Chapter 21

"Be careful, Cathy!" Beatrice turned to her friend, grabbing her arm firmly as they crossed Bond Street. Her voice was sharp. "You were about to walk into that milk cart!"

Catherine took a hasty step back, her heart thumping hard. She hadn't even noticed the milk cart clattering down the street. Her mind was elsewhere.

"Silly me," she cried as they made their way carefully across the street once the cart had passed. "I must be still used to the quiet country life, Bea. It might take me a while to get used to London traffic again." She bit her lip, gazing around. "It is just so busy."

She kept gazing around, slightly alarmed. Bond Street was the same as it ever was with carriages and carts rattling back and forth, street sellers calling their wares, and ladies and gentlemen strolling along. It had never particularly bothered her before. So why was it grating on her nerves now, causing a dull, throbbing headache at the back of her head?

They had only been back a day. Her husband had been true to his word and had been avoiding her. She had barely seen him——they exchanged just a few awkward words at breakfast this morning—before he had left the house, saying he was heading to his club.

And now, she was shopping with Beatrice.

Catherine glanced back. The sour-faced Miss Vickers was trailing them, acting as a chaperone for her friend, as always, hovering like a shadow.

"Mama received the invitation to the Dowager Duchess of Newden's ball just this morning," Beatrice said, her lips curling into a smile. "I must say, that venerable lady does not waste time. First, a garden party in the country and now, a grand ball. Clearly, she wishes to show you and the Duke off, Cathy."

"Clearly," Catherine agreed in a sour voice. "That lady is used to getting her own way in all things." She sighed heavily, blinking as she gazed at the shops. "I am not in the mood for shopping, and yet I must do it. The Dowager Duchess insists that I have a new gown for the occasion, and there is not a moment to spare if it is to be finished in time."

"Of course, you must have a new gown for the ball," Beatrice said, dragging her along the street. "I quite agree with her." She glanced quickly at her friend. "It is not like you to not feel like shopping, Cathy. Are you in low spirits?"

Catherine pressed her lips together. She hardly knew what kind of spirits she was in. Her mind was in turmoil, thinking about that scorching kiss she had shared with her husband just before they had left the country and how she had pushed him away, insisting that they could never have that type of relationship.

And he agreed. He wants us to live separate lives. He only tried to seduce me because of his pride, because that is just what he does with any woman he finds attractive. It matters little to him.

She sighed irritably. She had always known this. She wanted them to lead separate lives—she had insisted on it. So why did she feel slightly hollow inside and consumed with a burning restlessness which she could not name?

They reached the modiste and entered the shop. It was instantly quieter than on the street. The noise of the traffic receded. Catherine felt her heartbeat slow down.

"Your Grace!" Mrs. Slocombe, the modiste, approached them, before curtseying deeply. "And Lady Beatrice. What a pleasure it is to see you both on this fine day."

"And you, Mrs. Slocombe," Catherine replied, smiling politely at her. "I need a new gown for the Dowager Duchess of Newden's ball. It needs to be eye-catching. Do you think you can manage it in time?"

The modiste gave her a dazzling smile. "Of course, Your Grace. For you, I can do anything. My seamstresses will work around the clock if necessary."

Mrs. Slocombe set to work immediately, leading them to some comfortable upholstered chairs in a corner and plying them with fashion magazines. She told Catherine to look through them and pick two or three designs that resembled what she wanted, and then she would sketch the design until Catherine was satisfied. The first fitting could be done tomorrow morning if all went well.

Then the modiste left them, calling for tea.

Catherine sighed, picking up the first magazine off the pile and flicking through the pages in a desultory manner. Beatrice gazed at her, unable to suppress a giggle.

"What?" Catherine glared at her friend. "What is it? Do I have some crumbs around my mouth from breakfast?"

Beatrice giggled again. "Of course not, Cathy. I would have told you before now if you did." She paused. "You just seem so irritable. You would think you were waiting to have a tooth pulled rather than choosing a spectacular dress design."

Catherine let out a bark of derisive laughter. "They are one and the same to me at the moment. I am not in the mood for choosing a design at all." She rolled her eyes. "If it were not for the Dowager Duchess insisting that I have a new gown, I would simply wear one of my old ones and be done with it. Why does it matter?"

"It matters," Beatrice insisted. "This is your first ball as the new Duchess of Newden. All of the ton will be there, judging you. You must look impressive. And they will know if you wear one of your old gowns and will call you miserly… or frumpy."

Catherine looked pained. "And it is a fate worse than death for a lady to look frumpy, heaven forbid!" She pursed her lips, looking down at the magazine in her hands. "It just all seems so pointless, Bea. I never thought I would be in this position. I wanted to stay unmarried."

"I know you did," Beatrice said in a gentle voice, reaching out and taking her hand. "But what is done is done. You are the Duchess of Newden, now, and you must look the part. We will look for designs together. It will not take very long, and then we can go to the Tearooms. We can share some of those divine éclairs they make. What do you think?"

Catherine felt her irritation suddenly drain away. She looked at her friend. "I think that I am very grateful to have a friend like you, Bea. How on earth do you put up with me?"

Beatrice laughed, waving a dismissive hand in the air, but she looked pleased just the same. "You can be prickly, to be sure, but you have the most loyal heart, dearest," she replied, patting her hand. "That is how I put up with you. You always defend me. I know you would do the same thing for me if I was feeling out of sorts."

