Page 66 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Heaven help us all if I'm considered civilizing," Catherine said.
"Why?" Lady Jersey asked, intrigued.
"Because I have distinctly uncivilized thoughts most of the time."
The room erupted in delighted laughter. James's eyes darkened with something that made Catherine's pulse race.
After dinner, the ladies withdrew, leaving the men to their port. Catherine found herself surrounded by the most powerful women in society.
"Well," Lady Jersey said without preamble, "you're clearly in love with him."
"Is it that obvious?"
"My dear, you practically glow when he enters a room. The question is whether you're prepared for what comes with him."
"The dukedom?"
"The scrutiny," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell corrected. "Every move you make will be watched, judged, commented upon. Every mistake magnified."
"Every triumph minimized," Lady Cowper added. "You'll be expected to be perfect—the perfect duchess, the perfect hostess, the perfect mother to the future duke."
"No pressure," Catherine said weakly.
"Immense pressure," the Duchess corrected. "But also immense reward. The position, the influence, the ability to actually change things. As Duchess of Ravensfield, you'd be one of the most powerful women in England."
"I don't want power."
"No? Then what do you want?"
Catherine thought about it. "Him. Just him. If he were a farmer or a merchant or a soldier, I'd still want him."
The ladies exchanged glances.
"That's the right answer," Lady Pemberton said softly. "The only answer that matters."
When the gentlemen rejoined them, there was music. The Duchess had arranged for a pianist, and there was an impromptu dance. James claimed Catherine immediately.
"Surviving?" he murmured as they waltzed.
"Your mother's friends are terrifying."
"They're not."
"They're sharks. Elegant, well-dressed sharks."
"And they adore you."
"How can you tell?"
"Because they're actually talking to you instead of about you. That's the highest compliment they can give."
They moved together in easy, elegant time, the waltz carrying them through a sea of candlelight and mirrored faces. People watched, of course, all of them seemed to be tracking their every step, but Catherine no longer cared. Not with James’s hand firm at her back, not with his grey eyes holding hers like a vow.
“You look stunning,” he said at last, voice pitched so low only she could hear. “That dress should be illegal.”
Her lips curved. “You specifically requested it.”
“I like torturing myself,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the bare skin just above her glove.
