Chapter 23

"Could you bring some more hot water, please?"

Catherine reclined in the bathtub, gazing at the maid in the corner as she made her request. Usually, she didn't linger long when she was having a bath——she scrubbed herself briskly and thoroughly, attacking the chore with her usual forthright vigor. She also didn't feel good about asking the maids to fetch more hot water, for she knew carrying heavy buckets upstairs was a backbreaking task.

But today, she was inclined to linger for a few reasons. For one, it was very relaxing in the tub, and she had been feeling tense in the lead-up to this ball. Very tense, indeed. It was blissful to just relax in the hot water for another half-hour or so before she had to climb out and begin the time-consuming task of getting dressed, coiffed, and bejeweled for the ball.

"Very good, Your Grace," the maid said, bobbing a quick curtsey. Then she picked up the bucket and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

"Thank you, Pansy," Catherine called. Then she frowned. Wasn't the maid's name Polly?

She had had to learn a whole new set of servants' names since they had arrived at the London townhouse, and sometimes she forgot who was who.

She dipped her hand into the water and retrieved the sponge before wiping it desultorily across her chest and gazing towards the window. Her heart skipped a beat. The gown she had ordered for the ball had arrived an hour ago in a large box. It had been pressed and was now hanging in her bedroom, waiting for her. All she had to do was step into it.

She had blanched when she had seen it. It was so very daring. She hadn't seen any lady wearing anything remotely like it to the stuffy balls in London. But Mrs. Slocombe had assured her that the style was the latest fashion in Paris… though perhaps without such a heavy emphasis on the backline.

Her heart skipped another beat. The Dowager Duchess might have apoplexy when she saw her. The upper echelons of Society—the stuffiest and most conservative—would probably keel over as well. Young ladies would either fall in love with the gown, raving about it and seeking to emulate it, or else they would be scathing, declaring it a travesty. It was hard to tell which way the wind would blow.

Catherine rubbed the sponge across her shoulders absently, feeling a blush staining her neck and face. The young gentlemen might have an entirely different reaction to the gown as it did reveal more than the usual amount of a lady's anatomy. She didn't quite know how she might deal with that. But then, she felt a flush of bravado, almost as intense as the stain of mortification.

Let them look. Let them say what they will. I will do what I want, say what I want, and I will wear what I want. I do not march to the beat of anyone's drum but my own. Just like when I dressed as a lad and entered a gambling hell, playing cards and winning against everyone.

She sighed heavily and threw the sponge into the water, feeling irritated. Where was Pansy, or Polly, or whatever the girl's name was? It was getting colder by the second in this bath. She watched as goosebumps rose on her arms.

She frowned, gazing mutinously at the wall. She should just get out now, but she didn't want to. The other reason she wanted to linger in the bath pressed upon her: the longer she stayed in the bath, the more time it killed, and the less chance she would run into her husband around the house.

She sighed again, thinking about how he had seen her mooning over that old oil portrait of her parents. It was mortifying. She rarely got into a sentimental mood, but he had been surprisingly sweet to her about it. And, to her surprise, he hadn't tried to seduce her again. He had almost been… caring.

Catherine's heart flipped. She didn't want him to be like that towards her. She didn't want him to be amorous either. She just wanted the problem that was her husband to go away once and for all.

You just need to get through this ball tonight, and then he promised that you will lead separate lives. In the future, you will not have to see much of him at all. You will come together for major events and occasions… but that will be all.

She heard the door open and close. The maid was back. Just in the nick of time.

"Thank the Lord," Catherine muttered, leaning forward in the bath, anticipating feeling the hot rush of the water as it was poured into the tub. "You have returned not a moment too soon…"

"Have I?"

Catherine started violently, causing water to slosh onto the floorboards. Her heart was racing. Her husband had entered the room, but he was standing with his back to her, not looking at her. She gaped at him.

"What are you doing in here?" she hissed. "Can a lady not bathe in peace?"

She heard him chuckle. Still, he refused to turn around and look at her.

