Chapter 13

Dominic was nervous. In fact, he had been nervous all afternoon in his study. He had no idea what had come over him. But he knew that it had everything to do with the woman who was now sharing this home with him.

As he waited in the dining hall, his anticipation grew with each passing moment. He had orchestrated that evening's dinner as a special occasion for the two of them to celebrate their union. The table was adorned with the finest linens and silverware, just as it had been for the wedding breakfast, and the room was aglow with the soft flicker of candlelight. Everything was perfect, just as he had imagined it would be.

Moments passed and finally, Catherine opened the door, her presence filling the room with a radiance that took his breath away. As she approached, he couldn't help but marvel at her beauty, her grace, her strength.

"Am I late?" she asked, glancing at the table and taking a seat opposite him.

"No, you are just in time," he grinned from across the table, signaling at the servants to start serving the first course. "It's a small celebration, just for the two of us, celebrating our future together."

She looked down at her still empty plate, then back at him. "You think we should celebrate…" She obviously wanted to say that word, blackmail, but she bit her tongue when she remembered that they weren't alone. He admired her self-control. In fact, he admired many things about her, even those he never expected.

"Us," he continued her thought in a way she didn't plan on. "Yes. Us."

"Ending up here the way we did," she said, bravely choosing to end it under her conditions. Once again, he was in awe of her boldness to speak her mind unapologetically. Not many ladies of the ton could be found guilty of that transgression, a transgression he found intriguing in a woman more and more.

"Does it matter how one ends up somewhere as long as they are there eventually?" he wondered aloud. "Mistakes happen. And mistakes can be mended."

"Have you ever broken a mirror?" she asked him an unexpected question, which he thought bore no consequence to the conversation at hand, but she surprised him with her logic.

He stared at her for a moment, not certain whether he heard her correctly. Then he nodded. "Yes, I have broken a mirror once. Why?"

"The glass shatters," she explained calmly, her hands resting in her lap, out of sight. "You made a mistake, and you broke the glass. You are sorry, of course, but your regret doesn't mend the broken glass. You may try to repair it somehow, put it back together, but the glass will always have cracks. My point is that some things cannot be mended. Ever."

He knew what she was referring to. And he had to admit that he loved the metaphor. She was very eloquent, his wife. Still, he refused to give up. She was his wife now. And he would do anything in his power to show her that there was another side to him, a side she might actually like.

"Perfection doesn't exist, Cate," he couldn't resist using the shortened version of her name. However, she refused to allow it. Her cheeks flared up and her eyes widened in shock.

"Do not call me that," she snarled. "For anyone other than my brother, my name is Catherine."

He nodded, not wishing to antagonize her. Only to prove a point.

"Catherine," he nodded, considering it still a small victory. "The most beautiful things in the world are cracked, broken, mended, healed, and made beautiful once again."

"How can anything broken be beautiful?" she dared him with her eyes to give her an example, and he was more than happy to provide her with one. He could tell that she didn't expect him to retaliate, but she didn't know him that well yet. He was proving to be a great conversationalist, something he wasn't expecting.

"Seashells, for example," he said, leaning back more comfortably into his chair. "They are often admired for their beauty. However, many seashells bear scars or blemishes from their time in the ocean, such as chips, cracks, or worn edges. These imperfections actually tell the story of the shell's journey and add to its beauty."

He had her there. Her lips were slightly parted in an effort to find some sort of retort, but she had none. Worse yet, she agreed with him. He could see it in her eyes, and he was unable to resist pointing it out.

"You agree, don't you, Catherine?" He relished saying her name out loud as it rolled off of his tongue. He suddenly remembered her own tongue intertwined with his, and he yearned for more. That very evening, he would come to her and make her melt in his arms. He would make her his, show her how she deserved to be wanted and loved. He wanted to hear her moan his name in ecstasy. Her eyes closed; her lips parted. The thought drove him mad.

"Maybe," she squeezed through clenched teeth, but he could tell just from that one word that the example had both caught her off guard and amused her. She reached for her fork and started eating.

"I will take it," he grinned, proceeding to eat as well. "But on another note, now that we are husband and wife, we need to attend social events as husband and wife."

"Ugh, you mean balls?" she frowned. He almost laughed at the fact that she disliked balls as much as he did, but he managed to suppress the urge to do so.

"Well, not only balls," he clarified, putting his fork down. "The first things we must do is visit my aunt, Lady Penelope Huntington. She is having a garden party the day after tomorrow, and we have been cordially invited."

He didn't want to say that Aunt Penelope's curiosity had been soaring sky high in an effort to find out as much about Catherine as possible. Truth be told, Dominic would usually come up with an excuse to skip these social gatherings and visit his aunt when she had no other guests.

