But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Catherine was of enormous consequence. She'd shattered something in him last night, broken through walls he'd spent years building. The thought of leaving her, of never seeing her again...
"Shall I ready your horse, sir?"
"Yes. And settle whatever needs settling with the innkeeper. Discreetly, Peters. I don't wish to cause a fuss."
"Of course, sir. And the... personal matters?"
"Will be concluded shortly."
Peters bowed and departed, leaving James alone with his thoughts. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing, trying to reconcile the man he'd been last night with the one he had to be now. The Duke of Ravensfield couldn't dally with mysterious ladies at coaching inns. The Duke of Ravensfield had responsibilities, expectations, a dying father who'd never approved of him but demanded his presence nonetheless.
But James—just James—wanted nothing more than to return to that warm bed, to lose himself in Catherine's embrace, to pretend the outside world didn't exist.
He climbed the stairs slowly, his mind already cataloguing all the reasons this had to end. She was running from an unwanted marriage; the last thing she needed was to be entangled with him and all his complications. She deserved better; someone who could give her the freedom she craved, not the gilded cage that came with his world.
The sitting room was still empty when he returned, but he could hear movement from Catherine's chamber; the soft splash of water, the rustle of fabric. He knocked gently on the connecting door.
"Catherine? May I enter?"
"If you must," came her teasing reply. "Though I warn you, I'm not entirely decent."
He opened the door to find her at the washstand, wearing only her shift, her hair pinned loosely atop her head. The morning light streaming through the window turned the thin fabric nearly transparent, outlining every curve he'd worshipped so thoroughly the night before.
"You're trying to torture me," he said, his voice rough.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and she actually smiled. "I haven't the faintest notion what you mean, Mr. Wrentham. I'm simply performing my morning ablutions."
"In a shift that leaves nothing to the imagination."
"Does it?" She turned to face him fully, and surely, she was going to be the death of him. "How terribly shocking. Perhaps you should avert your eyes like a proper gentleman."
"I think we established last night that I'm far from a proper gentleman."
"Mmm, yes. Several times, if memory serves."
He crossed to her in three strides, pulling her against him, needing to feel her one more time. She melted into him immediately, her arms winding around his neck.
"You have to leave," she said against his lips. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Your father?"
"Is dying. I'm needed at home."
She pulled back to look at him, her expression soft with sympathy. "I'm so sorry, James. I know you said things were complicated between you, but still..."
"It's duty," he said simply. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"And after? When you've fulfilled this duty?"
He wanted to lie to her, to promise they'd meet again, that this wasn't ending. But she deserved better than pretty falsehoods.
"After, I become someone else. Someone who wouldn't be free to pursue mysterious ladies met at coaching inns."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're inheriting."
"Something like that."
