"I'm in love with you," he said simply. "So indeed, I notice everything about you. Including the fact that you're in love with someone else."
The words landed with devastating accuracy. Catherine felt tears prick at her eyes, though whether from guilt or grief, she couldn't say.
"Is it him? The Duke?" When she didn't answer immediately, he laughed bitterly. "Of course it is. I should have known. No one else could make you look so beautifully miserable."
"Nothing has happened between us," Catherine said, which was true in the present tense if not the past. "We've barely spoken beyond the requirements of social courtesy."
"But you want more."
It wasn't a question, but Catherine answered anyway, owing him that much honesty at least. "What I want is irrelevant. The Duke has made it clear he has no interest in... in anything beyond acquaintance."
"Has he?" Pemberton studied her face with disconcerting intensity. "Because from where I'm standing, he looks very much like a man in love who's convinced himself he can't have what he wants."
"You're imagining things."
"Am I? Then why is he currently staring at us like he wants to run me through with a sword?"
Catherine turned involuntarily. James was indeed watching them from across the garden, his expression thunderous. When their eyes met, she saw a flash of something raw and possessivebefore he turned away, saying something to Miss Worthing that made her giggle.
"You see?" Pemberton said quietly. "Whatever happened between you, and something did happen, Catherine, I'm not fool enough to believe otherwise, it's not over."
"Yes, it is," Catherine said firmly, as much to convince herself as him. "It ended before it began."
"Then marry me."
The words were so unexpected that Catherine actually stepped backward, her heel catching on the garden border.
"What?"
"Marry me," Pemberton repeated, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. "I know you don't love me, not the way I love you. But I could make you happy, Catherine. I could give you a good life, children, security. And perhaps, in time, you might come to feel for me even a fraction of what I feel for you."
He opened the box, revealing a beautiful sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds. It was elegant, tasteful, exactly the sort of ring a viscount would give his viscountess. Looking at it made Catherine want to cry.
"Marcus, I..."
"Don't answer now," he interrupted. "Think about it. Really think about it. Because whatever fantasy you're harboring about the Duke, it's just that—a fantasy. He's had weeks to court youproperly if he wanted to. Instead, he's left you in this horrible suspended state, prey to gossip and speculation."
"There's been no gossip."
"Hasn't there? You haven't heard what people are saying?"
Catherine's blood chilled. "What are they saying?"
"Nothing specific. Yet. But there are whispers. Questions about why two such eligible parties seem to avoid each other so studiously. Speculation about what might have happened before the Season." He paused, his expression softening. "I don't care what happened before, Catherine. I only care about what happens next. And I'm offering you a future free from scandal, from uncertainty, from the pain of loving someone who won't love you back."
Before Catherine could form a single reply, a sudden disturbance rippled through the company gathered near the fountain. What had been an ordinary hum of conversation turned abruptly, for Miss Worthing’s voice pierced the night air, high and triumphant, carrying over every other sound.
“Oh, but I am quite certain of what I saw,” she declared, her tone shrill with breathless excitement, like a cat who had cornered her prey. “Lady Catherine was most assuredly in the study alone with the Duke and for a considerable length of time, I might add.”
The garden seemed to freeze upon her words. A hush fell so complete that the trickling of the fountain sounded unnaturally loud, each droplet striking stone like a note of accusation.Catherine felt the blood drain from her face, her hands suddenly cold against the silk of her gown. It was as if the very earth had tilted beneath her feet.
Every head turned in unison, eyes fastening upon her with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and something far sharper. Whispers stirred at the edges of the gathering, fanning the embers of scandal before the flames had even properly caught.
“Whatever can you mean, Miss Worthing?” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell spoke at last, her voice deceptively mild, the very picture of polite inquiry. Yet her eyes, keen and unyielding as a hawk’s, fixed upon Catherine with merciless intent, as though eager to strip away every shred of her composure before the assembled crowd.
“At the Fairfax ball,” Miss Worthing pressed on, her voice pitched to carry across the garden with theatrical precision, “I happened to lose my way whilst seeking the ladies’ retiring room—you must forgive me, the corridors of Fairfax House are positively labyrinthine—and in that wandering I came upon the most curious sight. Lady Catherine, emerging from the study. Alone. And looking, I must say, rather… disheveled.”
A ripple coursed through the assembled guests. Fans stilled, conversations faltered, and a dozen pairs of eyes darted to Catherine with scandal-hungry fascination. The very air seemed to thicken, pressing down upon her shoulders, turning each breath into an effort.
