‘Not your leg. Although, believe me--I could spend days kissing your legs. You have delightful limbs.’ James brushed the tip of his nose against her own; Catherine smiled, unable to believe that any of this was happening. Her logic, attempting explanations, was drowned in pure excitement. ‘Wait. Feel.’
His hand moved higher still. Catherine gasped, burying her face in James’ coat, as his fingers gently brushed the patch of curls at the meeting of her thighs.
‘Here.’ James stroked her again; the cool air of the close-walks, combined with the gentle possession inherent in his touch, made Catherine cry out with new, strange pleasure. ‘I wish to kiss you here.’
‘I… oh, you cannot.’
‘I see.’ James stroked her again, kissing her with a smile. ‘And why not?’
Catherine considered saying something about propriety, or decency, or decorum. Or the fact that they were outside, in as public a private place as it was possible to be. Biting her lip, rejecting all other excuses as mere falsehoods, she chose the truth.
‘I… I am frightened.’
‘Then I shall not.’ James’ rapid, soothing reassurance brought pleasure back to her body, flowing through her extremities as his warm palm pressed to her mound. ‘May I stroke you, like this? Does this frighten you?’
Only enough to excite me. ‘No.’
‘Good.’ James kissed her again, his mouth soft enough to make Catherine quietly moan at the feel of it. ‘Then let me look at you while you enjoy it.’
Enjoy it? Did he not think that she was enjoying herself enough already? Catherine opened her mouth, ready to disabuse James of such a strange notion… but as the man’s skilled fingers parted the lips of her mound, stroking along the sensitive flesh that lay within, Catherine’s words became a strained whimper of pleasure.
This was an entirely new level of enjoyment. It went beyond illicit, as kissing him had been--or scandalous, as James kissing her breasts was. As James caressed her most sensitive, intimate place, his gaze soft but penetrating as he watched her reaction, Catherine struggled with the storm of sensation that threatened to overwhelm her.
It went far, far deeper than mere bliss. As minutes passed, the exquisite feel of his hands on her growing greater with each breath, Catherine realised that the pleasure was heightened by her darker sentiments. Her rage at her mother and father for making her work, her fear of poverty, her terror of instability, her long-unrequited passion for the man that held her in his arms--all of it fuelled her pleasure, feeding it, turning into something close to madness.
There was no way James could know her torment. Still, perhaps he felt it in her body; his stare changed, melting further, becoming an expression of near-unbearable tenderness as his fingers brushed the tight bud of nerves above her entrance.
The effect was immediate. All of the rage, the fear, the excitement--all of it became an incandescent, white-hot jolt of bliss, an explosion that shook Catherine to her foundations. With a long, shivering moan, more bestial than human, Catherine buried her face in James’ coat as the avalanche overcame her.
She breathed in the warm, clean scent of James’ coat, panting as he slowly withdrew his hand. If he stepped away from her now, she would crumple to the earth… but James held her, held her effortlessly, as he murmured in her ear.
‘How beautiful you look. Let me take you back to my townhouse now, this minute, and bring that look back again.’
A divine proposal.
An… an illogical proposal.
A ridiculous one.
All of Catherine’s logic came back in a single, freezing wave.
She had forgotten who she was. More importantly, she had forgotten exactly who James Hildebrande was.
‘I should not have done it.’ She looked down at her crumpled dress, aghast, as she pulled away from James. ‘Oh, Lord.’
‘Come now. Kiss me.’
‘I cannot kiss you. I cannot go near you.’
‘Be careful with your words, my lady. I am on the verge of being very badly wounded by a cutting remark.’
‘If the truth reveals itself as cutting, there is very little I can do about it!’ Catherine tried to keep her voice to a whisper, knowing that she sounded frenzied. ‘You can make no reasonable argument as to why we should see one another again!’
‘Because I want to see the pleasure on your face that I saw a moment ago.’
The statement stopped Catherine in her tracks. Blinking, turning away from James, she struggled to rally her thoughts.
