Page 37 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
Across the terrace, there was the sharp sound of crystal breaking. James had apparently gripped his punch glass hard enough to shatter it.
"Your Grace!" Miss Worthing exclaimed. "You're bleeding!"
Indeed, James's hand was cut, blood seeping through his white glove. He looked at it with the detachment of someone who'd noticed an interesting weather pattern.
"How clumsy of me," he said calmly.
Catherine found herself moving before she could think. "We should get that bandaged."
"It's nothing," James said, but Catherine was already pulling her handkerchief from her reticule—not the one from that night, which she kept hidden, but a proper one with her initials embroidered in the corner.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, taking his hand without thinking. "You're dripping blood on Mrs. Drummond-Burrell's terrace. She'll have apoplexy."
She carefully wrapped the handkerchief around his palm, trying not to think about how familiar his hand felt in hers, how she knew exactly the pattern of calluses from his years of sword work, how those hands had mapped every inch of her body with devastating thoroughness.
"There," she said, tying off the makeshift bandage. "You should have a proper physician look at it."
"Ever the caregiver," he said softly, his eyes on her face rather than his hand. "Even for those who don't deserve it."
"Everyone deserves basic medical attention," she said crisply, stepping back. "Even stubborn dukes who break glasses rather than deal with their emotions like adults."
His eyes flashed. "My emotions are perfectly controlled."
"Yes, I can see that. Very controlled. Practically glacial."
"Would you prefer I be less controlled?" The question was loaded with dangerous possibility.
"I would prefer," Catherine said, very aware that both Pemberton and Miss Worthing were watching with rapt attention, "that you exercise better judgment around glassware."
"I'll make a note of it. Avoid crystal when Lady Catherine is being proposed to. Good safety tip."
The words were light, but there was something raw underneath them and Catherine felt her heart twist.
"No one proposed," she said quietly.
"Not yet," Pemberton interjected cheerfully, apparently missing all the undercurrents. "But hopefully soon, eh, Lady Catherine?"
James's expression went completely blank. "Congratulations are in order then."
"They're really not," Catherine said quickly.
"How modest you are, Lady Catherine," Miss Worthing said sweetly. "Though I suppose when one has secured a viscount, one can afford to be modest. Those of us still seeking husbands must be more... aggressive in our pursuits."
She looked meaningfully at James as she said it.
"I haven't secured anyone," Catherine protested.
"Haven't you?" James asked quietly. "It seems to me you have Lord Pemberton quite thoroughly secured. Wrapped around your little finger, one might say."
The accusation in his tone made Catherine's temper flare. "How dare you..."
"We should return inside," Miss Worthing interrupted brightly. "Signora Catalani will be devastated if we miss her finale."
"Heaven forbid," James muttered.
They trooped back inside, Catherine's emotions in complete turmoil. The second half of the performance was torture—not because of Signora Catalani's enthusiastic assault on the upper registers, but because she was once again trapped between James and Pemberton, and very aware of both of them.
James sat rigidly, his bandaged hand resting on his thigh. Occasionally, she caught him flexing his fingers, and she wondered if the cut hurt. She wondered why he'd gripped the glass so hard. She wondered if the sight of Pemberton kissing her hand had affected him as much as it seemed.
