Page 54 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“I do not know,” Catherine confessed, her voice unsteady. “We’ve been… complicated.”
“James excels at complicated,” the Duchess said dryly. “It is simplicity that unsettles him.” She rose, her movements graceful despite the severity of her mourning gown, and walked to the window, gazing out. “His father and I had an arranged marriage. Duty, bloodlines, the neat joining of two great families. We respected each other, we produced an heir, we fulfilled our obligations. But love?” She shook her head once. “That was never part of the equation.”
“I am sorry,” Catherine said softly.
“Do not be. It was what we expected.” The Duchess turned, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But James… I wanted something different for him. Then that business with Lady Harrington occurred...”
“Lady Harrington?” Catherine repeated, startled. The name meant nothing to her, and a prickle of unease danced along her spine.
“You do not know?” The Duchess tilted her head, faintly surprised. “I assumed… Well, it is of little consequence now. She is long since married and living in Italy. The point is, James was young, reckless, and thought himself in love. It ended badly, as such youthful follies often do. And from the ashes of that, he became the man you see now—controlled, distant, careful with his heart.” A faint smile curved her lips. “At least, until you.”
Catherine’s stomach tightened. She wanted to deny it, to protest that she had never sought to entangle him. “Your Grace, I never intended...”
“I know what you did not intend,” the Duchess cut in. Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “What I want to know is what you do intend. Because if you are to break his heart, I would have you do it now, swiftly and cleanly, rather than after he has laid himself bare.”
Catherine swallowed hard.Break his heart?The very notion seemed absurd. He was a duke, powerful, commanding, a man who made her pulse quicken with a glance. She was the one who had been undone—by his voice, his mouth, his maddening presence. Yet here was his mother, warning her as though she were the greater danger.
“I have no intention of breaking his heart,” she said at last, though doubt flickered inside her like a candle guttering in the wind.
“Intentions and outcomes do not always align, Lady Catherine.”
The room fell quiet, the fire snapping in the grate. They looked at one another, two women, one young and uncertain, the other seasoned and formidable, each weighing, each measuring.
“You are very direct, Your Grace,” Catherine managed, forcing herself to meet that penetrating gaze.
“I find it saves time.” The Duchess returned to her chair with regal composure. “So let me be even more direct. I do not care that you have no fortune. I do not care that your cousin inherited your father’s title. I do not even care what transpired between James and you before the Season. What I care about—what Imustknow—is whether you can make my son happy.”
Catherine’s throat tightened. Could she? She wanted him, Heaven help her, she wanted him more than was wise, but desire was not happiness. Attraction was not love. Still, she whispered, “I do not know. I hope so.”
“That is a more honest answer than most would dare to give.” The Duchess inclined her head approvingly. “Then tell me about yourself. Not your bloodlines, not your accomplishments—James can recite those by rote. Tell me who you are.”
So Catherine did. She talked about growing up in Yorkshire, about her father's death, about her mother's determination to see her married well. She talked about her love of reading, her terrible embroidery, her tendency to say what she thought even when silence would be wiser.
The Duchess listened, occasionally asking questions, her expression giving nothing away.
Finally, as the clock chimed four, she rose. "Thank you for coming, Lady Catherine."
"Thank you for inviting me."
"I haven't decided about you yet," the Duchess said bluntly. "But I'm not opposed, which is more than I can say for any of the other young ladies who've pursued my son."
"I haven't pursued him," Catherine pointed out.
"No," the Duchess agreed, a small smile playing at her lips. "Perhaps that's why he's pursuing you."
As Catherine descended into the entrance hall, she nearly started; James was there, as if he had materialised from the shadows. He looked as though he had only just arrived...or perhaps, more dangerously, as though he had been waiting for her all along.
“Catherine.” He spoke her name with a softness that made it feel like both invocation and possession, and her pulse leapt in betrayal of her composure. “My mother did not eviscerate you, then?”
“She considered it,” Catherine replied, keeping her voice level. “But ultimately she chose to reserve judgment.”
James’s mouth curved faintly. “That is practically approval from her.” He took a step nearer, close enough that she caught the faint scent that always seemed to cling to him, and it unsettled her far more than she wished to admit.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have warned you she would want to see you.”
“Yes,” Catherine returned, lifting her chin. “You should have. Along with quite a number of other things you failed to mention.”
His brows drew together. “Such as?”
