Page 52 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"It appears so."
Vivienne whistled softly. "That's either very good or very bad."
"Which do you think?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. The Duchess of Ravensfield is notoriously hard to read. She could be planning to welcome you with open arms or threaten to ruin you if you don't stay away from her son."
"How encouraging."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Catherine considered. It would be safer with her aunt present, more proper. But something told her this was a conversation that needed to happen between just the two of them.
"No," she said finally. "I'll go alone."
"Brave girl. What about the Duke? He said he'd call today."
"Send him a note explaining I'm visiting his mother. That should give him something to think about."
Vivienne laughed. "You're developing quite a devious streak, my dear."
"I'm learning that society rewards deviousness more than honesty."
"Sad but true. Now, what will you wear? First impressions are crucial with duchesses."
They settled on a morning dress of dove grey silk, elegant but not ostentatious. Catherine's hair was arranged simply but flatteringly, and she wore her mother's pearl earrings; the only truly fine jewelry she possessed.
"You look like a lady," Martha pronounced. "Proper but not trying too hard."
"I feel like I'm going to my execution," Catherine confessed.
"Courage, my lady. You've faced worse than disapproving duchesses."
Had she? Catherine wasn't sure. A passionate night with a stranger seemed less terrifying than facing the mother of the man she loved.
***
The Ravensfield townhouse was even more imposing than she'd remembered from the ball. The butler who answered the door looked like he could freeze blood with a glance.
"Lady Catherine Mayfer to see Her Grace," she said, proud that her voice didn't shake.
"Her Grace is expecting you. This way, please."
He led her through corridors lined with the stern visages of former Dukes of Ravensfield, their painted eyes following her every step. Catherine could not shake the uneasy sensation that each ancestor glowered in silent judgment, measuring her against some invisible standard and finding her wanting.
The Duchess received her in a sitting room Catherine had not expected; warm, intimate, and appointed with comfortable chairs rather than stiff formalities. A cheerful fire glowed in the hearth, its light softening the black folds of her mourning gown. She wore grief’s uniform, yet upon her it seemed less like sorrow than stately command, regal rather than oppressive.
She was a beautiful woman, no longer young but in full possession of herself, her bearing that of one accustomed to deference. Grey eyes, James’s eyes, regarded Catherine with calm authority, softened only when her lips curved into a smile that was devastating in its familiarity. Catherine had seen that smile before, rare and disarming, upon the Duke himself.
“Lady Catherine,” the Duchess said with measured grace. “I thank you for calling.”
“Your Grace.” Catherine sank into a curtsy, low and respectful. “The honour is mine.”
“Pray, be seated. Will you take tea?”
“Thank you.”
With movements refined by years of practice, the Duchess poured. Even the simple act carried elegance, each gesture economical and deliberate. Catherine accepted the delicate cup, fingers steady despite the storm within, and waited.
