“What is it?” Catherine said immediately. “What’s wrong?”
He smiled at her, but the happiness didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing is wrong. We’re returning to London, as we discussed last night.”
“And Mr. Meeps?” She knew that was not all. The axe had yet to fall.
“Mr. Meeps and I were discussing political strategy. And I thought that while we are in Town, we might host a ball or a soiree.”
Catherine blinked. Her head felt light, almost as though it had come unattached and was tumbling fast and furious toward the Aubusson rug beneath her feet. “A ball?”
“Yes. I’ll help you, of course.” He said something else, but his voice was murky and she could not comprehend.
A ball. A party with dancing, loud music, and a crush of people. An opportunity for her to make a hundred mortifying mistakes, especially if she were the hostess. Everyone would be looking at her, watching her. She clutched her fingers together tightly.
One, two, three . . .
Meeps began to speak. It was a moment before she understood him. “—for Lord Valentine’s career. Of course, you must invite the prime minister, the prince regent, the Cabinet ministers—I will send you a complete list. As your town house is rather small, you might think of having the ball in one of the assembly—”
The prime minister? The prince regent? No, no, no. She could not possibly host these men. What would she say? What would she do? The preparations for an event like this were unimaginable.
The cozy study began to feel hot and cramped. The walls inched closer until they crouched over her like angry beasts.
Four, five, six . . .
Catherine stumbled to her feet, and Valentine caught her arm. Both he and Meeps jumped to their feet. “Are you well?” Quint asked.
“I think I shall go upstairs and lie down,” she said. She tried not to look at the walls hunkering closer, not to hunch as she strode through the shrinking door, but she could not force her feet to slow as much as she should have. She darted through the door, and when she heard it click shut behind her, she broke into a run for the stairs and managed to make it to their room before she lost her breath entirely.
Catherine was gulping for air when she closed the door to her chamber. She leaned against the door and shut her eyes, thankful this room was still its original size. She counted to ten and climbed onto the bed she’d shared with Quint just a few hours before. Curling into a ball, she pressed her fingers to her eyes to hold back the sting of tears and tried to breathe deeply.
How could he? How could Valentine do this to her? He knew hosting a ball like this was her greatest fear. And yet he’d thrown the suggestion at her as if it were nothing—a choice between a lemon or apple scone at tea. And not only did he want her to eat this enormous, fearsome scone, he wanted her to do so in front of the whole of London Society.
London Society. The upper ten thousand. The haute ton. The most scheming, most unforgiving, most vengeful collection of people since the Romans. And here she was, a defenseless gladiator, thrown in the pit with the lions.
And for what? His career. His ridiculous career.
“Catie?” There was a tap on the door, and the knob turned. Belatedly, she wished she’d thought to block it. Not that that would have stopped him. She sat and tried to smooth her hair.
“I don’t want to talk right now. I’m not feeling well,” she managed. Lord, he looked handsome this morning. He must have finally accepted that his hair had grown too long, and he’d pulled it back into a queue, secured by a black string. His shirt and cravat were white as snow, and he was dressed to ride, boots, riding coat, and all.
She watched him stride across the room toward her, ignoring her wish to be alone. If she were a gladiator, he was the lion. She knew his body now, could imagine the bunch and pull of his muscles as he moved. She looked at his hands and remembered how they’d felt on her flesh, how they’d stroked and caressed until she was breathless with needing him.
She looked into his eyes, trying to distract herself and hold on to her anger. But looking into his face didn’t help. That too brought back memories— the rough scrub of his beard against the inside of her thigh, the way his long lashes framed those mahogany eyes, the feel of that full mouth on her nipple.
She turned away from him but felt the bed dip as he sat beside her. It was strange to have him so near her again. Here they were on the bed, where they’d shared so much last night, but now all she felt was betrayal. She’d thought he had finally accepted her, was coming to care for her. But he hadn’t changed at all. He still cared more about his career than anything else.
She wanted to turn her back on him, to walk away and never look around, but she could not because she had changed. His wooing, his gentle nature, the way he’d loved her last night—those things had changed her. She needed him. She had fallen in love with him.
And he loved his career.
He sighed. “Catie, I know this is not what you had in mind when we discussed returning to London. You get nervous when you attend balls—”
“Not what I had in mind?” she whispered, but her words were loud enough to silence him. “No, it wasn’t what I expected, but perhaps that’s because you deceived me into believing you cared how I felt. What was it you said? You wanted me to be happy?”
“I do want you to be happy.”
“Then don’t force me to host this ball.” She turned to him and met his gaze head-on. “In fact, don’t force me to return to London at all. Let’s stay here for the rest of the Season.” She prayed he would accept her suggestion, prayed he would be the man she wanted him to be, but he was shaking his head.
“I cannot. I’m needed in Parliament.”