He preferred to have him all to himself, seeing that she was not only his last living relative, but also the woman who raised him. Everything he was, he owed to her. That was why he knew that he had to indulge her and visit with Catherine.

"Do we have to do that?" Catherine didn't seem thrilled about the idea.

"Married people do that, you know," he reminded her.

"Married people who weren't forced into marriage, you mean," she clarified with a steely gaze. She shook her head as she spoke. "Do you really think that we can just pretend as if everything is alright? Do you think I can do that?"

Strangely enough, he didn't have a funny retort to that. She sounded hurt, and he knew that it was his fault. He had plucked her from her home, and now she was like a flower without roots, gasping for air.

"No," she suddenly concluded, getting up. "I can't pretend like you can. I… I just can't…"

She pulled the napkin off of her lap, gently placed it on the table before her and left the dining hall. Even when she was angry, she was still in possession of that grace and beauty that never seemed to leave her side, no matter what situation she found herself in. Somehow, he found himself more and more drawn to her, even at the face of such blatant denial of any affection.

How can you expect any affection? His guilty conscience wondered, and he knew that it was right. All of this was his fault, and he had to find a way to rectify it.

***

Catherine had no idea what had come over her. There she was, with Mrs. Jenkins, lulling herself into a soothing realization that it might not all be that bad, but upon hearing the duke speak of social obligations pertaining to a husband and wife, she snapped. She needed more time. If he could pretend so easily, she could not. She was not like that.

Her nostrils flared as she rushed through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion, in an effort to find her chambers. But her vision was foggy with a sudden and unexpected onslaught of tears, and she had obviously taken a wrong turn, ending up in a part she had not been to before.

"Oh, no," she whispered to herself, biting her lower lip nervously.

She tried to calm herself down. All she had to do was go back the way she had come from. It was as simple as that. Catherine turned around, and strangely enough, she noticed three passageways. Seeing she wasn't paying much attention to where she was going, it was impossible to know with certainty which of those three passageways would take her back to the central part of the mansion and her own chamber.

She inhaled deeply, frowning and closing her eyes. "This is the last thing I needed right now," she murmured to herself in the darkness of the house she did not know yet.

She wasn't afraid. Only exhausted and furious. The combination of the two made her reasoning almost perfectly flawed. She looked around. Some of the windows overlooked a beautiful garden, which she could not fully see in the darkness.

She made a mental note to go and see it the following day. Perhaps she could even ask Mrs. Jenkins to join her. Yes, that did sound like a lovely idea. If only she could find her way back to her chamber now, all would be well. She just wanted to close herself up and not see anyone.

Catherine chose the middle of the three passageways and started walking slowly in an unknown direction. The air seemed to hang low and heavy, almost as if endeavoring to awaken memories that she did not have yet. The passageway stretched out before her; its walls adorned with intricate tapestries that whispered tales of bygone eras.

The doors that lined the passageway on each side stood tall and imposing, all of them closed, keeping their secrets hidden, as their ornate handles gleamed dully in the subdued light. Catherine kept walking slowly, not daring to try any of the doors, until she found one that seemed to be unlike the others. That one seemed to bear the marks of age with its weathered frame and faded paint, while the others reflected the polished grandeur of the mansion.

Intrigued, she approached the door, hesitating. Her hand reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing against the cool metal handle, and lingered there for a moment or two. She wondered if she was even allowed to wander through the mansion in the middle of the night.

Allowed? That little voice rebelled.

This was, after all, her home now. No door was off limits to her.

With a flicker of anticipation coursing through her veins, she turned the handle and pushed open the door, revealing a darkness that didn't show anything. Her eyes narrowed in an effort to see better. That was an impossible feat. She looked back into the passageway, then took a candelabra from a nearby table, lighting up the two candles that were nestled within. Then she turned her attention back to the mysterious room.

She stepped inside, and immediately noticed that there was a sound. Many sounds, in fact. At first, she couldn't recognize them. Later, she would consider herself silly for that omission. But at that moment, everything seemed so… strange. Beyond strange.

In the center of the room, there was a large workbench, strewn with an array of tools and materials. Magnifying glasses and delicate tweezers lay scattered amidst coils of fine wire and jars of tiny gears, while a collection of all sorts of miniature parts adorned the shelves above. The air was heavy with the scent of polished wood and aged metal, mingling with the faint aroma of oil and wax.

Then it hit her. At the far end of the room stood a grand grandfather clock, its imposing presence commanding attention with its intricate dial and ornate pendulum. She lifted her candelabra, illuminating rows and rows of intricately crafted timepieces that adorned the walls. They were making all that noise, the ticking of what seemed to be a million clocks in one room, all clicking separately, but at the same time, creating a unified melody of timelessness.

She realized finally what this was. It was a room dedicated to antique clockmaking.