Page 79 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“I don’t want your help,” Margaret said, her voice shaking not with weakness but with rage held barely in check. “I don’t want anyone’s help. I want my daughter to do her duty and marry the man who has agreed to clear those debts.”
The words fell like stones. Catherine felt each one strike...cold, heavy, final.
“You sold me,” she said softly. The stillness of her tone made both women freeze. “You literally sold me to Sir Reginald.”
“Isecured your future,” Margaret snapped, as if the distinction mattered.
“You secured yourcomfort.” Catherine rose, and for the first time she met her mother’s glare without flinching. “You couldn’t bear the thought of accepting help from Vivienne, so you sold your daughter instead.”
“Everything I’ve done has been for you!”
“No.” Catherine’s voice was low but unwavering. “Everything you’ve done has been for your pride. For your image. For that precious illusion of control you’ve clung to since Father died. You can’t admit that your perfect, dutiful marriage was a disaster.”
The slap came before she even saw it coming. A sharp, ringing crack that seemed to echo off the walls.
“Margaret!” Vivienne cried, stepping forward, but Catherine lifted a trembling hand, halting her.
“It’s fine,” she said, though her cheek burned and her throat ached. She touched the spot gently, almost contemplatively. “It’s actually perfect. Now we’re being honest.”
“You ungrateful child,” Margaret hissed. “After everything I’ve sacrificed.”
Catherine laughed then, brittle and raw. “What did you sacrifice, Mother? Really? You married for position, got the title you wanted, and when it all fell apart, you decidedIshould pay the price.”
Margaret’s face twisted, her voice turning venomous. “The Duke of Ravensfield isusingyou. Men like that don’t marry beneath them without reason. What have you done, Catherine? What have yougivenhim?”
The air left the room. Vivienne’s expression hardened into something lethal.
“Margaret,” she said, her tone low and dangerous. “Be very careful what you say next.”
“Oh, please,” Margaret sneered. “She runs away in the middle of the night, disappears for days, and suddenly reappears betrothed to a duke? Either she’s compromised herself or...”
“Or what?”
The voice came from the doorway. Deep. Steady. Carrying the unmistakable weight of command.
All three women turned.
The Duke of Ravensfield stood there, framed by the doorway’s pale light, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fury and something far more dangerous. His presence seemed to fill the room, pressing against the walls until Catherine could scarcely breathe.
Her heart lurched painfully.
Of all the moments for him to appear, fate had chosen the one where her mother’s words still hung in the air like a stain that could never be washed away.
James stood in the doorway, immaculate in his dove-grey morning coat, every inch the duke—composed, commanding, and cold as a blade fresh from the forge. Light from the corridor caught on the gold seal of his signet ring as he stepped forward, the embodiment of control. Behind him stood the Duchess of Ravensfield, tall and imperious, her expression coolly unreadable but her eyes sharp with disapproval.
Catherine’s breath caught. The room seemed to shrink until there was nothing left but the sound of her heart hammering in her chest.
“Your Grace,” Margaret said, recovering with the polished instinct of a woman who’d spent her life playing to audiences she could not afford to offend. “I was just...”
“You were just insulting my betrothed,” James said evenly, stepping fully into the room. The calm in his voice was more dangerous than fury; it carried the weight of power restrained. “Questioning her virtue. Suggesting impropriety. Would you care to continue?”
Margaret’s spine straightened, chin lifting in brittle dignity. “I’m concerned for my daughter’s reputation.”
“No,” James said, his tone turning glacial. “You’re concerned for money.”
He crossed the room with measured steps, the faint scent of starch and bergamot preceding him, and took his place beside Catherine. His fingers brushed hers—not enough for impropriety, but enough to anchor her, to let her know she wasn’t alone.
“I know about the debts, Lady Westmont,” he continued, his gaze never wavering. “Two thousand pounds owed to various creditors. Sir Reginald holds the majority of the notes.”
