She returned to the ballroom to find James waiting for her.
"Dance with me," he said immediately.
"Again? People will talk."
"Let them. After tonight's performance, we could dance naked and it would seem tame by comparison."
"Please don't dance naked at the Pembertons' ball."
"Would you prefer I wait for our wedding?"
"I'd prefer you wait for our wedding night."
His eyes darkened. "Promises, promises."
They danced, and this time Catherine didn't care who watched or what they whispered. In three days, two daysand nineteen hours now, she would be his wife. Nothing else mattered.
The ball finally began winding down around two in the morning. Guests departed in clusters, all still discussing the evening's drama.
"That was eventful," Vivienne observed as their carriage pulled away.
"That was nearly catastrophic," Catherine corrected.
"But it wasn't. James protected you. That's what matters."
"He lied for me."
"He loves you. There's a difference."
***
Hours later, Catherine found herself pacing the length of her bedchamber like a caged thing. The candles had burned low, their flames quivering, and yet sleep would not come. The evening’s events ran and re-ran through her mind in an endless loop: Miss Worthing’s sudden arrival, the cold, triumphant gleam in her eyes; the whispered threat; the register produced like a weapon; and then James—her James—striding into the fray with his ducal composure, turning scandal into farce, danger into nothing more than gossip. She had been saved from the brink of ruin, and though gratitude filled her, so too did guilt. He had lied for her. Lied brilliantly, devastatingly, but lied all the same.
She pressed her palms to her temples and forced herself to breathe. She ought to be preparing for sleep; tomorrow would be another gauntlet of dressmakers, letters, and obligations. Instead she walked, restless and unsettled, until a faint sound at her window broke her reverie; a soft, deliberate tap. Then another. Pebbles, she realised with a start.
She crossed to the window, heart hammering. The curtains were drawn, and she parted them cautiously. Below, in the moon-silvered garden, stood James. Or rather, James slouched on the path in his shirtsleeves, holding a handful of small stones like a boy caught at mischief. Even from above she could see the loose, rakish tilt of his posture.
“Catherine!” he called up in what he must have supposed was a whisper. His deep voice rolled through the quiet garden like thunder over velvet. “Catherine...my beautiful, brave, brilliant Catherine!”
“James!” she hissed, half in exasperation, half in alarm. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Bachelor dinner,” he announced grandly, swaying slightly. “Dull as ditch-water. Escaped. Had to see you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Magnificently drunk. Majestically drunk. Monumentally drunk.” He grinned up at her with the reckless delight of a schoolboy. “And desperately in love.”
Catherine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “You are going to wake the entire street.”
“Do not care,” he said with solemn gravity. “Must tell you something. Urgent. Important. Life and death.” He beckoned with one unsteady hand. “Come down!”
There was no resisting him—nor, if she were honest, any real wish to. She snatched up a shawl, wrapped it tightly about her shoulders, and crept from the room, taking the back stair to avoid the creak of the main steps. The air in the hall smelled faintly of beeswax and wood smoke; the garden, when she slipped out, was cool and damp, the scents of night-blooming jasmine and wet grass rising like perfume. The moon hung low, catching on the dew-pearled hedges.
James had abandoned his handful of stones and was seated on the wrought-iron bench beneath a tree. He looked up as she approached, and even in his inebriated state his face transformed at the sight of her—light and warmth and something like reverence all at once.
“You came,” he breathed, as though he had not truly believed she would.
“Of course I came. You were about to serenade the neighbourhood.”