Catherine's heart melted. "I would." She took a deep breath, gazing down at the magazine again. "Well, let us get on with it, then. The sooner I choose a design, the sooner we can have those divine éclairs."

They looked through five magazines. The designs were all stylish and elegant, but nothing stood out to Catherine. The maid brought tea, pouring them each a cup. A half-hour passed.

Catherine was just about to throw a magazine aside, declaring that it was an impossible task, when she paused, gazing at the design she had just turned to. A slow smile spread across her face.

"What do you think of this, dearest?" she asked, handing Beatrice the magazine and pointing to the design, trying not to laugh. "I think it might be the ideal one."

Beatrice gazed at the design, her eyes widening. "Do you not think it is a bit… overdramatic?" She bit her lip as she studied the sketch. "In fact, do you not think it is rather risqué?"

Catherine let out a bark of laughter. "Yes, I think it is very risqué," she replied. "But the Dowager Duchess insists that I wear a gown to make the ton's eyes pop out of their heads. This would certainly achieve that aim."

Beatrice looked dubious. "Yes, you should stand out, but for the right reasons, Cathy." She gazed at the design again, her cheeks reddening. "It is so… sensual. Very French."

"Exactly," Catherine replied, feeling defiant. "And everyone knows that French designs are the best. The Dowager Duchess will not be able to fault it. And if she tells me off, I will just say that I was simply doing her bidding."

Beatrice still looked uncertain, biting her lip. Catherine snatched the magazine out of her friend's hands before calling for the modiste. Mrs. Slocombe drifted into the room, smiling serenely.

"I have chosen the design, Mrs. Slocombe," Catherine announced crisply, handing the modiste the magazine. "The one on the left side of the magazine."

The modiste's eyebrows arched as she gazed at it. "This, Your Grace?" Her eyes flicked from the page to Catherine and back again. "Are you quite sure?"

"I am positive," Catherine replied in a firm voice. "Only I would like the back to be even lower while still protecting my modesty, of course." She giggled. "And perhaps a shorter sleeve, if that is possible?"

Mrs. Slocombe nodded slowly, biting her lip. "If that is what Your Grace desires, then that is what you shall get," she said, trying to smile. "I shall set to work on the design immediately. Please, finish your tea while you wait."

The modiste walked out of the room, carrying the magazine with her. Catherine picked up her cup of tea and sipped on it, gazing out the window.

Beatrice looked at her. "Cathy, what is this all about?" she asked. "You have never been fond of outrageous gowns. Why have you insisted on that design?"

Catherine shrugged. "I told you. The Dowager Duchess wants me to stand out." She stirred in her chair. "And besides, I am bored. It will be fun to set the cat amongst the pigeons, just a little bit."

Beatrice didn't look convinced. "If I may be so bold, I think you will look like a French courtesan."

Catherine burst out laughing. "And what is wrong with that? They are sensual, and they know it. Why must I look like a priggish Englishwoman all the time?"

Beatrice looked shocked.

"Oh, do not look so appalled, Bea," Catherine said, reaching over and patting her friend's knee. "You will not be wearing it, after all."

She kept sipping her tea, feeling content for the first time since she had arrived back in London.

My husband's eyes will certainly pop out of his head when he sees me in this gown. I wonder what his reaction will be? Will he insist that I change gowns? Or will he applaud my individuality?

Catherine shook the thought away. She didn't care what the Duke thought about her gown. She wasn't dressing to impress him, after all.

But she had to admit to herself that she did want to see his reaction. She could barely wait.

If they were going to lead separate lives, then this ball would be their last hurrah before that occurred. She might as well go out with a bang.

The modiste walked back into the room, carrying her sketchbook and another big book. She sat down beside Catherine and opened it to show the design. Catherine's eyes widened, trying to suppress the shock she felt. Mrs. Slocombe had taken her at her word. Was she really going to be this daring?

"It is perfect," she declared, her heart thumping hard. "It is exactly what I want."

"I am so glad," the modiste murmured. "Shall we pick the fabrics, Your Grace?"

Catherine nodded.

The modiste passed her the other book which was filled with fabric samples. Catherine's face flushed as she flicked through it, choosing the fabrics. She had made her choice, for better or for worse. And there was no going back from it now.

After they had finally left the shop, they drifted down Bond Street towards the Tearooms, arm in arm. They were just about to enter when Catherine came to a sudden halt, her heart almost stopping.

Her husband was on the opposite side of the road. And he was chatting to Lady Isabella Lyndon, the golden-haired beauty from the country. The lady who had claimed that she never came to London.

"Come on," she said to Beatrice in a loud, cheery voice, turning her friend away before she saw the pair as well. "I am famished."

They entered the Tearooms. Catherine insisted they sit at the back of the shop, even though there were tables by the window. It was only when they were safely seated that she felt like she could breathe properly again.

She barely listened when the server came to take their order. Thankfully, Beatrice took over, telling the girl what they wanted, ordering a half dozen éclairs as well as tea.

All Catherine could see in her mind's eye was her husband smiling widely as he gazed down at Lady Isabella Lyndon. And Lady Isabella looking up at him as if he were the only man in the world.

Catherine blinked rapidly. "I… I rather think I have lost my appetite." She smiled apologetically at her friend before gazing up at the server. "Just tea for me, thank you."