The rogue’s reclamation

The Seating Arrangement

The Duke of Devonshire’s Townhouse

The tension shifted from the open fields of the park to the suffocating opulence of a formal dining room. Catherine had hoped for distance, but the social season and her brother's friendship with the Duke seemed determined to throw her back into the lion's den.

Catherine spent the carriage ride to the dinner reciting her resolve like a prayer. He is a rake. He has a mistress. He is not the man for a respectable life. By the time she reached the Devonshire townhouse, she felt armored in her own coldness.

That armor shattered the moment she looked at the hand-lettered seating cards in the dining hall.

"Julian," she whispered, leaning toward her brother, "tell me this is a mistake."

Julian glanced at the table and beamed. "Not at all! I asked the Duchess specifically to seat you next to Edmund. I thought, after your race this morning, you two might have found some common ground. He needs a sensible woman’s influence, Cate."

Catherine wanted to scream. Instead, she took her seat, her silk skirts rustling like a warning. Moments later, the chair beside her was pulled out. The scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco settled over her like a heavy cloak.

"Lady Catherine," Edmund murmured, his voice a low vibration that made the hair on her arms stand up. "You look remarkably chilly for a woman sitting next to a roaring fireplace."

"I find that a drop in temperature is necessary when one is in danger of being scorched by too much... familiarity," she replied, staring straight ahead at her empty soup bowl.

"If you are referring to this morning"

"I am referring to nothing, Your Grace," she interrupted, finally turning to look at him. Her eyes were hard. "I simply realized that I have been far too indulgent of your 'rogue' persona. You have your mistresses and your nights in Mayfair. I have my reputation and my future. They do not belong at the same table."

Edmund leaned in, ignoring the soup being placed before him. His dark eyes were fixed on her mouth. "Amelia is a relic of a man I no longer want to be. I dismissed her this afternoon."

Catherine’s hand trembled as she picked up her spoon. "You dismissed her? Just like that? Like a servant who spilled the wine?"

"No," he said, his voice dropping to a seductive, desperate whisper. "I dismissed her because I cannot look at her without seeing you. I cannot touch her without wishing it were your skin under my hand. You call me a rake, Catherine, but I am a man possessed. And I suspect, despite your 'sensible' armor, you feel the pull just as strongly as I do."

Under the table, out of sight of the gossiping guests and her unsuspecting brother, Edmund reached out. His large hand settled firmly on Catherine’s thigh, his fingers gripping the silk of her dress.

Catherine gasped, the sound muffled by the clatter of silverware around them. She should have pushed him away. She should have stood up and caused a scene. But the heat of his palm through the fabric was overwhelming a silent, forbidden promise that made her knees weak.

"Let go," she breathed, her face flushed with a mix of anger and undeniable yearning.

"Tell me you do not want me to," he challenged, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle against her skin. "Tell me you want a boring, respectable husband who will never make your blood sing like this."

Catherine looked at Julian, who was laughing at a joke across the table, then back at the dark, hungry eyes of the Duke. She was trapped not by his hand, but by her own heart.

The dessert course had barely begun when the heat between them became unbearable. Catherine, feeling the walls of the dining room closing in, made a hasty excuse about the oppressive air and slipped through the terrace doors.

She did not have to look back to know he was following.

The night air was cool, but it did nothing to quench the fire in Catherine’s blood. She reached the stone balustrade and gripped it so hard her knuckles turned white.

"You are a coward, Catherine," Edmund’s voice sliced through the darkness. He stepped onto the terrace, the moonlight catching the sharp, predatory lines of his face. "You run because you are terrified that if you stay, you will admit I am right."

Catherine spun around, her eyes flashing. "Right about what? That I am a woman with desires? Of course I am! But I am also a woman with a brain, Edmund. I know what you are. You are a man who collects moments and discards them when they become inconvenient."

He moved toward her, his presence looming, forcing her back against the cold stone. "You think I want to discard you? I have not slept, I have not eaten, and I have not been able to touch another soul since I saw you on those stairs. That is not 'collecting a moment.' That is an obsession."

He reached out, pinning her against the railing with his hands on either side of her. He leaned in so close their breaths mingled. "One kiss," he whispered, his voice a raw, luring caress. "One kiss to see if this fire is real, or if we are both just dreaming."

He tilted his head, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers. Catherine’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She wanted it—God, she wanted it but as his scent filled her senses, the image of Amelia’s hand on his thigh flashed in her mind.

"No!" Catherine shoved against his chest with all her might.

Edmund stumbled back, stunned by the sudden force.

"I will not do this," she panted, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and heartbreak. "I will not ruin my reputation, my future, and my brother’s trust for a man who treats love like a myth and marriage like a prison. You are a rogue, Edmund. You want my body for a night, but I want a life. I cannot be just another mistress to be dismissed when you grow bored."

She gathered her skirts, her chin trembling but her gaze steady. "Stay away from me, Your Grace. For both our sakes."

She turned and fled back into the light of the ballroom, leaving him alone in the shadows.

Edmund stood frozen, the sting of her rejection more painful than any physical blow. He pulled a silver flask from his pocket and took a long, burning swallow, but it did not help.

He asked himself the question he had been avoiding: What do I actually expect from Lady Catherine?

He did not believe in love; it was a weakness for poets and fools. He did not want marriage; he had seen enough miserable unions to know it was a slow death. Yet, the force pulling him to Catherine was undeniable a gravity he could not escape.

He realized then that his desire was not merely physical. He did not just want to possess her for a night; he wanted to consume her. He wanted to ruin her not her reputation, for he still held a shred of loyalty to Julian but her mind and her very being. He wanted her to think of him every time she closed her eyes. He wanted her to crave him until she, too, realized that a "respectable" life was a hollow shell compared to the fire they could share.

He wanted her body, her thoughts, and her spirit. He wanted to be the only storm she ever wanted to be caught in.

"You want a life, Catherine?" he murmured into the night, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips. "I will give you a life you never imagined."