“I respect him,” she said simply. “And I feel respected in his presence.”
Rosalind’s lips curved into a smirk. “That is not quite the same thing.”
Catherine shook her head. “No. But it is better than fondness that falters at the first adversity.”
Rosalind’s smile faded into thought. “And is that all it is, then? Respect?”
Catherine hesitated, then spoke more softly.
“Perhaps it began so. But I felt something more as I examined the index system he devised for his Roman coin collection. I observed that his categorisation did not account for overlapping regional design. He paused, then invited me to sit and explain my meaning. We spoke for near an hour.”
A quiet laugh escaped Rosalind.
“So—admiration, after all,” she said, hinting at her first assessment of the pairing.
Catherine rolled her eyes.
“He has an ingenious way of organising that which is important to him,” she said. “And he speaks with an uncommon passion of his books and antiquities.”
Rosalind laughed.
“You fall in love like a scholar,” she said. “Through shared logic and catalogues.”
Catherine tilted her head.
“I would not go so far as to call it love. Yet if affection must come, I would rather it be born in the mind than in passing fancy.”
Rosalind looked toward the clock on the mantel.
“We should dress,” she said. “The housekeeper will come looking for us if we delay.”
Catherine stepped behind the screen and allowed Rosalind to pass her the gown. The silk felt cool as she stepped into it, the fabric sliding over her shoulders and down her arms. She held still while Rosalind fastened the buttons and adjusted the bodice. The mirror revealed a woman neither stately nor timid. A woman dressed simply and neatly for a marriage not born of romance, but of reason.
When Rosalind finished, she stood back and tilted her head.
“You look a countess already,” she said, blinking back a sudden mist in her eyes.
Catherine rolled her eyes again, though her heart stuttered at the mention of her pending title.
“I feel like Catherine,” she said.
Rosaline reached out and smoothed an invisible wrinkle on the bodice of the dress.
“Then perhaps the two may coexist,” she said, lifting the pearl comb and placing it carefully to secure the final curl.
A knock sounded at the door. A housemaid slipped in to announce that the carriage waited to take them to the chapel.
Catherine turned once more to the mirror. Her eyes held steady, her face neither shadowed by dread nor softened by regret. Whatever the marriage might prove to be, she had chosen it—and she meant to make it matter.
As they moved to quit the room, the door opened again. Thomas stepped inside, a small velvet box in his hand. His expression carried both tempered joy and a touch of reflection. He gave Rosalind a brief nod before fixing his gaze on Catherine.
“I trust I am not intruding,” he said.
Rosalind shook her head and gestured him forward.
“You are just in time.” Gathering her gloves from the wardrobe, she withdrew discreetly to one side, leaving them space.
Thomas approached and extended the box.
