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ex-fiancé. “Don’t let me hear you speak her name again, Waltham,” he warned, turning on his heel.
    “I wonder what that was all about,” he heard Waltham’s companion ask.
    “Quite interesting,” Waltham answered.
    “How so?” the other man asked.
    James turned to stare at Waltham from his vantage point near the doors to the ballroom.
    “Never mind,” Waltham sketched him a bow. “Good evening, Roberts.”
    James stalked back into the ballroom. How dare Waltham think to dally with Catherine? She deserves more than that. She deserves someone to cherish her, to keep her safe. She deserves someone like . . . Someone like me.
    He shook his head at that fanciful thought and strode back into the ballroom. He saw Catherine. Lord, he wanted to go to her. No. She didn’t deserve his awkward attempt at charm, either.
    Giles met James at the door of his townhouse. “Home so early, my lord?”
    “Yes,” James answered curtly.
    Giles arched a silver brow. “Has something happened?”
    “What? No, nothing,” James muttered.
    “If I didn’t know better, I would think a young lady was involved.”
    James shot Giles a look of irritation the butler didn’t miss.
    “No.” Giles laughed. “It can’t be true. One of the young society ladies has captivated you at long last?”
    “Let it go, Giles.”
    James went up to his chamber and changed out of his formal attire. It was far too early for him to retire, so he donned his burgundy dressing gown. He belted the quilted satin around his waist and went down to the parlor.
    His brow arched as he spotted the tray Giles had thoughtfully left for him. On it sat a bottle of brandy and a glass. He smiled. Wise old fellow, that Giles.
    He poured a generous amount into his glass and settled himself on an oversized wing chair. He couldn’t get the image of Catherine out of his mind. Her scent, her touch. Waltham’s insinuations still burned. Bastard. James stared into the cold fireplace and let the brandy warm him.
    Sometime later, an hour or maybe more, he heard a light rapping at the door.
    “Come in,” he called.
    The door opened and there Catherine stood, framed in the doorway.
    “Catherine?” He came to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
    “I wished to thank you for this evening,” she said softly.
    James stared at her for a beat, unable to believe she was standing there in his parlor. “But who answered the door?” he heard himself ask. “Didn’t Giles—?”
    “He told me to come right in,” she told him.
    James shook his head, his lip curled slightly. That old man was too sharp for his own good.
    He smiled at Catherine, suddenly remembering his casual attire. “I’m sorry to receive you this way.”
    She waved her hand dismissively and took a seat on the chair he’d just vacated. He found her incredibly tempting in the pretty pink gown, even more so than when they’d danced together at the night’s bash.
    He took a step back. “Now, exactly why is it you wish to thank me?”
    Catherine cleared her throat. “Lady Brookdale told me what happened on the terrace,” she said in a small voice.
    His lips thinned. What was Priscilla’s game now? He took Catherine’s hand in his. “I’m sorry you had to hear of that, Catherine.”
    As he watched, her eyes filled with tears.
    “I’m so ashamed,” she sobbed.
    He sat beside her in the big chair. “Catherine, you have no reason to be ashamed.”
    She shook her head. “Lady Brookdale said that everyone assumes I’ll be open to such an arrangement with Waltham.”
    Anger burned in his gut. “Why that vindictive little—”
    He managed to keep his anger in check and looked at Catherine once more. She gazed up at him, vulnerability clear in her brilliant eyes, her trembling mouth.
    “Catherine, Lady Brookdale is mistaken.” He reached out to stroke her cheek. “No one who knows you would ever believe that.”
    Catherine closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. A surge of affection struck him.