Page 59 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"You're the one who insisted on proper courtship."
"You're the one who demanded it," he countered. "And you were right. After the scandal with Miss Worthing, anything less than perfect propriety would fuel the gossips. But Catherine..."
"Yes?"
"I dream about you." The words were barely above a whisper, but they sent heat flooding through her. "Every night. I dream about that night, about the sounds you made, the way you felt, the taste of..."
"James!" She glanced around frantically, but no one was close enough to hear.
"Three months I stayed away," he continued, his voice rough. "Three months of thinking distance would cure this need. Instead, it's worse. Every proper dance, every chaperoned conversation, every moment I can't touch you the way I want to...it's torture of the sweetest kind."
Catherine's breath caught. Her body was responding to his words, to his proximity, to the memories he evoked. She could feel heat pooling low in her abdomen, her skin sensitizing beneath her riding habit.
"You can't say things like that," she managed.
"Why not? It's true."
"Because we're in public. Because people are watching. Because if you keep talking like that, I might do something spectacularly inappropriate."
His eyes darkened. "Such as?"
"Such as drag you behind those trees and remind myself what your mouth tastes like."
James actually stumbled, his usual grace deserting him. "Catherine..."
"You're not the only one who dreams," she said quietly. "You're not the only one being tortured by propriety."
They walked in charged silence for a moment, both trying to regain composure. Around them, Hyde Park continued its morning ritual; riders showing off their mounts, ladies displaying their newest fashions, gossips gathering material for the afternoon's calls.
"There's a dinner gathering tonight," James said finally. "My mother's. She specifically requested your presence."
Catherine's stomach dropped. "Another interrogation?"
"A show of support, actually. She's invited only the most influential members of society. It's her way of publicly endorsing you."
"How thrilling. Nothing says acceptance like being displayed for the ton's approval."
"I know it's not ideal..."
"James," Catherine interrupted, stopping to face him. "I need you to understand something. I don't care about your mother's approval or society's acceptance. I care about you. About us. About whether we can build something real despite all these ridiculous rules and expectations."
He stared at her for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable in his expression. "You mean that."
"Of course I mean it."
"Even knowing what being my duchess would entail?"
"I'm beginning to understand it, yes. The scrutiny, the responsibilities, the constant performance. It's daunting."
"But?"
"But you're worth it," she said simply. "At least, I think you are. These two weeks of proper courtship will tell me for certain."
"And what have they told you so far?"
Catherine considered. "That you're punctual to a fault. That you have opinions about everything from trade policy to flower arrangements. That you're surprisingly knowledgeable about novels for someone who claims to despise them."
"You asked my opinion on The Mysteries of Udolpho!"
