“I thank you, Lady Wethersby.” He gave an almost imperceptible bow, his voice curt and emotionless. “If I may, I would like to speak with Miss Forster. Alone.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Elena replied in her most mannered voice and then, enacting a total shift in demeanor, hissed in the direction of her son, “Ariel, come with me at once.”
Lady Wethersby moved to where Ariel sat on the divan and nearly lifted him into the air. Ariel flailed as he tried to fight off his mother.
“Let us—give Catherine—a moment with the duke.” She pushed her son towards the door.
“Oy! Mother!”
Ariel protested with every nudge and Catherine could not help smiling a little, despite her own distress. She could have sworn she saw the corner of John Breminster’s mouth kick up for a moment. But then, just as quickly, his expression returned to its resting state of impassivity, causing her to wonder if she had only imagined his amusement.
And then Lady Wethersby was gone.
Catherine almost called her back.
She didn’t want to be alone withhim.
Forcing herself to keep her composure, Catherine looked up at the Duke of Edington. His eyes met hers and for a moment neither of them broke contact. In that instant, that night in the gardens felt very close. She could almost feel his lips on hers again, his hands wrenching down her bodice, his body pressed over hers.
He took a step backwards and looked away. The sensation of intimacy vanished.
In fact, the Duke of Edington looked a bit ill.
Of course, she had forgotten that he must find her disgusting. That he must only feel repulsion when he looked at her.
Catherine sat down on the divan. Mirroring her, he sat on the armchair opposite, the room lying between them like a leaden weight.
Catherine surveyed him, keenly aware he was doing the same to her. She shifted, not liking how her skin hummed at his nearness and yet unable to stop taking him in. He looked a little flushed but appeared otherwise composed. She still could not believe that he was here. She hated herself for admiring the way his finely formed neck rose from his cravat, for looking at his hands and wondering how it would feel if… No, she told herself, sheneededto remember that he was her enemy.
They examined each other in silence for what felt like an eternity. She refused to speak first.
“You must wonder why I am here,” he said finally, his voice low and grave.
“I do wonder why you are here, Your Grace.”
“Surely, you must know it brings me no pleasure to disturb you.”
“As you must be sure it can give me no pleasure to receive you.”
If possible, his expression went even stonier.
“I do not trouble you without reason. I have come here because I think we both have something to gain.”
“I cannot imagine how that could be, Your Grace. My family has never gained from any association with yours.”
At her words, John Breminster drew back ever so slightly in his chair.
Catherine smiled at his recoil. He deserved it. He had everything. He had his dukedom. He was secure and safe forever. He could do whatever he liked. He probably would marry soon. He was most likely betrothed at this very moment, she thought wildly, unable to control the flow of her thoughts or her pulse, which pounded in her ears.
“You can hardly be suggesting that your family’s disgrace is the fault of mine. You must know that your father and your aunt brought their dishonor upon themselves.”
“And the dishonor ofyourfather was similarly all his own.”
“That’s how you think of it?” Anger—no, rage, she could recognize it—filled his voice, making it go softer, not louder, and yet its edge seemed to only cut into her further. “Well, I have a distinctly different understanding. The story of a wanton seductress—a succubus—ruining a family.”
Catherine rose instinctively. Shock rattled her vision and her heart hammered in her chest. Not knowing what she did, she advanced towards him. He mirrored her action and suddenly she was inches from him. He looked down at her, his face fixed in what could only be described as a snarl. She could see the fine-grain stubble on his cheeks.
John Breminster was so close she was inhaling his scent. He smelled to her like leather and clean linen, fine gentleman’s soap, and something else too—heady and unique to him, like salt and loam. She thrummed with anger but nevertheless she was struck once again by those green eyes over the handsome cut of his jaw. The color once more reminded her of the hills at dusk, in the countryside, where they had both grown up. Why did he have to remind her of home while he insulted her? His presence here was intolerable.
