Those eyes.
Catherine felt a glow ignite in her abdomen. She lost sight of the gray eyes in question as the gentleman bowed over her hand. He touched the very tips of her gloved fingers, and a thrill raced from her hand up her arm to her head.
James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry. She knew his reputation. Was he drunk right now? He must be. Wasn’t he rumored to be inebriated at all times? She had seen him across a ballroom once or twice, but had they ever been introduced? Of course not. She would have remembered.
More than a hint of the boyish still about him. Slim. A wide grin. A ready laugh. Waves and curls of golden-brown hair that she longed to run her fingers through. A jaw with such clean, almost translucent skin that either he could not yet sport a beard or his valet was the best barber in London.
And those gorgeous, soft-gray eyes that crinkled at the edges when he laughed. As he seemed to do frequently. The thrill that had traveled from her fingers to her head was coursing downward, through her chest, joining the glow in her belly and spreading lower to her nether regions.
Stop it, Kate. You’re a mother, a widow. You’re no mooning girl, willing to pull up your skirts for the first set of handsome eyes you see. For a young souse of a rake. That part of your life is over, thank goodness. No one will ever have that power over you, ever again.
Lord Daventry straightened from his bow and looked down at her again with those very seductive gray eyes.
“Mrs. Lovelock, such a pleasure. As usual, the radiant Lady Huxley only attracts the most beautiful ladies to her ball. Like moths—nay, butterflies—to a flame, what?”
His voice was a light tenor. Melodious.
Lady Huxley, the very woman who had made the introduction, playfully struck Lord Daventry on his shoulder with her fan and moved off to tend to other guests. Lord Daventry swayed a bit with the tap of Lady Huxley’s fan, off-balance for a moment before he recovered himself, saying “Upsidaisy” under his breath. Catherine almost put a hand out to steady him but restrained herself just in time.
Catherine wondered if Lord Daventry—James—had asked Lady Huxley for an introduction. Possibly. Over the last few years, many gentlemen had been interested in meeting the widow Catherine Lovelock, and she had no illusions about why these men were eager to make her acquaintance. She was one of the wealthiest widows in England. And she had leveraged that wealth to position her daughters and herself into the periphery of London’s ton.
But perhaps James had wanted to meet Catherine because he was interested in one of her unmarried daughters, Harriet or Arabella? Catherine suddenly felt vexed. A dissipated rake like Daventry had no business going after her daughters.
Not when she wanted him for herself.
Then what you’re feeling is actually jealousy, isn’t it, Kate? Are you jealous of your own daughters? Are you unbalanced, unhinged, undone?
“I must agree with Lord Daventry that there is an astonishing array of beauty on display in the room tonight. But, Mrs. Lovelock, you put the debutantes here to shame.” This was from James’ friend who stood next to him. “Would you do me the honor of taking this next dance with me?”
What was his name again? Oh, yes, Thomas Drake, the Right Honorable Earl Drake. Very tall like James. But with broad shoulders and chest, a head of dark hair. Dark rings under blue eyes, belying some fatigue, some worry nagging at him.
“Thank you, my lord,” Catherine said and curtsied. “I am very pleased to accept your invitation.”
Oh, why did it have to be Lord Drake and not the beautiful James who took her arm and led her to the floor?
She already thought of Lord Daventry as James. Utter foolishness.
Catherine smiled and curtsied as the music began. She felt sure her disappointment in her partner was not apparent to any of the onlookers. Her years on stage at the Theatre-Royal, Drury Lane had made her a mistress of dissimulation. She appeared just as she should—a respectable widow, flattered but not overwhelmed by dancing with a handsome young lord.
As they began the first figure of the dance, Catherine smiled and spoke to Lord Drake about the weather, the company, the astonishing beauty of the Elgin marbles. Finally, near the end of the dance, she felt she could safely query the earl and not betray her very real curiosity.
“Have you and Lord Daventry been friends for a long time, my lord?” she asked lightly, as Thomas Drake took her hand to walk down the row of fellow dancers.
“Oh, yes, since we were boys. His father, the Duke of Middlewich, and my father were quite good friends, you see.”
Catherine remembered now she had read in her Debrett’s that James was heir to the Duke of Middlewich. With a bevy of sisters, he was the duke’s only living son.
But the Earl Drake seemed much older to her than James.
“You are of an age then, my lord?” she asked as she passed under his arm.
Thomas thought. “Yes, I’m just thirty, so that must mean Jamie is twenty-eight.”
Not James, but Jamie.
Jamie.
Twenty-eight. Older than she had thought but still far, far, far too young.
