Page 67 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“You’re a fool,” she whispered back, trying not to shiver at the touch.
“Your fool, though.”
“Are you?” she challenged softly, lifting her chin. “Mine?”
“Completely. Utterly. Eternally.”
The words slid through her like warm wine. She felt the music falter, her body sway closer to his. “James...”
“I know.” His grip tightened fractionally, just enough to make her heart flutter. “Not here, not now. But soon, Catherine. I can’t maintain this distance much longer.”
“Two weeks,” she reminded, her voice steadier than she felt.
“It’s been two weeks,” he said, and for a moment something in his expression cracked—the carefully controlled duke vanishing, leaving the man beneath. His eyes darkened, his thumb swept again over her pulse, and the promise in his voice made her knees weaken.
Around them the orchestra swelled, couples gliding past in perfect decorum. But Catherine could feel the storm coiled beneath his stillness, the heat simmering just below propriety, waiting for the moment they would finally be alone.
"It's been twelve days."
"The longest twelve days of my life."
The dance ended, and they were forced to separate as social convention demanded they dance with others. Catherine found herself partnered with the Duke of Devonshire, who was surprisingly light on his feet for such a large man.
"You're good for him," the Duke said unexpectedly."James. He's been different since you appeared. More alive."
"He was perfectly alive before."
"No, he was existing. Going through the motions. Now he has fire again." He spun her expertly. "Don't let society dim that fire, my dear. It would rather see you both cold and proper than happy."
Before Catherine could reply, the music came to its natural conclusion and the couples parted. In the next instant, she was claimed with practiced courtesy by Lord Pemberton.
“Lady Catherine,” he said, his tone warm though touched with gravity. “You look quite radiant this evening.”
“Lord Pemberton,” she returned with a smile. “I am glad you are here tonight.”
“My mother was most insistent,” he admitted with a wry tilt of his mouth. “She declared it important that we show our support.”
“Support?” Catherine echoed, her brow lifting.
“For you. For your choice.” His hand tightened slightly at her waist as they turned through the steps. After a pause, he added, more quietly, “He loves you, you know. The Duke. It is plain to any who care to see.”
“Marcus...” she began, moved and troubled at once.
But he only shook his head faintly. “I wished you to know that I understand. And that I wish you happiness, truly.”
Her throat tightened. “You are a good man, Marcus.”
“I am,” he said with a self-deprecating smile that made her chest ache. “A tolerably good man, at any rate. Some other lady will discover herself fortunate to have me.”
“She will indeed.” Catherine said.
The evening dwindled into gentle farewells and the rustle of departing gowns, until only Catherine remained in the great hall, her cloak about her shoulders, waiting for her carriage to be called.
“I shall see Lady Catherine home,” James said, rising with easy authority.
“Of course you shall,” the Duchess replied dryly. “Do try to deliver her to her door without becoming mysteriously detained along the way.”
“Mother!” James exclaimed, scandalised.
