Guilt scratched at her. Cath felt as heavy with it as if her dress had been soaked through with seawater. Jest’s presence lingered in the corner of her eyes, as tempting as fresh vanilla ice cream, but she did her best to ignore him.
‘Not yet, Your Majesty.’
His eyes brightened again.
And for a moment – just a moment – Catherine imagined turning to Jest and holding her hand out to him and asking if he would do her the honour of dancing the lobster quadrille.
She pictured her parents’ baffled expressions, the surprised murmur of the crowd, Jest’s sure hands on her waist, and she bit her tongue against a burble of glee.
‘Your Majesty, good day! What a profound pleasure this is.’
The fantasy crumbled away as her mother nudged in between her and the King.
She recoiled.
‘Good day, Lady Pinkerton!’
They shared the requisite greetings, her mother’s curtsy far grander than Catherine’s had been. Catherine inspected her own feet, knowing that to look up would be to look at Jest – his magnetism was stronger by the moment.
‘My darling Catherine, we are ready for the dancing to begin.’
She peered up at her mother’s fervent, impatient face.
‘Have you chosen a partner, my sweet daughter?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Mother. Not yet.’
‘Well then.’ Her mother’s eyes were sharp. ‘We’d better make a choice, hadn’t we? We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.’ The Marchioness clasped her fingers beneath her bosom while Catherine worked her fists into the heavy wool of her skirt. Her mother’s eyes widened at her, lacking subtlety.
Catherine inhaled and met the gaze of the King. His hopefulness was painful to look at, though, and her eyes skipped upward to Jest.
Jest. The court joker. Who seemed to be laughing at her.
Well – not literally, but his lips were pressed in an attempt to contain the laughter that was so very obvious behind his twitching mouth.
Indignation flared behind her sternum. Jest knew that the King desperately wanted to be asked. He knew that the Marchioness desperately wanted Cath to ask him. He knew that Cath was equally as desperate not to.
Once again, it seemed her palpable discomfort was a source of amusement to him.
Lifting her chin, Cath turned back to the King, then promptly lowered her chin once more to meet his eye. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, ‘would you do me the great honour of being my dancing partner for the lobster quadrille?’
The King squealed. ‘Oh, yes, yes, I would be delighted, Lady Catherine. I do enjoy a quadrille, I must say!’
With some relief at the decision being made, for what it was worth, she threaded her arm through the King’s elbow.
Before they could leave the platform, Jest craned his head towards her and whispered, ‘He means well, Lady Pinkerton.’
She stared at him, long enough to see that his amusement had vanished, taking his confidence with it. In that moment, he looked vulnerable and maybe even disappointed, though he tried to smile. Tried to be encouraging.
‘Enjoy your quadrille,’ he said, with a tip of his hat.
Her gut sank.
Once again, she had chosen the King. It was her choice. It may not have felt that way, but it was.
There was no taking it back, but . . .
‘Oh, I won’t be dancing the lobster quadrille,’ she whispered back. ‘I’m going to be in a secret sea cave. Remember?’
His eyes brightened, but she turned away before she could see whether he remembered his promise or not. Those hushed words spoken when he’d been standing in her room at the end of an impossible night.
She would dance her lobster quadrille. He would juggle his clams. And all the while they would pretend that they were hidden away in a secret sea cave, concerned with no one but themselves.
She was sure all the world would have noticed the longing in her face, except all the world was focused on her hand locked inside the crook of the King’s elbow.
They reached the dual lines of sea creatures, already partnered with their lobsters. The King was far too exuberant to notice how distracted Cath was.
What would have happened if she had asked Jest to dance instead?
What would happen if she chose him?
Was such a choice truly outside the realm of possibility, or did it only seem that way because such a choice had never presented itself before?
She was as empty as a marionette as the dance began, her body leading her through the steps. They advanced, they retreated. Her skirt twisted around her ankles. Her heels sank into the sand. The King’s hands were soggy in hers and the wind was burning her cheeks, and all around her lobsters were being tossed out to sea and their partners were diving in after them. Everyone was laughing and splashing and turning somersaults along with the music. Even the King, caught up in the moment, charged out into the surf, wading halfway up to his calves. He turned back to her, laughing.
Catherine alone remained above the foam, her smile frozen. In her head, she was sequestered away in a sea cave somewhere. In her mind, it was Jest grinning at her, his dimples carved deep into his cheeks. He beckoned to her, and she went.
She knew, in that moment, that she would go to him, if only he asked. She would be his, if he wanted her.
‘Oh no,’ she murmured, her smile thawing, falling, carried away with the undeniable, inevitable, impossible truth of it.
She was falling in love with him.
CHAPTER 27
THE AUDIENCE WAS FIERCE with applause as Catherine set her hand on top of the King’s and they walked together up the beach. The King was soaking wet and a strand of seaweed was caught on the heel of his shoes and he could not have sounded any more delighted than if the entire festival had been a surprise unbirthday party thrown in his honour.