Page 29 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
***
The remaining days flew by. Catherine's gold gown arrived, even more spectacular than she'd remembered. Vivienne drilled her on the names and ranks of everyone who would attend the ball, and dancing masters were consulted to perfect her waltz.
The night before the ball, Catherine couldn't sleep. Her body hummed with nervous energy, though she couldn't say why. The Duke of Ravensfield meant nothing to her—he was just another aristocrat, probably proud and cold as everyone suggested.
She thought of James, as she did every night. Had he reached his father in time? She'd wondered, when she heard about the Duke of Ravensfield's father dying, if James might be connected to the household somehow. Perhaps he was a relative, or a family friend. But no...he'd been traveling north, not to London.
Still, the coincidence nagged at her.
Her hand drifted down her body in the darkness, seeking relief from the constant ache of want. She'd become shamefully accustomed to this nightly self-comfort, though it never satisfiedthe way his touch had. Her fingers could never recreate the feeling of his hands, his mouth, his body moving over hers...
The morning of the ball dawned clear and bright. Martha spent hours preparing her. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style with gold ribbons and pearls, leaving several curls to frame her face. The gown, when she finally put it on, transformed her completely.
"You look like a princess, my lady," Martha breathed.
Catherine studied her reflection. The woman in the mirror was elegant, sophisticated, untouchable. The gold silk seemed to glow, making her skin appear luminous. The neckline revealed just enough to be tantalizing while maintaining propriety.
"Thank you, Martha."
Vivienne's reaction was gratifying. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Every man there will fall at your feet, duke included."
"I don't want the Duke," Catherine said quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
"Of course not. You have Pemberton. Though it never hurts to have options."
***
The carriage ride to the Ravensfield mansion seemed both endless and far too quick. Catherine's stomach churned with inexplicable anxiety.
"Now remember," Vivienne was saying, "the Duchess is formidable but fair. Be polite but not obsequious. The Duke... well, we'll see what he's like. Probably still in shock from his father's death, poor man."
Through the carriage window, Catherine could see the Ravensfield mansion ablaze with lights. It was enormous, with classical columns that seemed to glow in the darkness.
"Ready?" Vivienne asked as their carriage pulled up.
"As I'll ever be," Catherine replied.
They climbed the ornate staircase among a crowd of others. Black crepe was draped tastefully here and there, the only acknowledgment of the recent death. At the top of the stairs, they were announced to the ballroom.
"The Countess of Ashworth and Lady Catherine Mayfer."
The ballroom was magnificent despite the subtle mourning touches—black ribbons among the flower arrangements, the orchestra in somber dress. But the guests glittered as brightly as ever, jewelry catching the light from hundreds of candles.
"There's Pemberton," Vivienne murmured. "He's coming this way. Smile, darling."
Catherine smiled automatically as the Viscount approached. He looked handsome in his black evening clothes, his face lighting up when he saw her.
"Lady Catherine, you look absolutely radiant," he said, bowing over her hand. "I shall be the envy of every man here during our waltz."
"You're very kind, Lord Pemberton."
"Not kind, merely honest. Have you heard? The Duke is about to make his entrance. His first public appearance as Duke."
"How exciting," Catherine said, trying to match the anticipation rippling through the crowd.
"Everyone's quite curious. They say he only arrived in time to see his father for a few minutes before the end. Traveled day and night from wherever he was."
A hush fell over the ballroom when the butler appeared at the top of the interior stairs.
