Page 41 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Oh? Do tell."
"There's nothing to tell."
"My dear girl, you're a terrible liar. It's one of your most endearing qualities." Lady Pemberton sipped her own lemonade thoughtfully. "Though I notice my son isn't here yet. He was quite insistent about escorting you today."
Catherine's stomach performed an unpleasant twist. "Lord Pemberton had business at his club."
"Did he? How interesting, considering his club is closed for renovations."
"Perhaps he meant a different club."
"Perhaps he's avoiding you because he's working up the courage for a grand gesture," Lady Pemberton suggested gently."He mentioned something about a special gift from Rundell and Bridge."
Rundell and Bridge. The jewelers. Where one purchased things like betrothal rings. Catherine felt the lemonade turn to acid in her stomach.
"Speak of the man," Lady Pemberton murmured. "Though he looks rather... intense."
Lord Pemberton was indeed approaching, and his usual cheerful countenance had been replaced by something grimmer. His jaw was set, his stride purposeful, and his gaze fixed on Catherine with an intensity that made her want to hide behind the nearest topiary.
"Lady Catherine," he said, bowing stiffly. "Might I have a word? Privately?"
"Of course," Catherine said, her heart sinking. She recognized that tone—it was the "we need to discuss something serious" tone that never preceded anything pleasant.
Lady Pemberton made a tactical withdrawal, though not before giving Catherine a meaningful look that seemed to convey both sympathy and warning.
Pemberton led her to a relatively secluded corner of the garden, near a trellis heavy with climbing roses. The scent should have been pleasant, but Catherine found it cloying, almost suffocating.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, though she suspected she knew exactly what was wrong. The way he was looking at her—hurt, confused, angry—told her everything.
"I need to ask you something," he said, his usual warmth replaced by careful formality. "And I need you to be completely honest with me."
"Of course."
"Is there... has there been... something between the Duke of Ravensfield and you?"
The question hung between them like a blade. Catherine's mind raced, calculating responses, weighing truth against lies, honor against self-preservation.
"Why do you ask?" she said finally, a coward's deflection.
"Don't." His voice was sharp, sharper than she'd ever heard it. "Don't insult my intelligence, Catherine. I've watched you these past weeks. The way you tense when he enters a room. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching. The way you both carefully maintain distance, like magnets with opposing poles."
Catherine said nothing. What could she say? That yes, she'd given her virginity to a stranger in a coaching inn who'd turned out to be a duke? That every night she lay awake remembering his touch? That being in the same room with him was both torture and the only time she felt truly alive?
"There are rumours," Pemberton continued, his voice lower now, more pained. "Ugly rumours that I've been defending you against. But I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps..."
"If perhaps what?" Catherine's temper flared. "If perhaps I'm the sort of woman who would carry on inappropriately while accepting your courtship?"
"Are you?"
The blunt question hit like a slap. Was she?
"How dare you..."
"I saw you," he interrupted. "At the Fairfax ball last week. You disappeared for nearly an hour. So did he. And when you returned, your hair was different. Redone. Why would you need to redo your hair in the middle of a ball?"
Catherine's blood turned to ice. She remembered that ball—she'd escaped to the library for some peace, only to find James already there. They'd argued, voices low and vicious, about absolutely nothing and everything all at once. She'd left before she did something foolish like cry or kiss him, but her hair had indeed come partly undone from the violence of her emotions. She'd fixed it hastily in a retiring room, never thinking anyone would notice.
"You're spying on me now?" she asked, deflecting again.
