Chapter 26

"Smile," her husband said in a low voice as they faced each other on the dance floor. "You look as if you are walking to the gallows rather than to a dance floor."

Catherine plastered on a bright, fake smile. "Better?"

He laughed. "Much."

The dance was starting. Catherine swept into a curtsey, and the Duke bowed. They moved towards each other in the first steps of the quadrille, passing one another slowly.

"You have not answered me," she whispered, staring at him. "Why does the lovely Lady Isabella always seem to appear and gravitate towards you, husband?"

The Duke smiled. "Ah, well, I suppose it is akin to the flowers turning towards the sun," he replied, his lips twitching. "She has good taste. I will give her that."

They skirted each other. Catherine felt him brush past her, sending a frisson down the length of her spine. She shivered involuntarily.

"Cold?" he asked, staring at her intensely. "It is not surprising, given the gown you are wearing." He gave her a half smile. "It is revealing quite a lot of that flawless skin of yours."

"I am not cold," she replied, feeling irritated. She gazed at him steadily. "Are you having an affair with her?"

The Duke raised his eyebrows. "Would you care if I was? I thought you told me that you wanted us to lead separate lives." He gazed at her. "Why should it matter to you?"

"I do not care," she flung at him, her heart racing, feeling sick. "Of course, I do not care! It is just not… seemly." She frowned, feeling even more annoyed. "She is so blatant about seeking you out. I saw you talking with her on Bond Street as well."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Are you spying on me?"

"No," she shot back, glaring at him. "Why would I do such a thing? I was shopping and simply saw you." She took a deep, ragged breath. "I do not know why she is even here, except for the purpose of meeting you. Did she not say that she never comes to London?"

"Apparently, my grandmother insisted that her family attend this ball," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "Grandmother was the matriarch of the district for a very long time. People tend to quake before her. All she has to do is snap her fingers, and her will is executed."

Catherine eyed him suspiciously. He wasn't telling her anything. He was neither confirming nor denying any involvement with Lady Isabella. It was infuriating.

They brushed past each other again. Catherine knew that he leaned closer than necessary. She shivered again.

"There is not a single man here tonight who can take his eyes off you," he whispered huskily. "You are a sensation. I must admit I cannot take my eyes off you either."

Catherine felt a thrill of delight run down her spine at his words which she tried to suppress.

"I did not wear this gown to please you," she whispered furiously. "You are wrong if you think so."

"Did you not?" he purred near her ear, his fingers lingering on her arm. "Then why do you shiver every single time I am near you?"

Catherine turned her face away, refusing to look at him. It was true, and it was mortifying. It seemed her body betrayed her at every turn where he was concerned. But he didn't need to know that. He was already far too arrogant and sure of himself for her liking.

They moved away from each other, passing other people, before they met up again. She still refused to look at him, moving stiffly through the dance steps, her heart racing.

"I am not having an affair with Lady Isabella," he whispered, staring at her intently. "I am not having an affair with any lady. The only woman I can think about is you, Catherine."

"You lie," she hissed as he passed by her. "I know that you lie."

"You want to believe that I am lying," he countered, his voice low and husky. "It suits your purpose to believe that I am lying. You do not want to admit the truth."

"What truth?" She glared at him. "What are you talking about?"

The dance was nearing its end. The final notes of the orchestra were filling the air.

He leaned down, whispering in her ear, "That you want me as much as I want you."

Catherine glared at him. He moved away, smiling at her serenely. The dancers clapped politely. He bowed his head to her before moving away, pushing through the crowd.

Catherine stood there, trembling with rage. And something else. Her skin was tingling, and she knew that her face was flushed. Her arousal was embarrassing although she knew that no one looking at her would be aware of it. They would attribute her high color and breathlessness to exertion from the dance.

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. He was impossible. Impossible!

Another dance was starting. Catherine sighed, forcing herself to move away from the dance floor. Determinedly, she looked straight ahead. She wasn't going to seek him out. She wasn't going to watch him and Lady Isabella talking again.

Her heart throbbed painfully. He was lying to her. The rake was flirting with the lady, and if he wasn't having an affair with her yet, it wouldn't be long until he was. And she refused to witness it.

Let him do as he will. It had nothing to do with her at all.

"Your wife is looking rather amazing this evening," Kenneth remarked, staring at Catherine across the room. "There is a buzz around her. No one can stop talking about that daring gown of hers."

Thomas sighed heavily. He was feeling aroused beyond measure after that dance, but he was also frustrated in more ways than one. Catherine was the most stubborn woman he had ever encountered. Why couldn't she just admit that she was jealous and wanted him?