"I was just passing by, and I needed to tell you to hurry," he said. "We will be late for the ball. And you know that my grandmother will throw a fit if we are not on time." He paused. "I really had no idea that you were bathing. I knocked, but there was no reply."

Catherine shifted in the tub. The Duke was stiff-backed, standing there awkwardly. A strange feeling came over her. She wanted him to turn around and look at her in the tub. The thought was shocking. Where had it come from?

Stop it. You are being ridiculous.

"You just came in, so you could catch a glimpse of me," she accused, her heart pounding hard. "You knew I was in the tub. You must have passed the maid carrying the bucket in the hallway."

"No, I never did," he protested. "And even though I am dying of want for you and wish to take you to the heights of pleasure, I will only look at you if you allow it."

Catherine stirred, her heart thumping hard. The air was filled with tension. A part of her wanted him to turn around and look at her, but a stronger part resisted it. If she let him, who knew where it would lead? It was far too dangerous.

"Please leave," she said in a prim voice. "And if you see the maid anywhere, tell her to hurry. I will catch my death of cold soon if she does not return."

He chuckled again. "I am at your disposal, Duchess."

She watched him, her eyes narrowed, barely able to breathe, as he walked towards the door, leaving the room. He didn't look back once.

Catherine fell back in the tub, shaking. That had been a close call. She had been so close to telling him to turn around and look at her.

He had acted like a gentleman. Had he really not known that she was in the tub and simply stumbled in here to tell her to hurry?

She picked up the sponge, wiping it over her skin, and she almost yelped. It was so sensitive with arousal that it was almost painful. It was as if her skin was on fire, and tiny flames were dancing across her flesh.

Her hand drifted lower, brushing against her firm nipples. She moaned. It was heavenly. She had never explored herself in the tub before… but then again, she wasn't usually alone. There was always at least one maid in the room.

She closed her eyes and held her breath as her hand drifted lower, to the dark triangle between her thighs. Her heart was racing sickeningly now. She had never touched herself there before, but it was like an ache inside, as if she needed it as simply as the body needed food and water. As if she would die if it didn't happen.

Hesitantly, she touched herself. A shot of sensation zigzagged up her spine. Her legs fell open. She wanted to keep doing it…

I want him to do it to me. I want him to touch me there…

Her eyes flew open in alarm. Hastily, she withdrew her hand, her heart thumping painfully. What was she doing? What was wrong with her? She pinched her arm, quite hard, until the feelings subsided. It took a while, but once again, she was simply lying in the tub, cold and irritated.

I knew I could control these feelings. It is just mind over matter after all.

She gazed up at the ceiling, frowning, waiting for the maid to return with the hot water. Five minutes passed and then ten. It was twenty minutes before she finally admitted to herself that Polly wasn't coming back at all. Her dear husband didn't tell the girl to return like she instructed. Instead, he had made her sit in a cold bath for over twenty minutes. No doubt he thought it a great lark. Or was it punishment for refusing him?

Furious, she dragged herself out of the bath, sopping and cold, and grabbed the towel and wrapped it around herself, shivering like a puppy that had been caught out in the rain.

Oh, very funny. What a lark. Hilarious.

Muttering to herself, she stormed out of the room and entered her chambers. She found her dressing gown and slipped it on before sinking down onto the bed, gazing out the window.

The door opened. It was her lady's maid, Jean, who she had brought with her from home, carrying a pile of fresh linen. Jean's jaw dropped when she saw her mistress sitting on the bed in her dressing gown, her wet hair dripping down her back, a furious expression on her face.

"Your Grace," Jean breathed, putting down the linen and rushing to her side. "What are you doing there, dripping and shivering?" She shook her head incredulously. "You will catch your death of cold!"

Catherine sat limply as Jean fussed over her, drying her hair vigorously with a towel and muttering under her breath about dying and pneumonia the whole time.

But Catherine wasn't listening to her. All she could think about was her reaction to her husband walking into the room when she had been bathing.

She closed her eyes. She was already on tenterhooks. Who knew what this evening was going to bring?