Page 44 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“How noble,” Miss Worthing said, her smile thin and poisonous. She let her gaze drift across the assembly, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Though one cannot help but wonder; why should Lady Catherine require such passionate defence if she is as blameless as you insist?”
The words lingered in the charged air, poisonous and tantalizing. The crowd leaned forward, hungry for what would come next. Catherine’s breath caught in her throat, for she saw the fury ignite in James’s eyes, and she knew that whatever he spoke next might alter the course of both their lives forever.
“One might also wonder,” James said, his voice dropping to a level so dangerous it sent a shiver through the assembly, “why you are so determined to destroy her reputation. What crime has Lady Catherine committed to earn such vindictiveness? Did she offend by being more beautiful? More intelligent? More desirable?”
The last word cracked through the silence like a whip. Catherine felt the heat rush into her cheeks, her heart pounding so violently she feared the entire garden would hear it.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell interposed quickly, her fan snapping shut with a sharp crack, “while your loyalty to Lady Catherine is most admirable, perhaps we should...”
“Perhaps we should what?” James’s reply cut her off like a blade. His voice rang with fury, carrying easily to every corner of the gathering. “Pretend none of this ever occurred? Allow the whispers to fester unchecked? Permit a woman of impeccable character to be torn apart by malice and envy?”
“No one is suggesting...”
“Aren’t they?” James’s gaze swept the crowd, hard and merciless. “How many of you, when Miss Worthing spoke, were already half-convinced of her insinuations? How many of you, before this very night ends, would have quill in hand to send letters dripping with this poisonous tale?”
The uneasy rustle of skirts and the guilty shifting of several matrons spoke volumes.
“If Lady Catherine’s reputation is to be questioned,” James continued, his voice deepening to a terrible calm, “then let there be no doubt. To speak against her is to speak against me. To malign her character is to malign mine. And let it be understood by all that anyone who dares to harm her will answer to me personally.”
The weight of the threat hung in the air like a drawn sword. A few of the braver guests actually stepped back, as though scorched by the force of his words.
“That is rather… extreme, Your Grace,” ventured a voice from the crowd, Lord Ashford, if Catherine’s memory served, though she could not see past the wall of bodies pressing close.
“Is it?” James asked, his tone deceptively mild, though his eyes still burned with fury. “I find it perfectly appropriate, considering.”
“Considering what?” Miss Worthing demanded, her composure fraying at last, her voice rising shrill with disbelief.
James smiled then; a slow, devastating smile that froze Catherine’s blood, for she knew it well. It was the same smile he had worn that night at the inn, when mischief and recklessness had sparked in him like a flame about to ignite. A smile that preceded something spectacular… and ruinously inadvisable.
“Considering,” he said clearly, so that every guest, every whispering tongue, every listening ear could not mistake him, “that I intend to court Lady Catherine.”
Chapter 9
If James had announced his intention to run naked through Hyde Park, the reaction could scarcely have been more dramatic. Gasps rang out, fans snapped open, and whispers surged through the crowd with the thrill of scandalous delight.
Catherine stood frozen, her mind scrambling to catch up. Court her? He intended to court her? Since when? Why now? And why, in heaven’s name, had he not thought to mention this intention to her before declaring it before half of London?
“Court her?” Miss Worthing’s voice had risen to a pitch that might have broken glass. “But you barely know her!”
“Don’t I?” James asked mildly, his tone silken and dangerous. “And how, precisely, would you know what I know or do not know, Miss Worthing? Are you privy to my thoughts? To my feelings? To my intentions?”
“But she’s… she’s already being courted by Lord Pemberton!”
Every head turned as one toward Pemberton, who still lingered at Catherine’s side. His face was blotched with heat, and in his white-knuckled hand he clutched the small ring box like a weapon he dared not use.
“Is she?” James’s gaze cut to him, sharp and unrelenting. “Has an understanding been reached? Have the banns been read? Forgive me, I must have missed the announcement.”
“No… no understanding has yet been reached,” Pemberton admitted, his voice carrying despite its curiously reedy quality. His jaw worked furiously, his eyes darting between Catherine and James as though hoping to find an ally in either. “But I daresay Lady Catherine knows her own mind. She is free to choose.”
He turned then, fixing Catherine with an expression meant to be wounded but steeped instead in reproach. “Aren’t you, Lady Catherine?”
It was less a question than an accusation, and Catherine felt her stomach turn. Any sympathy she might have once felt for him withered beneath the heat of so many stares.
The entire garden seemed to lean in, waiting. Catherine felt like an actress thrust onto a stage with no lines, no script, and an audience ravenous for her performance.
“I…” The word faltered on her lips, empty and unfinished.
“Perhaps,” Lady Sefton interjected at last, attempting to summon her authority as hostess, “we should all return to our refreshments and allow the young people to sort themselves out.”
