Page 38 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
But then she wondered why she cared.
No, that was a lie. She knew why she cared. She cared because despite three months of trying to forget, despite throwing herself into society's whirl, despite Pemberton's devoted attention, she was still hopelessly, helplessly, foolishly in love with James.
She'd fallen in love with him that night at the inn—not just in lust, though there had been plenty of that, but in love. With his wit, his unexpected kindness, the vulnerability he'd shown when talking about his father. With the way he'd looked at her like she was precious and powerful all at once.
And then he'd turned out to be a duke, and everything had gone the wrong way.
The performance finally ended with Signora Catalani hitting a note that could have summoned bats. The audience erupted in applause, though Catherine suspected they were mostly applauding the fact that it was over.
"Magnificent!" Mrs. Drummond-Burrell declared, but even she looked slightly stunned. "Simply magnificent! Now, we'll have dancing in the blue salon for those who wish to stay."
"Dancing!" Pemberton said eagerly. "Lady Catherine, might I claim the first set?"
But before Catherine could answer, James stood abruptly. "I'm afraid I must go. The hand, you understand. Should have it properly seen to."
"Of course," Miss Worthing said immediately. "Shall I accompany you? I have some experience with nursing..."
"That won't be necessary," James said curtly. He bowed to the group in general, his gaze lingering on Catherine for just a moment. "Good evening."
He left without another word, leaving Catherine feeling oddly bereft. Which was ridiculous. His presence was torture, his absence should be a relief.
"Well," Miss Worthing said with false brightness, "more gentlemen for the rest of us, I suppose."
The dancing was a blur. Catherine went through the motions—a country dance with Pemberton, a cotillion with Lord Ashford, another dance with someone whose name she immediately forgot. All the while, her mind was elsewhere, replaying every word, every look, every moment of tension from the evening.
It was near midnight when she finally escaped to the ladies' retiring room, desperate for a moment alone. She sat before the mirror, staring at her reflection. She looked the same as she had three months ago, perhaps a bit more polished, a bit more tired around the eyes, but essentially the same.
How was it possible to feel so fundamentally changed yet appear unchanged?
"You're rather monopolizing the mirror," a voice said behind her.
Catherine looked up to see Lady Pemberton entering, her expression thoughtful.
"My apologies," Catherine said, starting to rise.
"Sit," Lady Pemberton commanded, settling herself on the adjacent stool. "We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the fact that you're in love with the Duke of Ravensfield, and he's clearly besotted with you, and yet you're both acting like actors in a play, all meaningful glances and tortured longing."
Catherine's mouth fell open. "I... that's... how did you..."
"My dear girl, I've been watching romantic disasters unfold for thirty years. The Duke and you practically set the air on fire when you're in the same room. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," Catherine said firmly. "There's nothing to do. He's made it clear we have no future."
"Has he? Or has he made it clear he thinks you deserve better than what he can offer?"
Catherine blinked. "What?"
"Men," Lady Pemberton said with a sigh, "are remarkably foolish when it comes to grand gestures. They think they'rebeing noble, protecting us from difficult choices, when really they're just being cowards."
"He's not a coward."
"No? Then why hasn't he pursued you properly?"
"Because... because he doesn't want me that way."