‘Well?’ James stepped closer. ‘That seems like a damned compelling reason to me.’
‘I do not need pleasure.’ The words sounded false; Catherine strove on. ‘I need constancy, and stability, and funds. Maybe kindness, and friendship, if I am lucky. Pleasure and passion are--are luxuries. Things that I cannot afford.’
‘Allow me to give you the benefit of my experience.’ James spoke with more frustration than Catherine had expected; the need in his tone felt like fireworks in her blood. ‘It is not usual to feel like this. To--to meet as we have, to do as we have done, and leave no more satisfied than we were at the beginning.’
‘I cannot believe that to be true.’ Catherine spoke as calmly as she could. ‘If that were true, establishments such as The Cappadene Club would not exist.’
‘They exist to provide both quantity and variety. However many regular, faithful clients a woman manages to procure, it is ultimately transactional in nature.’ James spoke rapidly, moving closer. ‘I… I have never visited the same woman more than twice. I have never wanted to.’
‘We have--we have seen one another more than twice.’ Catherine practically whispered the words.
‘Yes. I am more than aware of that.’ James paused. ‘But I am also aware, quite powerfully aware, that I wish to continue seeing you in such a fashion. For as long as I can envision, if I am entirely honest.’
‘That sounds like… like…’ Catherine couldn’t even begin to finish the sentence.
‘Like matrimony.’ The surprise on James’ face was almost comical. ‘I am as shocked as you are. Believe me.’
Conversations of such import were not meant to take place in a close-walk. They certainly weren’t meant to occur with one’s mind clouded, one’s reason disturbed--one’s body still inexplicably aflame. Catherine, mentally pushing away the shock of what had just been said, moved further away from James as she concentrated on the patterns of leaves in the hedgerow.
‘This is ridiculous.’ She forced herself to take a harsh, cold tone. A logical tone. ‘Given my current economic state, I cannot countenance the intrusion of a gentleman with uncertain finances, debts and favours.’
‘If you told me your economic state, we could consider ways of changing it. And how do you presume to know the state of my funds, or my debts, or my favours?’ James’ voice rose, clearly irritated. ‘I would lay everything at your feet. All you would have to do would be to ask.’
‘And I am not going to ask it. The only logical solution is to cease being curious about you.’
‘I find that highly illogical!’
‘I must reduce the risk.’ Catherine held a hand to her forehead, taking a deep breath. ‘The severe risk to myself, that comes from this.’
‘There is no risk. None.’ James came to her, holding her close, kissing the top of her head, his voice so calm and soothing that Catherine almost, almost, felt reassured. ‘Do you think I would put you in a position of any danger? Any whatsoever?’
‘I am not speaking of the danger. I was raised in the countryside, sir--I am well aware that what we did leaves me in no danger of bearing children.’ Catherine took a deep breath, trying to calm the racing thoughts creating turmoil in her mind. She knew she needed to stop talking; silence was her only protection, and one she was choosing to ignore. ‘I am speaking of the other aspects that surround this--this--’
‘Pleasure. Call it pleasure. Do not cheapen it by calling it an encounter, or an affair--and I’m damned if
I’m going to refer to it as an exchange. You exchange money, goods… this is pleasure. The giving and taking of pleasure.’ James’s voice shook with unexpected passion. ‘I refuse to feel embarrassed about it.’
‘Do you think that I am referring to embarrassment? You--you speak as a child would!’ Catherine turned to him, anger masking her wounded heart. ‘Believe me, Your Grace--if I tell you the real reason for my regret, you will find very little defence that you can muster.’
‘I doubt any man could muster a defence against an unprovoked attack.’ James’s hurt was clear in his eyes.
‘Not unprovoked.’ Catherine fought a wave of sadness. ‘Believe me.’
Walking a little way away from James, she closed her eyes and listened. The revellers of Vauxhall Gardens were there in the distance, living a charmed, easy life; one almost within her grasp, if she could only summon up the courage to do what was right.
