generally involve someone falling in love with someone they shouldn't, making terrible decisions because of that love, and then everybody dies. Occasionally someone goes insane first, just for variety."
"Rather like life, then," James murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
Catherine's hands clenched in her lap. "I wouldn't know, Your Grace. My life has been remarkably death-free. And madness-free, for that matter."
"How fortunate for you."
"Indeed. I find sanity quite agreeable."
"Do you? How novel. I've always found a touch of madness makes things more... interesting."
"That would explain so much about your reputation," Catherine said sweetly, finally turning to look at him.
It was a mistake. Those grey eyes, the ones that haunted her dreams and her waking hours with equal persistence, were focused on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. For a moment, the mask slipped, and she saw heat there, the same burning desire that had consumed them both that night.
"My reputation," he said slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, "is greatly exaggerated."
"Is it? How disappointing for all the ladies hoping for a reformed rake."
"I was never a rake."
"No? What would you call yourself then?"
"Selective."
The word hung between them, loaded with meaning that had nothing to do with their current conversation and everything to do with a night three months ago when he'd been very, very selective indeed.
"How fascinating," Pemberton interjected, completely oblivious to the undercurrents. "I've always thought reputation a funny thing. Why, just last week, I heard the most outrageous story about Lord Ashford and a parrot."
Before he could elaborate on what promised to be a riveting tale of avian misconduct, Signora Catalani swept onto the stage in a gown that appeared to be made entirely of peacock feathers and delusions of grandeur.
The audience applauded politely. Catherine seized the opportunity to lean slightly away from James, though in the closely packed seats, this mainly meant she was now practically in Pemberton's lap, which presented its own problems.
Signora Catalani launched into her first aria with the enthusiasm of someone being paid by the note. Catherine tried to focus on the performance, but every nerve in her body was aware of James beside her; the way his breathing matched hers, the heat radiating from his body, the way his fingers drummed silently against his thigh in what she recognized as barely controlled agitation.
She knew that tell. She'd discovered it that night when she'd pushed him to the edge of his control, when he'd gripped her hips and...
No. She would not think about that. Not here, not now, not with Lord Pemberton's hopeful presence on her other side and half of London's elite watching them.
The aria reached a particularly ambitious crescendo. Signora Catalani's voice climbed higher and higher, reaching for notes that possibly only few could fully appreciate. Beside her, she heard James make a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh or possibly pain.
"She's quite... enthusiastic," he murmured, leaning slightly toward her under the pretense of adjusting his program.
"She's Italian," Catherine whispered back, as if that explained everything. "They're professionally enthusiastic."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer 'ear-splitting'?"
"I'd prefer honest, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"
