Page 77 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Here?" Catherine managed. "In London?"
"In this very house. In my best parlor. Drinking my tea and looking like she wants to burn the place down." Vivienne turned from the window, and Catherine saw something she'd never seen on her aunt's face before—genuine anxiety. "She arrived an hour ago, demanding to know what I've done to corrupt you."
"Corrupt me?"
"Her words, not mine. Apparently, I've filled your head with romantic nonsense and encouraged you to throw away your future for a fleeting passion."
Catherine’s heart clenched, her breath catching somewhere between her lungs and her throat. She sank into the nearest chair, the world tilting slightly as her legs gave way. The velvetupholstery did little to steady her. “How did she even know?” she whispered, staring at the rug as though it might offer answers.
Vivienne gave a small, incredulous laugh—the kind that was more air than sound. “My dear, you’re marrying a duke in two weeks. The announcement was in every paper from here to Edinburgh. Did you truly think she wouldn’t find out?”
“I’d hoped to write to her after the wedding,” Catherine murmured. It sounded weak even to her own ears. She had imagined crafting that letter carefully; soft words, measured phrases, a perfect mixture of contrition and hope. Perhaps, if written after the vows were said, her mother’s wrath would have burned itself out by then. Foolish. Naive.
“Coward,” Vivienne said gently.
“Absolutely.”
Vivienne crossed to the sideboard with the purposeful elegance of a general moving across a battlefield. She uncorked a decanter and poured herself a brandy, never mind that it was barely noon. “She’s furious about Sir Reginald.”
Catherine let out a humorless laugh. “Of course she is.”
“She claims you’ve humiliated him. And worse—he’s apparently threatening to call in certain debts.”
Catherine froze. The chill that spread through her veins was immediate and absolute. “What debts?”
Vivienne turned, glass in hand, her expression tight with concern. “She wouldn’t say. Just kept muttering about your selfishness and your father’s legacy. Catherine, is there something I should know?”
Catherine opened her mouth to reply, but her voice seemed to have deserted her. She thought of her mother’s ledgers; those endless columns of figures that had kept the Westmont estate barely afloat after her father’s passing. Of the letters Catherine had intercepted, heavy with financial desperation cloaked in politeness. Her mother had always considered debt a private matter, a humiliation to be managed behind closed doors. If Sir Reginald truly had his hands in that particular mire, then...
The sharp crack of the door opening made both women jump.
Lady Margaret Westmont filled the threshold like a storm cloud given human shape.
She was dressed head to toe in black, her bonnet ribbons tied with military precision, her expression that of a woman who had long ago lost patience with the world and found righteous anger a suitable substitute for air. There was something almostjudicialin her severity, like Justice herself, all austere grace and unyielding discernment.
“Mother,” Catherine managed, rising automatically, though her knees protested.
Lady Margaret’s gaze swept the room—Vivienne’s decanter gleaming half full, Catherine still pale and half-seated, the uneasy quiet that hung like smoke. Her lips thinned.
“So.” The single syllable sliced through the air. “This is where my daughter hides while dragging our family name through the mud.”
Catherine’s throat closed around a dozen responses, each one useless. “Mother...”
“Don’tmotherme.” Lady Margaret’s voice cracked like a whip. “Get your things. Sir Reginald has graciously agreed to overlook this… escapade if we return immediately.”
“Escapade?” Catherine rose slowly, the word burning. “Is that what you’re calling my betrothal to a duke?”
“I’m calling it what it is—a foolish girl’s attempt to escape her responsibilities.” The older woman’s eyes were like fire. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think you could simply run away and leave me to clean the wreckage of your decisions?”
Catherine could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Her fingers dug into the back of the chair for balance. Every word hit like a physical blow, dragging her back to girlhood—those endless lectures about propriety, reputation, sacrifice. She’d thought distance might dull their sting. But she’d been wrong.
“Margaret,” Vivienne began carefully, moving between them like someone approaching a snarling dog, “perhaps we should all sit down and discuss this calmly.”
“Don’t you dare,” Margaret snapped, turning on her sister with sudden fury. “This is your doing, Vivienne. Italwaysis. You’ve filled her head with nonsense—books and poetry and talk of independence. You’ve encouraged her wildness, her romantic delusions.”
Vivienne’s composure slipped; her chin lifted in defiance. “I’ve encouraged her to think for herself. Something you never allowed.”
“I taught her duty. Responsibility. Family honour.”
