Page 48 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"I think he might," she admitted.
"And you? Do you have sufficient courage to let him try?"
Before Catherine could form a reply, a disturbance erupted from the main garden. Raised voices split the evening calm, followed by the crash of furniture and the unmistakable shriek of a lady in distress.
“Oh dear,” Lady Pemberton exclaimed, rising in alarm. “That cannot bode well.”
They hurried back only to be met with chaos. Miss Worthing was in hysterics, her mother wringing her hands and fluttering ineffectually at her side. The punch bowl lay overturned, its crimson contents spreading like blood across the terrace and staining the gowns of several scandalized ladies. And at the very center of the uproar stood James and Lord Pemberton, both looking decidedly battered.
James’s lip was bloodied, while Pemberton’s eye was already swelling shut to a livid purple. The two men strained against the hands of gentlemen restraining them, each looking moments away from breaking free and resuming the brawl.
“What in heaven’s name is the meaning of this?” Lady Pemberton demanded, her voice sharp with outrage.
“His Grace,” Pemberton spat, struggling against his captors, “took offense at a perfectly reasonable observation.”
“You called her a...” James began, then cut himself off, visibly choking on the word. His fury was palpable.
“I called her confused,” Pemberton said smoothly, though the sneer curling his mouth betrayed him. “A young woman too inexperienced to know her own mind. A girl dazzled by a title and fortune she could never hope to deserve.”
A horrified murmur rippled through the onlookers. Catherine felt the heat rush to her cheeks, equal parts humiliation and fury.
“You said more than that,” James snarled, lunging forward before being dragged back again.
Pemberton’s laugh was low and ugly. “Did I? Well then, perhaps I remarked that His Grace has quite the history of seducing young ladies and casting them off when his interest wanes. Historical fact, is it not?”
Gasps rang through the crowd at the cruelty of the insinuation. Several matrons exchanged scandalized looks, while others leaned in eagerly, scenting gossip. Pemberton, seeing their reaction, lifted his chin with smug satisfaction, as though wounding Catherine’s reputation were no more than a clever move in a game he intended to win. The crowd gasped. This was beyond gossip now, this was direct insult, the kind that led to dawn appointments and pistols at twenty paces.
"Take it back," James said quietly, dangerously.
“Why? Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? Or did I perhaps strike rather too near the truth?” Pemberton sneered.
“Enough!” Catherine’s voice rang out, sharper than she intended, but she did not falter. She stepped firmly betweenthem, her spine straight, every line of her figure vibrating with righteous indignation. “This disgraceful spectacle will end now.”
“Catherine...” Pemberton began.
“Lord Pemberton,” she interrupted, her tone cool and formal, her chin lifted. “I regret deeply if my actions have caused you pain. You are a gentleman, and you deserve a lady’s honesty. That said, your disappointment does not entitle you to insult me or to presume the state of my affections.”
For the first time that evening, Lord Pemberton’s bluster faltered. Colour rose in his bruised face, and he bowed stiffly. “You are correct. I beg your pardon.”
Catherine turned then, her eyes flashing toward James. “And you, Your Grace. Brawling in a garden full of ladies and clergymen? Is this your notion of protecting my reputation?”
“He slandered you.” James’s voice was still taut with fury.
“And you insult me more by supposing I cannot withstand such words without your fists to defend me,” she returned, her voice cutting through the murmuring throng. “I am neither helpless nor voiceless. And I will not be made a spectacle of.”
Around them, the crowd shifted uneasily, whispers rising and falling, eyes wide with avid curiosity. Catherine drew herself up to her full height, her gaze sweeping the onlookers with contempt. “I shall take my leave. And I suggest you all find better amusement than gaping like fish at a scene unworthy of civil society.”
With that, she turned and walked away, skirts sweeping gracefully over the gravel, her head held high though her heart was pounding. This time, not a soul dared to impede her.
She found her aunt waiting in the carriage, her expression already alight with curiosity, having no doubt gleaned the tale from half a dozen excited tongues. She had not been present as she had not been feeling well and she had gone to rest in Lady Sefton’s private room but the gossip tongues quickly informed her.
“My dearest girl,” Lady Vivienne said as the carriage lurched into motion, “what sort of tempest have you contrived this evening?”
“I do not know,” Catherine whispered, tears at last slipping free. “Truly, I do not know.”
“The Duke of Ravensfield has publicly declared his intention to court you?”
“Yes.”
