Page 103 of The Duchess Trap
She paused at the door, looking back at him. “If it’s something that troubles you,” she said softly, “you don’t have to bear it alone.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. “Go to bed, Catherine.”
Something in her eyes flickered—hurt, perhaps, or disappointment— but she nodded once. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
When the door closed behind her, he turned back to the desk. The note still lay there, half-crumpled, the words glaring up at him like a challenge.
He picked it up again, smoothing the paper flat. His hands were steady now. The initial rage had cooled to something harder, the kind of focus that had built his fortune and broken anyone who thought to cross him.
Felton wanted to frighten him. To draw him out. But he had chosen the wrong weapon.
Duncan poured himself a drink, the crystal clinking softly against the decanter. The brandy burned its way down, a poor substitute for calm.
His gaze drifted toward the door where Catherine had stood moments ago. He could still smell her faintly in the air, lavender and smoke, soft and human against the cold scent of ink and glass. He pressed a hand to his chest, the ache there deeper than before.
He should tell her Lord Felton was to blame for the destruction of Brightwater. She had the right to know what the man had done. But the thought of fear in her eyes was unbearable. He’d keep this to himself. Handle it the way he handled everything else: decisively, quietly, without emotion.
And yet, as he sat behind his desk, the letter open before him, the memory of her voice refused to fade.
He set the brandy aside and leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Sleep would not come. His mind ran circles, tracing possibilities, strategies, retaliation. But beneath it all, one image remained: her face in the firelight, eyes wide and fearless.
If Felton thought to threaten her—to threatenthem—he’d learn what kind of man he was dealing with.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Duncan looked up briefly from the papers spread across his desk.
“Good morning,” he said.
She could see that he was preoccupied with some matter of business, but that did not stop her from proceeding.
A full three days had passed since the incident at Brightwater, and she was eager to be of use to the children once more.
“I thought we might go to Belgrave House this morning,” she said after a pause. “Mrs. Simms wrote that the older children have begun their lessons again. She says it comforts them to have a routine.”
“Very well,” he said, eyes still on the letter before him.
“I can go alone if you prefer,” she offered.
He looked up then, briefly meeting her gaze. “I’ll accompany you.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
The morning light filtered faintly through the tall windows, cold and gray, catching on the dust still floating in the air from their hurried return. Somewhere down the hall, a clock struck eight, its steady rhythm filling the silence they left behind. Servants moved quietly through the house, speaking in hushed tones, as though afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace lingered between their masters.
Catherine wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, following Duncan out into the pale day, her heart heavy with words she hadn’t found the courage to speak.
The carriage ride to Belgrave House was quiet. Too quiet.
Catherine sat opposite him, her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap. The London streets passed outside the window, gray morning light filtering through thin mist. Duncan’s gaze was fixed on the glass, his expression unreadable.
Once, she would have filled the silence with talk of the children, of plans for rebuilding Brightwater, of anything to draw him nearer again. But she’d learned enough of him to know that when he withdrew, words only pushed him further.
Still, the distance hurt.
“Have you been sleeping?” she asked softly.
He blinked, as though pulled from a long way off. “Well enough.”
