"How dreadful."
"It was, rather. But then the most extraordinary thing happened. Harold was kind. Patient. He made me laugh during the wedding breakfast, told the most ridiculous story about his grand tour, and slowly, over months and years, duty transformed into genuine affection, then love." She smiled at the memory. "We had twelve wonderful years before he died. Not everyone is so fortunate in arranged matches."
"Which is why you support my escape from Sir Reginald?"
"Precisely. A man who bores you at twenty will drive you to distraction at forty. Now, tell me about your journey. You must have stopped at every inn between here and Yorkshire."
Catherine's hands tightened on her teacup, her body immediately responding to the memory. The ache in her thighs pulsed, as if her muscles themselves remembered being stretched around James's hips, her legs wrapped around him as he pressed her against the wall...
"The Black Swan primarily," she managed. "The storm made travel impossible for one night."
"The Black Swan! I know it well. Mr. Hartwell still runs it, I suppose? Excellent establishment, though it can become rather crowded during bad weather."
"Very crowded," Catherine agreed, taking another sip of tea to avoid meeting her aunt's eyes. "I was fortunate to secure accommodation at all."
"Hmm." Vivienne's expression was thoughtful. "You look different, my dear. Travel can change a person, I suppose. Though you seem... older somehow. More aware of the world."
Catherine felt panic flutter in her chest. Could her aunt somehow tell? "I'm just tired, Aunt. And relieved to be here."
"Of course. Well, tomorrow we begin your transformation. We must visit Madame Delacroix for gowns—she's the only modiste worth knowing. As the daughter of an earl, even with your father gone, you have a certain standing to maintain."
"I'm still just Lady Catherine now," Catherine said quietly. "The title went to cousin Frederick. I barely remember him, as he lives in Scotland and never visited."
"Distant relations are often the worst," Vivienne agreed. "But you retain your courtesy title, which is something. Lady Catherine Mayfer sounds much better than plain Miss, doesn't it? It will help immensely in society."
A knock interrupted them. "Come," Vivienne called.
A butler entered, silver salver in hand. "The afternoon post, my lady."
Vivienne sorted through the cards and invitations with practiced efficiency. "Lady Worthington's card party—deadly dull but necessary. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell's musical evening—she fancies herself a patroness of the arts but has the musical sense of a deaf badger. Oh! The Ravensfield ball!"
"Ravensfield?"
"The Duke of Ravensfield. His father is apparently at death's door; has been for weeks but the old duke is stubborn. They say the son is rushing back from abroad. The Duchess is already planning a ball to present him officially once the mourning period is properly observed. Though knowing her, she'll host it scandalously soon after the funeral."
Catherine's stomach clenched inexplicably. "That seems rather heartless."
"The Duchess isn't one for excessive sentiment. Besides, the Duke needs a wife, and the Season waits for no one. Every unmarried female from sixteen to sixty will be there, fans at the ready." Vivienne examined the invitation. "A week hence. Though if the old duke lingers, it may be postponed."
That night, in the luxurious guest chamber her aunt had assigned her, Catherine lay in the unfamiliar bed thinking about the social whirlwind she was about to enter. The bed was enormous—she could stretch out fully without touching the edges. Nothing like the narrow bed at the inn where she'd been pressed against James all night, his arm around her waist, his breath warm against her neck...
She pressed her thighs together, wincing at the lingering soreness but unable to stop the pulse of want that accompanied it. Her body was betraying her, constantly reminding her of what she'd done. What she'd let him do. What she'd begged him to do.
Shame washed over her, hot and familiar. A proper lady would be horrified by her behavior. But the shame couldn't stop the wanting. In the darkness, with no one to see, her hand drifted down her body, trying to recreate even a fraction of what he'd made her feel.
It wasn't the same. Nothing would ever be the same.
***
The next morning, Vivienne swept into her room at eleven o'clock, already dressed for the day in an elegant morning gown of green silk.
"Up, my dear! Bond Street awaits! And we must stop at the circulating library to add your name. As Lady Catherine, you'll have immediate access to the best subscription."
Their first stop was Madame Delacroix's establishment, an elegant shop with bow windows displaying the latest fashions. Inside, assistants glided between customers while Madame herself, a striking woman with an elaborate French accent, held court.
"Lady Ashworth! And this must be Lady Catherine. Oh, mais oui, the daughter of an earl; one can always tell the true aristocracy. The posture, you see."
Catherine stood on a pedestal while Madame and her assistants swarmed around her with measuring tapes and fabric samples.
