Page 107 of The Duchess Trap
He leaned back, exhaling. “There are matters you need not concern yourself with.”
“That’s what you said before,” she replied softly. “And yet here we are — you closing every door between us, and I standing outside all of them.”
His hand tightened against the armrest. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then help me,” she said, voice trembling but steady. “Help me understand.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. The fire crackled between them, throwing golden light across his face.
Finally, he spoke. “I can see you will not let this go.”
“No,” she agreed resolutely.
He opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, its edges creased as though it had been handled many times. He held it out to her without meeting her eyes.
“Here,” he said, offering her the note.
Catherine took it with both hands, as if the small thing might burn her. The paper was coarse under her fingertips. Her pulse beat in her throat as she unfolded it. The handwriting was clinical and deliberate, each letter a small, patient cruelty.
Interfere in my business again, and the next fire will be yours.
Her breath left her in a small, involuntary sound. For a second, she had no words—only a cold, roiling terror that had nothing to do with flame and everything to do with the man who dared threaten what she loved.
“My God,” she whispered, the syllables cracking. “Duncan?—”
He nodded slowly. “It was waiting for me the night we returned.” He folded his hands on the desk, as if to steady them, thoughhis shoulders were tight enough to show the strain beneath his composure. “No name. No seal. But I know who sent it.”
Her heart pounded like a frantic bird against her ribs. The name came from her as if from the same frightened creature. “Felton.”
He let the single syllable drop into the room like a verdict. “Of course.”
She sank slowly into the nearest chair, the letter trembling in her hands. “Then this—this could be everything you need. Proof of his threats. It could solidify your case?—”
“I intend to use it,” he interrupted. His voice was cold, measured, and almost detached. It chilled her.
“Then why do you sound as though you’ve already lost?” she whispered.
“You don’t understand what Felton is capable of. If he’s willing to set fire to an orphanage, he’ll stop at nothing. He knows you care for Brightwater. He knows I?—”
He stopped short.
She stepped closer. “Knows what?”
His silence was deafening.
“Say it,” she whispered.
He didn’t. Instead, he moved to the decanter and poured himself a drink, the sound of liquid against glass the only reply.
“I understand the danger,” she pressed on, voice trembling. “I know what Felton is capable of. But I’m not afraid to face it with you. Don’t you see? We’re stronger together.”
He shook his head, turning away again. “You think strength lies in feeling. It doesn’t. It lies in control. And right now, control is the only thing keeping us safe.”
She stared at him, her heart twisting. “And what happens when control is all you have left?”
He didn’t answer.
“Tell me,” she said, stepping closer, “what happens when you’ve beaten Felton, when he’s gone?” Her voice trembled as she struggled to bring up something that had weighed on her heart for months but had never dared mention it before. “I…I remember that when you first asked me to marry you, there was a timeline placed on our…relationship.” She gulped. “You said that we should feign happiness…project love until…until Christmastide and then…then…”
