Page 87 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“Best not the diagrams, my lady,” Martha advised, drawing back to survey her work. “Though I confess the faces would repay the trouble.”
“Only imagine Lady Jersey’s expression were I to confess myself already...thoroughly instructed.”
“I can imagine it all too well,” Martha said, trying not to smile. “But let us keep such enlightenment strictly between ourselves.”
“You are a joyless person,” Catherine murmured, fastening a diamond at her throat so the flame-light might catch it. “Where is my aunt?”
“In the drawing-room, fortifying herself with a thimble of brandy. She maintains that to see you through this evening’s social campaign requires courage.”
“It is merely a ball,” Catherine said.
“It is your last as a maiden, my lady. The world will look on with all the attention of hawks.”
***
The world did indeed look. When Catherine entered the Pembertons’ mansion, the ballroom proved a sea of silk and scrutiny; glances slid and settled, whispers stirred like the rustle of skirts, and curiosity bloomed on every fan.
“The conquering bride!” cried Lord Pemberton at the threshold. He appeared in good charity with himself, Catherine was glad to observe; the bitterness of their former conversation had softened into something nearly playful.
“Marcus,” she returned, giving him her hand with warmth, “you look very well.”
“I look,” he said, “like a man who has discovered that heartbreak sometimes helps. I have composed three sonnets in as many days. My mother is appalled.”
“On what subject?”
“Lost love, of course. Though I have, to my shame, rhymed ‘duchess’ with ‘such fuss,’ which argues revision.”
Catherine laughed. “It argues annihilation.”
“We cannot all marry dukes and inspire epics,” he said lightly—though a flicker of the old pain crossed his features.
“Marcus...”
“Pray do not. I am sincerely happy for you, wounded vanity notwithstanding.” He offered his arm with mock ceremony. “Shall we advance upon the wolves?”
The wolves, well dressed in satin and armed with fans, and opinions, were ready. Catherine had scarce taken ten steps within the room before she found herself encircled, society’s politest curiosity pressing in on every side.
"Three days!" Lady Jersey exclaimed. "You must be beside yourself with anticipation."
"Or dread," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell added dryly. "Marriage is a permanent condition, after all."
"Like death," someone muttered, causing a ripple of nervous laughter.
"Where is the fortunate groom?" Lady Cowper asked, scanning the crowd.
"On his way, I believe," Catherine replied, though in truth she had no idea. They'd agreed to arrive separately to avoid giving the gossips more fuel.
"Probably at his bachelor festivities," Lord Ashford suggested with a knowing wink. "Last night of freedom and all that."
Catherine wanted to point out that James hadn't been free for months, not since that night at the inn when they'd effectively bound themselves to each other. But she smiled and nodded and played the blushing bride.
She was rescued by the arrival of Vivienne, who had come in a separate carriage, resplendent in purple silk that should have been garish but somehow wasn't.
"Ladies, gentlemen, you're crowding my niece."
"Lady Ashworth," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell protested, "we're simply offering our congratulations."
"You're simply fishing for gossip. There's a difference." Vivienne took Catherine's arm. "Come, my dear. I see refreshments calling."
