Page 40 of The Duchess Trap
Dear God.
Her pulse leapt into her throat as heat flooded her cheeks. Duncan’s arm gripped hers, solid and steady. She took great comfort in feeling him so near her side. Together, they crossed the threshold.
Smile, she ordered herself.Smile, or you will be devoured.
She curved her lips, praying it looked natural, praying no one saw the truth, that her stomach was knotted with dread, that her skin burned with memories of his mouth, and that her marriage was nothing like what they imagined.
The crowd parted, bowing, curtseying, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Whispers rose again, muted but sharp.
“Duchess.” The voice made her start. Her father.
The Viscount Portsbury stood awkwardly near the edge of the crowd, his shoulders hunched, his hair thinner than she remembered.
He gave her a quick, jerky bow, his eyes darting between her and Duncan as though uncertain of the ground beneath his feet.
“Father,” she said softly, her voice catching.
She stepped closer, torn between the impulse to embrace him, to scold him, or to pretend nothing at all had changed. For years, she had been the one to mind him, to smooth his debts, and to carry burdens no daughter should.
Now she stood beside Duncan as a duchess, and could no longer fall into that old role, yet she felt its pull all the same.
“You look… well,” he managed at last, tugging at his cuffs with restless fingers.
His gaze lingered on her gown, on the jewels at her throat, then slipped away quickly, as though ashamed to meet her eyes.
Her heart squeezed. “Iamwell,” she said, though the words felt hollow. “And you?”
“I manage,” he murmured, his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile, though it never reached his eyes.
A silence fell, unbearably raw.
Catherine swallowed. “I thought I might see you when we both visited Brightwater. Or I fancied that you might… You might call on me.”
He shifted uneasily, eyes flicking to Duncan’s hand resting at her back. “You are a duchess now. You have greater concerns than your father.”
She opened her mouth, desperate to deny it, to tell him she would always be his daughter before anything else, but her lips closed around the words.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “I must greet an acquaintance. Excuse me.”
And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Catherine stood rooted, her chest aching, her fingers tightening around her fan until the sticks creaked. She forced her lips into another smile, though it felt brittle, ready to shatter.
“Do not,” Duncan said low beside her, “let the tension between you and your father trouble you.”
Her eyes flashed to his. “How can it not?”
His gaze held hers, steady, unflinching. “Because soon…very soon…all his burdens will melt like snow,” he said quietly. “He will be better, and when he has recovered fully, your relationship will improve.”
Catherine did not understand Duncan’s meaning. She was grateful to him for discharging her father’s debts, but his words indicated that there was more to the story.
What does the Duke know about my father’s struggles that he has failed to share with me?
Before she could answer, another voice intruded too smoothly.
“Your Graces.”
Lord Felton stood before them, bowing low. His coat gleamed, his smile was dazzling, his manners faultless. Only the faint gleam in his eyes betrayed the viper beneath.
