Page 108 of Go, Rogue

“And hold your head high, Andrew. You’re the duke now.”

He turns to look at her. “Are you worried about me?”

“Of course I am,” she says and laughs at him. “It’s my right to be, as your grandmother, and I won’t hear a word about it. Now go have fun, Andrew. Find that pretty girl and dance with her.”

“If she’ll have me,” he mutters, putting on his top hat.

“Have you asked her?”

“Nay. Not as such.”

“Then you ought to.” She takes his elbow, leading him out the door of his own manor house. “Presumptions and assumptions never did anybody a lick of good. Another thing you learn if you get to be my age.”

At the threshold, he leans down to kiss her white shock of hair, then steps outside to the waiting carriage. It’s brand new, emblazoned with a giant B on the side. No wonder the former Barclay needed funds so badly—the man clearly spent every dime he ever had.

McGann can’t even imagine what it costs to procure such a carriage in Jamaica or, bloody hell, to have one shipped over.

No more, he thinks. This duke is putting every penny to better use than this shite.

He climbs into the carriage—slowly, because of his leg—and knocks on the roof. As the horses cut through the warm night air, he allows himself to appreciate how well-sprung the thing is. His leg hardly throbs at all, the ride is so smooth. And then, before he’s ready for it, he’s arrived at the governor general’s mansion and the Yule Ball.

He climbs out of the carriage slowly, more nervous than he expects. He’s spent his life as a salty sea-tar who hasn’t cared a whit what people thought of him, which was well enough, because no one thought of him all that often. But he’s a duke now and he has a feeling that’s about to change very suddenly.

Still don’t have to care a whit, he reminds himself and throws back his considerable shoulders. Then he leans his weight on his very expensive cane and makes his way inside.

“The Duke of Barclay,” the majordomo announces, and all heads turn his way. He scans their eager faces, looking only for one.

As soon as he spots her, sitting alone in the corner nursing a glass of champagne, he starts his descent down the stairs and into the fray. Even with the cane, his limp is pronounced, and he drags his leg behind him slowly. His pace is made even slower by the crush of attendees who all seem desperate to meet the new duke.

He’d been worried they wouldn’t accept him—that they’d turn their heads, give him the cut direct, or hell, spit in his face. But he’d been wrong to worry because they throng around him.

By Elphame, he thinks, what a title can do.

He understands suddenly what Catherine meant when she said Lady Catherine West was just a title, not who she was. He’s no different a man than he was yesterday, and yesterday he likely wouldn’t even have been invited to this fête, whereas today he’s its star.

All because of the dukedom—and nothing to do with him.

He wants to get to her as quickly as possible. To tell her he understands. But he can’t ignore the outstretched hands. Or the smiles and greetings.

He does his best to make his way through the crowd. She’s seated in the corner, looking so heartbreakingly sad. He knows she sees him. Bloody hell, everyone sees him. He’s taller by half a head than anyone else in the room.

But she doesn’t rise to greet him. Doesn’t make her way toward him. She just sits there, staring into space, while person after person positions themselves between them with a hand to shake and a name to give.

A waltz begins to play, and some eager lad invites her to dance. McGann watches as she accepts, and his fists curl at his sides with the effort of not storming the dance floor after her. He has no right. She can dance with whomever she wants. Whomever asks her. And he hasn’t asked, not yet.

He thinks of last night. How she said, Let us just be Andrew and Catherine… until the rain stops.

And he hadn’t understood what she meant. That when the rain stopped, she’d be gone. He’d made presumptions and assumptions: that once he had her in his arms, he’d get to keep her. That being a bloody duke would let him keep her.

But not even that has worked. In fact, it appears to be the opposite. It’s the dukedom she doesn’t want.

He finally reaches her when the music ends.

“Lady Catherine,” he says, and she turns to him, releasing the arm of the young man she just danced with. He says it so she’ll correct him, but she doesn’t. She just sinks into a curtsy and says, “Your Grace.”

“Catherine? Look at me, lass,” he whispers once the lad has moved on.

She tilts her head up to him, but her big blue eyes are vacant and sad. And the flimsy, faltering smile she offers makes his stomach drop down to his boots.