What is right. She shivered at the concept. She had already done so many wrong things since the beginning of her family’s crisis. Why did the only correct thing she could do feel like the worst course of action that could be taken?
‘Tell me.’ James stepped forward. ‘Please, speak your mind. I find myself quite frightened of your silence.’
There was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, Catherine turned.
‘We cannot continue. There shall be no other encounters.’ She paused, forcing herself to look into James’s eyes. ‘I have loved you for six years. You discovered me a week ago. There can be no comparison in how we feel for one another.’
‘You have loved me for… who are you?’ James tried to move closer, but Catherine flinched away. ‘Tell me.’
‘I cannot. I will not. I--I require more constancy.’
‘I have offered you marriage.’ James paused, a complex interplay of emotions evident on his face. ‘Can you not see how great a leap that is for me?’
‘For all I know, you offer marriage to every woman you encounter.’
‘That is not logic. That is fear, and it is unpleasant, and I will not respond to it as a provocation.’ Although James’ words were harsh, his voice was soft. ‘I believe you are afraid.’
‘Of course I am afraid. I am afraid of joining myself in matrimony to a man who does not know me, whose reputation is scandalous and whose funds are in a constant state of flux.’
‘I know you are brave, and clever, and kind. I know that I burn for the want of you when you are not with me. I did not need a year, or a month, or even a week to discover those things--I am a quick learner.’ James paused, swallowing. ‘I do not expect to be punished for that.’
‘And if we wed, and discover that we loathe one another?’
‘I do not think that will happen. I do not think it is more likely to happen than it is for the vast majority of men and women who join in matrimony--we certainly know one another better than the greater part of them.’
‘We do not know one another at all.’
‘Do you think machine-breakers should be rewarded instead of hanged?’
Catherine blinked at the sudden diversion. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you pray?’
‘Of course.’
‘How many children is an acceptable number?’
‘To have? Three.’ Catherine paused. ‘Possibly four.’
‘Agreed on all counts. Although I would have said five children.’ James beamed. ‘You see? I know you. We know one another. Come, now--let me--’
‘Stay away from me.’ Catherine trembled, unnaturally close to tears. ‘Please.’
They stared at one another, the distance between them growing more vast by the minute. James sighed harshly, opening his mouth to speak, before a tremulous voice filled the close-walks.
‘Catherine? Catherine, are you here? I simply couldn’t decide which ice to purchase--where are you?’
Catherine tried not to react. Still, despite herself, she turned her head at the sound of Lydia’s voice.
‘Catherine.’ James spoke softly. ‘I have your name. I will not rest until I have all of you.’
Catherine turned. Steeling herself, smoothing her crumpled skirts with shaking fingers, she succeeded in looking James in the eye.
‘Do not rest until you can give me what I need from you.’ She paused, wishing her voice didn’t quiver so. ‘If you cannot, Your Grace--this is goodbye.’
‘Catherine.’
‘Goodbye.’
Before she could regret her words, before she could fling herself into James’s arms, she began retreating from the close-walks. Full night was coming by degrees; Catherine held a hand up, trying to navigate her way through the winding alleyways of hedgerow, half-hoping that he would follow her.
She could hear no footsteps. Damn the man for listening to her. Damn him for accepting her terms. Catherine, holding her hand to her face, wondered dimly why her cheeks were wet until she realised with a shock that she was weeping.
‘Catherine!’ Lydia’s rounded silhouette was suddenly before her; her friend had two strawberry ices in her hands. ‘I bought you a--why, whatever is the matter?’
Catherine didn’t even try to reply. Instead, with a soft sob that had Lydia throwing the ices to the ground, pulling her into a hug, she began to weep in earnest.
Catherine. That was the name James clung to; the name that haunted his dreams, his idle moments, his quiet longings. The woman’s name was Catherine, she was a respectable lady of the ton, she was unmarried--Lord, how he hoped she was unmarried--and despite telling him how splendid he was, she seemed absolutely determined not to be found.
