Page 24 of The Duchess Trap
But Lord Felton… When Duncan thought of that wily man with his sly smiles and ledgers of blood, he saw only the very face of the men who had bled his father dry.
Stephen poured another measure of port with leisurely care. “My advice, for what it’s worth: forget Felton for a night. Forget your grand schemes of justice. Focus instead on the woman fate has strapped to your side. She is young, beautiful, and by all accounts, charitable.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You could do worse.”
Duncan swallowed hard.
Beautiful. Charitable.
His chest ached with the truth of it, even as his mind screamed against it. Catherine was all those things and more.
“I do not require your advice,” he said curtly.
“Of course you don’t,” Stephen drawled, raising his glass in mock salute. “And yet you look precisely like a man who does.”
Duncan exhaled slowly. He wanted to rise, to leave, to bury himself again in ledgers and reports, anything to drive her from his mind. But even here, in the smoke-scented halls of White’s, Catherine lingered.
The phantom press of her lips. The sound of her voice.
There was so much more he wished to give her, yet he would not take that which she did not willingly offer.
Until his wife invited him into her bedchambers, he would keep his distance.
CHAPTER 7
“Your Grace, we are honored.” Mrs. Simms dipped into a deep curtsy.
It had been several days since his conversation with Stephen, and the carriage ride that morning had carried him to Brightwater, the orphanage that had so consumed his new wife’s heart and reputation.
He inclined his head politely. “You have the accounts ready?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Everything is in order.”
“Good.” His voice sounded stilted as it rang through the hall. He wanted to show some ounce of kindness, but this was new territory for him. Honestly, Duncan did not know precisely how to behave in this situation.
He adjusted his gloves as he followed her through the narrow corridor, the air filled with chalk, ink, and the faint, unmistakable scent of bread baking somewhere downstairs.
His gaze slid sideways to Catherine. She moved lightly at Mrs. Simms’s side, skirts whispering against the worn floorboards. Her chin was lifted, her eyes bright, her steps certain, as if she had walked these halls a thousand times before. Which, of course, she had.
“Here we are, Your Grace,” Mrs. Simms said briskly, leading them into a modest office where ledgers lay open across a desk.
She gestured for Catherine to sit, though Catherine remained standing, already bending over the nearest book with sharp concentration.
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. He had expected hesitation, perhaps even fear. Instead, she lifted the quill as though it were a sword and began turning pages with confident fingers.
“The roof is being repaired,” she said, glancing up at Mrs. Simms. “And the apprenticeships: three letters sent, one confirmed. The older boys will be placed before winter.”
Duncan stilled. Efficient. Decisive. He had not thought to find her so capable. He had assumed her passion for Brightwater might be more sentimental. Childish, even. But her words rang with authority, every instruction sharp and unhesitating.
Impressive.
“Supplies?” he asked.
“We are well-stocked through December,” Mrs. Simms replied quickly, “but the children’s winter coats are wearing thin.”
“Then see that new ones are made,” Catherine replied. “Wool if you can find it, and fleece-lined for the smallest. Ask the seamstresses in the market to take the work, pay them a fair price, and have the measurements ready by week’s end.”
Duncan’s head tilted almost imperceptibly. His gaze lingered on her profile, on the curve of her cheek, the sweep of dark lashes bent toward the page. There was no tremor in her tone, no flicker of doubt in her words.
She commanded, not for vanity’s sake, but for the sake of others.
