Page 70 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
Catherine wanted to scratch the woman's eyes out. Instead, she smiled sweetly. "Were you? How nice for you both. ThoughI understand it ended rather... dramatically. Something about a duel that never happened and a quick trip to Italy?"
Lady Harrington's eyes flashed. "You've been telling stories, James?"
"The truth isn't a story," he said. "Now if you'll excuse us..."
"Oh, but you can't leave yet!" Miss Worthing appeared, looking triumphant. "The entertainment is about to begin."
"Entertainment?" Catherine asked warily.
"Oh yes. Lady Cowper has arranged for a reading. From Lady Harrington's new memoir."
The blood drained from Catherine's face. A memoir. Of course.
"You didn't," James said, his voice dangerous.
"I did," Lady Harrington said with satisfaction. "It's all perfectly discreet, of course. No real names. But those who know... well, they'll recognize the truth."
"You vindictive..."
"James," Catherine interrupted, putting a hand on his arm. "Don't."
The crowd was gathering now, drawn by the promise of scandal. Lady Cowper, looking uncomfortable but trapped bysocial convention, stood near a small platform where Lady Harrington was preparing to read.
"My dear friends," Lady Harrington began, "I've recently penned a small memoir of my time in Italy. Just a few observations about love and loss. I thought you might enjoy a selection."
She opened a leather-bound book and began to read. At first, it seemed innocent enough—descriptions of Italian scenery, the warmth of the Mediterranean sun. Then:
"But it was in England where I first learned the true meaning of passion," she read, her voice carrying clearly. "He was young, untitled then but with the promise of greatness. Dark-haired, grey-eyed, with hands that knew exactly how to make a woman forget propriety."
The crowd murmured, everyone recognizing the description. James stood rigid beside Catherine.
"Our affair was glorious," Lady Harrington continued. "Secret meetings, stolen moments, the kind of desperate passion that consumes everything in its path. He would come to me at night, scaling garden walls, risking everything for just an hour in my arms."
"This is lies," James said loudly. "Fiction dressed as memoir."
"Is it?" Lady Harrington asked innocently. "How would you know, Your Grace, unless you were there?"
It was a trap perfectly sprung. To deny it was to admit involvement. To stay silent was to let the story stand.
"Perhaps," Catherine said clearly, stepping forward, "Lady Harrington is simply a very creative writer. After all, fiction is so much more interesting than truth."
"Oh, but this is truth, my dear," Lady Harrington said. "Every word. Including the parts about how insatiable he was. How demanding. How he liked to..."
"Stop." James's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Enough."
"Why? Embarrassed? Or perhaps you don't want your little innocent to know what you're really like in..."
"I said enough." He turned to the crowd. "Yes, I had an affair with Lady Harrington. When I was twenty-two and a fool. It lasted three months and ended when her husband challenged me to a duel. I'm not proud of it, but I won't stand here and let her rewrite history for revenge."
"Revenge?" Lady Harrington laughed. "My dear James, this isn't revenge. This is truth. And the truth is, you'll never be satisfied with some innocent little earl's daughter. You need a woman who can match your... appetites."
The implication hung in the air. She could flee. She could faint. She could cause a scene.
Instead, she laughed.
"My goodness," she said, her voice carrying clearly. "All this drama over a three-month affair from seven years ago? How terribly... sad."
"Sad?" Lady Harrington's voice rose.
