Page 88 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
They escaped to the punch table, though Catherine knew the reprieve was temporary.
"James is here," Vivienne murmured. "Just arrived. Looking like thunder."
Catherine turned to see him cutting through the crowd, and her breath caught as it always did. Three months since that night, weeks of formal courtship, and still the sight of him made her pulse race.
He was in evening black, severe and perfect, his face set in ducal lines. But his eyes when they found hers were hot with promise.
"Lady Catherine." He bowed formally. "Lady Ashworth."
"Your Grace." Catherine curtsied, playing the game. "How good of you to come."
"I wouldn't miss it. Your last public appearance as a maiden, after all."
There was something in the way he said 'maiden' that made heat pool in her body. Because they both knew she hadn't been a maiden for months.
"Dance with me," he said, not quite a question.
"The dancing hasn't started."
"Then walk with me. Talk with me. Stand perfectly still and let me look at you. I don't care, as long as you're with me."
"Careful, Your Grace. That almost sounded romantic."
"I'm three days from making you my wife. I'm allowed some romance."
Before Catherine could respond, the orchestra began and James claimed her immediately.
"People will talk," she murmured as they took their positions.
"People always talk. At least now they're talking about our wedding instead of speculating about whether I'll actually go through with it."
"Are people speculating about that?"
"According to the betting books at White's, there's still a wager on whether I will be afraid to proceed."
"And will you?"
"The only cold thing about me right now is my patience." His hand tightened on her waist, still proper but somehow possessive. "Three more days, Catherine."
"Two days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-seven minutes."
"You're counting."
"Desperately."
They danced in charged silence for a moment, aware of being watched but past caring. Catherine could feel the tension in James's body, the careful control he was maintaining.
"You look beautiful," he said quietly. "That dress is..."
"Adequate?"
"Criminal. It should be illegal to look that good when I can't do anything about it."
"You could do something about it."
"Not without causing the scandal of the century." His eyes darkened. "Though I'm tempted. Oh, Catherine, I'm so tempted."
The music ended, forcing them to separate. Catherine had danced with such a succession of partners that her smile was beginning to ache. Lord Ashford, ever contrite—had apologized once again for “that unfortunate misunderstanding with Miss Worthing,” as though repeating the words could somehow erase the scandal. Sir Rothingham had discoursed at such length on crop rotation and soil acidity that Catherine could feel her brain turning to dust. And poor Mr. Fitzgerald, barely out of Eton, had managed to stand on her toes no less than four times, each accompanied by a mortified apology that only made her pity him more.
