Page 63 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Tonight," he said quietly. "The dinner party."
"I'll be there."
"Wear the gold gown."
"You mentioned that."
"It bears repeating." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles. But his eyes held promises of other kisses, other touches, other repetitions. "Until tonight."
Catherine watched him ride away, her body still humming from their stolen moment. Two weeks of courtship, he'd promised. Two weeks to decide their future.
At this rate, she wasn't sure she'd survive one.
hater 8C
Chapter 12
That evening, Catherine stood before her mirror as Martha arranged the final touches to her hair. The gold gown gleamed in the candlelight, its décolletage perhaps a bit more daring than strictly proper for a dinner gathering, but still within the bounds of acceptability.
"You look beautiful, my lady," Martha said, securing a pearl comb. "The Duke won't know what hit him."
"The Duke specifically requested this gown," Catherine admitted.
"Did he now?" Martha's eyes sparkled. "And why might that be?"
"I couldn't say."
"Couldn't you? Perhaps because you wore it the night he first saw you in London? The night everyone says he looked like he'd seen a ghost?"
Catherine met her maid's eyes in the mirror. Martha had been with her through everything—the trip from Yorkshire, that night at the inn, the months of careful avoidance. If anyone deserved the truth...
"Can you keep a secret, Martha?"
"Always, my lady."
"The Duke and I... we'd met before. Before London."
Martha's eyes widened. "At the inn? He was the gentleman from the storm?"
Catherine nodded, and Martha sat down heavily on the nearest chair.
“Oh, my lady. Oh my stars. The Duke? That was the Duke? I hardly remembered the man from that night as I had the shock of Robert’s injury and having to help him all night along with Mrs Hartwell. And the couple of times I saw the Duke I could swear he reminded me of someone but could not remember who.”
"He was traveling to his father's deathbed. He didn't tell me who he was."
"And you... and he... that night..."
"Yes."
Martha was quiet for a long moment, processing this information. Then: "Well, that explains everything, doesn't it? The way you two circle each other like magnets. The way he looks ready to commit murder whenever another man speaks to you."
"Martha!"
"It's true, my lady. At the Sefton musicale, when Lord Pemberton was sitting so close? I thought the Duke might actually challenge him right there."
"He's protective."
"He's possessive," Martha corrected. "There's a difference. And you like it."
