Page 107 of Go, Rogue

Chapter

42

Catherine goes through the motions of her toilette as if she’s sleepwalking. She feels empty and as heavy as the air outside. Claire fits her into the ballgown Elizabeth has chosen for her—one of her aunt’s, quickly re-fitted for Catherine’s slim, strong figure. She threads pearls through her hair and clasps Catherine’s earrings onto her ears.

Catherine sits and rises and inhales on command. She knows the choreography of this dance and executes each step until she is coiffed and pressed to perfection.

And then, it’s time.

She makes her way down the stairs to meet Elizabeth and Sir Cleveland and to partake in the small family-and-friends dinner that precedes the Ball. She greets the guests, curtsies, smiles. She sits for dinner and lets the conversation flow around her while she nods—graciously, she hopes—in all the right places.

But her insides feel like a sinkstone, dragging her down while the evening moves past her on a current of its own. She tries not to be taken under by it.

And then the orchestra sets up, and the majordomo begins announcing guests for the Yule Ball, and she’s standing in the corner, drinking her champagne. It doesn’t make her feel warm or bubbly inside. It doesn’t make her feel anything except for a slight headache. And maybe a queasiness in her stomach.

She assumes Andrew will come eventually. She knows the invitation was sent this morning and accepted. But he isn’t here yet.

She dances with Sir Cleveland and a few other gentlemen of prominent families, doing her best not to look for Andrew. The whole evening becomes a blur, until she finds herself back in her corner again, drinking another glass of champagne.

She tries to remember not to get drunk.

McGann looks at himself in the mirror. “I look like an eejit,” he says crossly to his gran.

The two of them are ensconced at the manor house. He’d accepted the invitation to the Yule Ball tonight because he knew Catherine would be there. He has to speak with her—and if it means going to a bloody ball to do it, he’ll go to a bloody ball.

But he certainly hadn’t packed evening wear aboard The Elphame. So, here he is, against his better judgment, trying on his brother’s suit.

“You look handsome, child. Stop whining,” his gran says. “It’s just a dance.”

“Then why won’t you attend?” he asks, turning his face toward her from the mirror. “You’re the duke’s grandmother, after all.”

“Because I don’t want to, that’s why.”

“And I do?”

Although, he knows he does. He has to put to rest the fear that’s been invading his heart since Catherine left his room this morning—that even after all this, he doesn’t get to keep her.

“Of course you do, Andrew. Or you wouldn’t be standing here in your suit.”

“It’s my brother’s suit,” he mutters. “And I feel like an eejit in it.”

“It’s your suit, child. It’s all yours.” She walks over to him and lays a hand on his arm. “I know you don’t want this,” she says. “Because you think it’s your father’s. But it’s not only that. It’s your mother’s gift to you too. Ama’s marriage gave it to you, just as much as your father did. And by right of your birth, it’s yours. Same as the shape of your face and the curl in your hair and the color of your skin.”

He sits heavily in the chair beside the mirror. His gran is right. His mother had given him all of this by marrying his father. And he ought to accept it as that—as his birthright—and not as a way to secure Catherine or even to make a difference in the world. He doesn’t need a dukedom for that, though it’ll certainly make it easier.

His grandmother moves to the wardrobe and begins rummaging around before she pulls out a walking stick with a flourish.

“Here!” she says, holding it out. It isn’t just any walking stick, either—it’s made of ebony, the wood sleek and dark, tipped with a gold handle embossed with a regal, looping B.

“There now,” she says. “That will do it.”

“Aye.” He rises from the chair, taking the cane. It’s probably more expensive than anything else he’s ever owned.

And now he has a manor full of such items. He hardly knows what to think of it, except that he’s glad for the cane, even an overwrought one like this. His damn leg still aches.

“Stay off that leg as much as you can tonight,” his grandmother says. “You’re still healing.”

“Aye.”