He turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. The top envelope bore a name written in an unfamiliar hand.
Not Aaron's name.
His.
Gideon's throat went dry. He picked up the letter, then let it fall back to the polished wood.
He knew what it would say. What it would demand. What it would threaten.
God above, could the universe grant me a single bloody day of reprieve!
Something would have to be done. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight, he had to smile and charm and convince a Quaker investor that he was a man worth trusting with a fortune. Find a way of presenting the right facade. He raked a hand through his hair, staring at the dress mirror. For a second, it was his brother’s reflection he saw back, sneering.
“I would never have allowed that woman to get this close. For the sake of the Dukedom, how could you? No wonder our father preferred me.”
Gideon closed his eyes.
You're dead, brother. I won. I'm the Duke now.
He turned from the mirror and strode from the room, jaw set.
His distraction lasted up until he entered the sitting room.
There, he halted on his heels.
Catherine stood in the center of the room, transformed. Gone was the simple day dress—replaced by an evening gown ofmidnight blue that caught the crepuscular dusk light like water. A single diamond hung from a delicate chain woven through her upswept hair. A gold locket rested in the hollow of her throat, glinting like the warm gold flecks in her eyes.
Christ, how long was I staring in the mirror?
He breezed past her to the sideboard, pouring himself a brandy and trying not to stare.
“Your modiste did an excellent job,” she chimed from over his shoulder.
He turned, nonchalant as ever.
Her presence broke through the storm in his mind. The glass lowered, forgotten in his hand, and his resolution of not staring ultimately abandoned. He was staring, alright…utterly dumbfounded.
Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, dark and lustrous where it was swept up to bare her elegant neck. The gown’s neckline displayed the swell of her breasts in a way that made his mouth go dry—enough to make heat crawl up his spine, while still teetering on perfectly proper.
He drank her in instead of the spirit.
By the devil, she was beautiful.
“Do you approve?” she asked in uncertainty.
“Yes!” The word came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Very much.”
Catherine's cheeks flushed. A smile started to form, then died. She looked down, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.
“I am ready to do my duty,” she said softly.
There was a distance in her voice. He had not been aware of it before. Had not been aware of anything much. Now, he heard it. Her words were encased in glaciers. They dripped frost and seemed to reach him from a great height.
“…Yourduty?”
“To be the perfect wife. To impress our hosts and further your ambitions.” Her eyes lifted to his, cool and distant. “That is why you married me, is it not?”
“No.” The word came out too quickly, too defensive.