She had loved him for six years. What had he been doing for six years--what sort of blind, idiotic beast had he been, ignoring the magnificence that had been under his nose?
He hadn’t seen her at any ball, tea or festivity of any kind for a week. Lord knows he had skulked through every site of merriment like a ghost at a feast, searching desperately for a flash of dark hair and soft blue eyes. He had even, in a fit of madness, asked his ragtag group of disreputable friends if they knew of a dark-haired woman named Catherine.
‘Staunton, I know a brace of dark-haired girls named Catherine.’ Henry Marks, an earl of no importance of anyone but his own self, swigged at his glass of champagne with a braying laugh. ‘They line the streets from Covent Garden to Hooker’s Green. One of them can do a trick with a silk reticule that’ll make your eyes--’
‘No. Not a light-skirt.’ James stared at the man, wondering why he had ever been eager to hear such types of stories. A fortnight ago, he would have been hanging on every word. ‘A lady named Catherine, who moves in our circles.’
‘A woman in our circles? Why do you wish to speak of a lady of the ton?’ Reginald Horton, a man with an unpleasantly damp sheen to him at all hours, sniggered. ‘I assume she is married. I cannot recall you ever searching for a woman who is societally available.’
For a highly-charged instant, James considered throwing his glass of champagne in the man’s face. Only upon the realisation that Horton’s words were accurate--impolite, but accurate--did he change his response to a half-hearted curl of the lip.
‘I cannot recall a single girl of any notable features going by the name of Catherine.’ Henry looked at James with some curiosity. ‘Joking aside, Staunton--why are you in search of her?’
‘Because I fear I may have fallen in love with her.’
Henry and Reginald looked at one another. With identical looks of mirth, the two men burst into explosive laughter.
‘Good lord, Staunton.’ Horton slapped his thigh, wheezing. ‘That is your best jest yet.’
After a moment of horrified confusion, James had joined in the laughter. Better to mask his new-found passion, the only pure thing he had ever felt, rather than allow someone of Catherine’s unassuming goodness to be set upon by the company he kept.
Perhaps friends like these were no friends at all, if falsehood seemed a better path than truth. The only person who had shown the clear-thinking,
rational maturity that James needed, much to his surprise, was to be found in the normally timid personage of Marcus Bennington.
The two men sat in one of the better London coffee-houses, sipping coffee amidst the chattering crowds of the city’s thrusting men of quality. Marcus, looking at James with a sort of frustrated curiosity, listened to the history of his encounter with Catherine before setting down his coffee cup with a a clatter.
‘Why did you not tell me of this hidden turmoil before? We have been friends for--for some months!’
‘I couldn’t possibly have told you. I had a reputation to maintain, after all.’ James looked at his friend with new regret; regret for all the wasted months he had spent trying to shore up an identity that was now in swift decline. The week would have been far easier if he had confided in Marcus Bennington, rather than the bottom of a brandy bottle. ‘If it is of any comfort, I wish I had told you from the first.’
‘To be fair, I have only recently become aware of the world’s more… worldly aspects.’ Marcus looked down shyly at his lap. ‘I would have given you very bad advice,and you would have most likely teased me for it. Made fun.’
James sighed. ‘If it helps at all, Bennington, I very probably would have.’
The two men sat together in close, intimate silence, drinking coffee, listening to the men around them pontificate as the harried waitresses moved from table to table. James sipped his coffee slowly, realising with a note of abstract surprise that he was actually appreciating it.
Before Catherine, everything had felt so abominably repetitive. As if he were simply living the same day again and again, trapped like Sisyphus. Now, even if Catherine was unsure of him--even if she never wished to see him again--he had been given a new perspective.
Or perhaps, an old perspective. One that he had possessed when he was younger, and wiser. James, with a small smile, silently thanked Catherine for bringing back his capacity for joy as well as sorrow.
‘I do not think all is lost, you know.’ Marcus looked at his cup, looking back up at James with a raised eyebrow.
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