"Yes, well, she likes to cause a sensation," he said, his voice laced with irritation. "She is contrary."

"You have quite a bee in your bonnet," Kenneth noted mildly, raising his eyebrows. "Is she getting under your skin, old friend? You want more than just bedding her?"

"Do not talk like that," Thomas growled, rubbing his neck. "I refuse to discuss it with you any longer." He hesitated. "She is my wife. It is a private matter. It is bad enough that my grandmother wants to know all the ins and outs of the business, harping on about whether Catherine is with child or not."

Kenneth threw his hands in the air in surrender. "We will not talk about it any longer," he said, grinning. "It is entirely your affair." He glanced at Thomas. "Although I will say one last thing, Newden—you have developed feelings for that lady. You are as skittish as a foal around her, and you cannot stop looking at her. Your eyes are haunted, my friend."

Thomas turned away, irritated, refusing to acknowledge what his friend had just said. It was just Kenneth, prattling on in his usual artless way. His friend had no idea of what he was feeling… or if he was feeling anything at all—which he wasn't.

"Oh, I say," Kenneth continued, grabbing his arm, his eyes shining, "look at those ladies over there. They are exquisite. Do you know who they are?"

Thomas sighed, gazing in the direction his friend indicated. Two tall, raven-haired ladies were moving through the crowd. They were willowy and very elegant.

"Those are the Harrow sisters," he said, with another sigh. "Georgiana and Eliza. Their father is a minor Scottish noble. I think they have only just arrived in London for the Season."

"Sisters?" Kenneth looked intrigued. "Really?"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Yes, really. Is it that unusual? Of course, they are sisters. They are practically identical. I can barely tell one from the other."

Kenneth drained his champagne and then handed the empty glass to Thomas. "Wish me luck," he muttered, smoothing back his hair with one hand. He glanced at Thomas. "Unless you wish to accompany me to flirt with the delectable black-haired sisters?"

"No," Thomas said curtly, "I do not."

Kenneth grinned, clapping him on the back. "You see? You are falling for your wife, Newden! You can barely look at another woman. You could not even flirt with Lady Isabella, and the lady trails you like a puppy and would surely fall into your hands like ripe fruit off the vine if you just snapped your fingers."

Thomas glared at him. "Just go and do what you must, Dunford." He drained his champagne. "I will still be here when the sisters send you away. They are both betrothed in Scotland, you know. You are not going to have any luck."

Kenneth looked wounded. "A man can only try."

Thomas laughed. "Go on, then."

Kenneth flashed him a dazzling smile before adjusting his cravat and heading towards the Harrow sisters. Thomas watched his friend weave his way through the crowd before materializing in front of the ladies, taking their hands one by one and bowing low.

To his credit, the ladies did look rather entranced by Kenneth. He was clearly putting on the charm, flirting up a storm. Objectively, Thomas supposed his friend was a handsome man, and he always had success with the ladies. He might even manage to lure one of the sisters away from their engagements. Good luck to him.

Thomas turned away, taking another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, grimacing as he took a sip. Champagne wasn't his favorite tipple, and he was growing restless and bored again. How much longer must he endure this? How long did he and his new wife have to stay to appease his grandmother before they could slip away?

Just thinking about Catherine stirred his blood again. Eagerly, his eyes sought her through the crowd. She had returned to her brother and her best friend again. But now, they had been joined by another gentleman.

Thomas frowned. It was Patrick Wickes, the Earl of Afferton, the older brother of Lady Beatrice. Thomas studied the man carefully. He didn't know him well, but he recalled how affronted the gentleman had looked on the day he had announced his intention to propose to Catherine in her home.

Lord Afferton had attended the garden party in the country as well, now that he came to think about it. And he had monopolized his wife's attention there as well.

Thomas took another sip of champagne, watching the Earl. He was hovering by Catherine's side, staring at her avidly as she talked and laughed. And then he noticed that the gentleman was holding Catherine's elbow in an almost possessive way. The gesture was intimate. And wasn't the gentleman standing just a tad too close?

Thomas felt a wave of anger sweep over him. Anger… and something else. An ugly, primitive emotion that he had never felt before, or only the faintest hint of it, in regards to any lady he was involved with.

But this… this was barreling him over like an out-of-control carriage. He couldn't believe it. Was this jealousy?

Thomas was so stunned that he almost staggered back. No, it couldn't be. Jealousy implied he had feelings for the lady. And he didn't, even if Kenneth insisted that he did. He couldn't. It wasn't possible.

But still… the jealousy was increasing, not diminishing. He gripped his champagne glass so tight that it was a wonder it didn't shatter.

What was he going to do about it?