Far too young. Far too silly. Far too drunk.
And she was far, far, far too aroused by him. Already, she could hear the alarums in her head.
The dance was over, and Sir Francis Ffoulkes was at her elbow, reminding her that she had promised to dance the quadrille with him. Thomas Drake thanked her for the dance and bowed.
As Catherine moved into a new place on the ballroom floor, guided by Sir Francis’ arm, she told herself that it was revitalizing to have a fancy for a man. Even a frivolous fancy for a frivolous young man like James. She was still a woman, after all. She wasn’t dead to feeling.
But neither fancy nor its more wicked cousin full-blown obsession had a place in guiding her behavior. She had made that mistake in the past and never would again. She was stronger now and had an unassailable grip on the leash of her lust demon.
Unassailable. As in, no one could ever make her let go of it, ever again. No one.
As she turned in a full circle, she caught a glimpse of James on the perimeter of the ballroom for a moment, tall and slim in his tailcoat and breeches, running his fingers through his curly hair, leaning against the wall with an insouciant slouch. He seemed to be looking directly at her.
Her knees weakened and she stumbled. Sir Francis had to steady her.
Bloody blazes. She was in serious trouble if James could elicit this kind of reaction. In a ballroom. Fully dressed.
Very. Serious. Trouble.
James studied Mrs. Catherine Lovelock as she danced with Thomas. And then he sighed and turned away to search the throngs along the walls of the ballroom. There was a man he was looking for, a man with whom he meant to ingratiate himself, and the man should be here. But his gaze kept coming back to the dainty blonde dancing with his friend.
James was the one who had recommended to Thomas that he court Mrs. Lovelock. Thomas was in need of funds, quickly, and James had thought marrying a rich widow might be the solution to Thomas’ monetary problems.
But he would not have suggested Mrs. Lovelock to Thomas if he had known. Known what exactly? Well, known that he, James, would feel upon meeting her that he already knew her. That quick uplift of the chin. That intelligent gaze that roamed over him. That quirk of the brows. That sparkle.
She reminded him so much of . . . what?
It itched at him. Itched at the back of his brain even as he felt the front of his groin also take notice.
Because, of course, she was more than just familiar. She was perfection, breathtaking perfection. Literally. He had felt the air leave his lungs as he had bowed to her. And then a true pink blush had tinted her face and the top of her bosom. That bosom. Generous and round and lush. Even though her husband had died some time ago, Catherine still wore the lavender of half mourning. But the current fashion meant even a modest widow’s ball gown displayed a good bit of the top of a woman’s breasts, especially when a man stood above her. And Catherine was tiny, so all men stood taller than she did.
James clenched his fists at his sides at the thought of other men, including his friend Thomas, gazing down at Catherine’s chest. A fury briefly burned and then faded. He unclenched his fists and forced himself to grin. He was surprised at himself. He was well-known for being of such good temper, easygoing. Amenable to everything. What was this possessive passion for a woman he had just met? He had never felt such a thing before. Was he going mad? Wasn’t he the one who had told Thomas to woo Mrs. Lovelock?
He watched Catherine smile at some remark made by Thomas.
Some men had all the luck. There were the well-favored men like Thomas, who just seemed more masculine than the average fellow. Given how James’ own sisters swooned and flirted with his broad-shouldered friend, Thomas was clearly desirable to women. And would likely be so to Mrs. Lovelock.
And other men had a different kind of luck. James thought of the fortunate second and third and fourth sons who had been allowed—nay, encouraged—to fight in the now-ended wars against Napoleon. Although his father could have easily bought him a hundred commissions, James had not been allowed to go to war. While others had gone on to adventure and glory, James had been safeguarded in the name of the bloodline of the Duchy of Middlewich.
His staring at Catherine and his musings about his own disappointments were interrupted by the sight of the Marchioness of Painswick walking toward him, her hips swaying, her dark hair in an impressive arrangement on top of her head, her dress scooping low in the front and the back. He leered as he bowed over her hand and asked for a dance later. She arched an eyebrow, appraised him from head to toe, sniffed, and acquiesced. He did not fail to see the frankly salacious smile behind her fan as she walked away. It mirrored his.
James accepted a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray and tried to keep from gulping it. He must keep his wits about him, yet he must be seen drinking. Just a sip, then. And then a bit of a stagger as he leaned up against the wall for support. Ah, the dance was ending.
And there, the very man he had been looking for, walked up to Mrs. Lovelock and took her elbow. His quarry for tonight, Sir Francis Ffoulkes.
