"How shockingly proper."
"How shockingly frustrating," Catherine muttered, then immediately wished she hadn't as her aunt's eyes lit with interest.
"Frustrating? Do tell."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Catherine, darling, you're gripping your parasol like you want to murder it. That suggests frustration of a very specific kind."
Before Catherine could respond, the crowd around them shifted, voices rising in excitement. She didn't need to look to know what—who—had caused the stir.
"His Grace, right on schedule," Vivienne murmured. "My, he does look particularly ducal this morning."
James was indeed approaching on his black stallion, cutting through the fashionable crowd with the ease of someone who'd never had to question his place in the world. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue riding coat that emphasized his broad shoulders, his tall hat set at just the right angle, his boots polished to a mirror shine.
Three months ago, Catherine would have seen only the Duke; the title, the authority, the distance. Now she saw James, and all the tiny details that betrayed the man beneath the perfect exterior. The slight tension in his jaw that meant he was annoyed by the crowd. The way his gloved fingers drummed against his thigh—that nervous tell she'd discovered that night. The way his eyes searched the crowd until they found her, and how his entire body seemed to relax when they did.
"Ladies," he said, dismounting with fluid grace. "Lady Ashworth, you look lovely this morning."
"Flatterer," Vivienne said cheerfully. "I look like a woman who was awakened at dawn by her niece pacing the floors like a caged tiger."
"Aunt Vivienne!"
"What? It's true." She looked between them with barely concealed amusement. "I believe I see Lady Jersey over there. I simply must speak with her about... something. Catherine, I trust His Grace will see you safely home?"
She was gone before Catherine could protest, leaving them standing together under the watchful eyes of what felt like half of London.
"Your aunt has all the subtlety of a cavalry charge," James observed.
"She means well."
"She means to see you married before the Season ends."
"Yes, well, she's not alone in that." Catherine nodded toward a cluster of matrons who weren't even pretending not to stare. "I believe there's actually a wager in the betting book at White's about when you'll propose."
"Three, actually," James said calmly. "One on whether I'll propose at all, one on when, and one on whether you'll accept."
"How romantic. Nothing says true love like gambling odds."
"The odds are in our favour, if it helps."
"Our favour for what?"
"Everything. Proposal, acceptance, even a Christmas wedding, though that one's rather ambitious given it's already late September."
Catherine's cheeks heated. "You're very confident."
"I'm very determined," he corrected, offering his arm. "Shall we walk? Standing still makes us even more of a spectacle."
They strolled along the path, maintaining perfect propriety—the correct distance between them, her hand resting lightly on his arm, both of them nodding politely to acquaintances. To any observer, they were the picture of a proper courtship.
Only Catherine could feel the tension in his arm, the carefully controlled strength. Only she knew what those hands were capable of, how they'd mapped every inch of her body with devastating thoroughness. Only she could see the heat in his eyes when he glanced at her, quickly masked but unmistakably there.
"This is torture," he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
"The walk?"
"Being this close to you and not being able to..." He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Two weeks of this careful dance, always watched, always judged. I'm going insane."
