Page 72 of The Duchess Trap
Henry’s breathing slowed again, shallow but even. The danger passed, for now.
Catherine sagged forward, her head bowing until her forehead nearly brushed the boy’s arm.
“I can’t bear it,” she whispered. “To lose him?—”
“You won’t.”
She looked up at him, eyes glistening. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Because we’ll not let him go.”
She exhaled shakily, as though his words were a promise she wanted to believe but didn’t know how.
He reached out without thinking, brushing his thumb across the tears that trembled on her cheek. She went utterly still.
“Catherine,” he said, her name low, rough, the sound of it almost reverent.
She turned her face slightly into his hand, as if against her will, her breath catching.
For a heartbeat, the room shrank to nothing but the two of them—the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the scent of her, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she steadied herself.
He should have pulled away. He didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. “For being angry. For thinking you wouldn’t come.”
“You had reason,” he said.
She shook her head, tears slipping free despite her effort. “No. You always come when it matters.”
Duncan swallowed hard, the words landing somewhere deep and unguarded. He wanted to tell her that she mattered more than he knew how to admit, that the thought of her alone in this place had driven him nearly mad. But he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t emerge.
Instead, he said softly, “You did well.”
She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face as though seeing something she hadn’t before.
“You care for them,” she whispered. “For the children.”
He hesitated. “They’ve no one else.”
Her lips parted, her breath unsteady. “That’s not the only reason.”
He didn’t answer, but the undeniable truth hung between them unspoken. He cared because she cared. Because every time she walked into a room, she made him remember what decency felt like.
Henry stirred again, drawing a faint sound from them both. Duncan reached to adjust the blanket, his hand brushing hers. She didn’t pull away this time.
For the rest of the night, they moved together as if they had done this always. Wordless, in rhythm, bound by shared purpose and something deeper. When she faltered, he steadied her. When he went still, she took over. Occasionally, the physician or Mrs. Simms reappeared, but mostly, Catherine and Duncan saw to Henry’s care.
“Eat something.”
Duncan’s voice broke the quiet, low but firm, as though command might accomplish what gentleness could not. The candle had burned nearly to its base, its flame flickering against the curve of Catherine’s cheek. She sat slumped beside the bed, eyes fixed on the boy, her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles had gone white.
She didn’t move. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve not eaten since yesterday.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
Duncan frowned. He straightened from where he stood at the foot of the bed, every inch of him taut with frustration. “Then sleep, at least. You’ll collapse before dawn.”
