Page 71 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Well, yes. Here you are, a beautiful woman, recently widowed, with the world at your feet, and you're pining over a man who clearly forgot you the moment you left for Italy. It's rather pathetic, really."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Lady Harrington's face went white, then red.
"How dare you?"
"How dare I what? Point out the obvious? You've written a memoir about a brief affair from nearly a decade ago. That suggests it was the highlight of your life. How depressing for you."
"You little..."
"I'd be very careful," James interrupted, his voice lethal. "Very, very careful about what you say next."
Lady Harrington looked between them, realizing she'd miscalculated. The crowd wasn't titillated by her revelations, but instead they were embarrassed for her.
"This isn't over," she hissed.
"Yes," Catherine said calmly, "it is. You're a footnote in James's past. I'm his future. And everyone here can see which one of us he's choosing."
She turned to James, ignoring the crowd, ignoring everything but him. "Dance with me."
"The music hasn't..."
"Then let's give them something worth watching."
She took his hand and led him to the center of the floor. For a moment, they stood there alone, the subject of every eye in the room. Then, miraculously, the orchestra began to play. A waltz, slow and romantic.
James pulled her into his arms, closer than strictly proper, and they began to dance.
"That was magnificent," he murmured.
"That was necessary."
"You defended me."
"You defended me first. It seemed only fair."
They moved together in silence, the strains of the waltz threading through the candlelit air. Other couples had taken to the floor, but for Catherine, the glittering ballroom faded until there was only him—his hand warm at her waist and his gaze fixed wholly upon her. Lady Harrington had vanished into the crowd, as had Miss Worthing, but Catherine hardly noticed.
“Catherine,” James said suddenly, his voice rough with something urgent.
Her heart leapt. “Yes?”
“Marry me.”
She faltered, nearly stumbling, but he tightened his hold, steadying her as if she weighed nothing at all. “What?”
“Marry me. Tonight, tomorrow, as soon as I can secure a special license. I cannot wait.”
Her eyes widened. “James, you cannot propose in the middle of a ball!”
“Why not?” His jaw was set, his voice fierce. “We have done everything else unconventionally. Why should this be any different?”
“Because...” She broke off, her tongue failing her. Because propriety demanded otherwise? Because the entire ton was watching? None of it seemed reason enough.
“Two weeks,” he pressed, his voice low, desperate. “You asked for two weeks of proper courtship. It has been two weeks. You have seen all that I can offer—the title, the wealth, the influence. You have also seen the worst—the scrutiny, the whispers, the specter of women like Harrington. And through all of it, there has been one constant, Catherine.”
Her breath caught as his grey eyes burned into hers.
“That I love you,” he said simply. “Desperately, completely, eternally. I know this is not the proposal you deserve. You should have roses, music, champagne, and me on one knee before you. But I cannot wait another hour, let alone another day. I cannot pretend that this is some careful, measured arrangement, when we both know it is not. Catherine, it is you. Only you. Always you.”
