Page 33 of The Duchess Trap
Someone has come. At this hour.
Catherine’s pulse raced. She knew of no reason to expect visitors, and yet the sounds made below were distinctive. Someone had come to visit her husband in the dead of night.
She harrumphed indignantly.
Well…I shall not lie abed whilst my husband ravishes another woman in his chambers next door.
Positively enraged by the Duke’s audacity, Catherine vaulted from bed and tugged the bell cord sharply, summoning Alice. Within moments, the girl appeared, bleary-eyed but alert enough to curtsy.
“Lay out a morning gown at once, please,” Catherine said, breathless but not unkind. “And do make haste.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Alice bobbed again and hurried toward the wardrobe.
She helped her dress swiftly, Alice fastening hooks and smoothing the skirts of a pale blue muslin gown with practiced hands, while Catherine’s mind refused to be still.
Who would she find when she went downstairs? Who could not wait until the light of day to meet with her husband?
When at last she stepped into the corridor, candlelight flickering along the paneled walls, she gathered her skirts and hurried toward the main stair. The house seemed alive in a way it hadnot been yesterday, servants darting like shadows, the air thick with the promise of arrival.
She turned a corner and nearly collided with a wall of broad muscle and dark cloth.
“Oh!” she cried, stumbling back.
A strong hand shot out, steadying her arm before she toppled. The Duke.
He looked as though he had just risen from some brooding vigil, coat hastily buttoned, hair ruffled in that maddening way that made him appear both lordly and untamed.
She was bewildered.
He is not dressed to entertain.
Catherine’s heart thundered, her arm burning where his hand clasped it.
She jerked back, chin lifting high. “You might have knocked me flat.”
“I might have,” he returned evenly, releasing her as though she weighed nothing. “But I did not.”
She narrowed her eyes, breath still unsteady. “Do you make a habit of receiving visitors at this hour?”
“Not since we married.” His tone was maddeningly calm, though she noticed when his eyes shifted and he darted a glance around her shoulders. “I was on my way downstairs, as you were. I suggest we refrain from colliding again.”
She wondered at his response. He was acting as if he did not know who had come calling. So, she asked what seemed to be the obvious question. “Who would arrive at such an hour, unannounced?”
Duncan’s eyes met hers, steady, implacable. “I suppose it must be my grandmother.”
Catherine blinked. “Your grandmother?”
Of all the things she had expected him to say, this had not been one of them.
“The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford,” he clarified. His jaw flexed as if he braced for her reaction.
From below drifted the butler’s deep, polished tones, carrying through the stairwell as he hurried to assist their visitor.
“She is here,” Catherine whispered as she frantically fiddled with her coiffure and tugged on a few tendrils that had already escaped their pins.
The Duke’s gaze flicked over her. She could sense that he was scrutinizing her. “Compose yourself,” he said quietly, as though she were a trembling debutante. “My grandmother respects only steel.”
“And if I have none?” she retorted, though her voice wavered.
