Page 110 of The Duchess Trap
Helen didn’t reply. The silence between them was full of comfort, of grief, of love that still lived even when it shouldn’t. Catherine closed her eyes, letting the sound of the children’s laughter drift over her like balm and salt all at once.
“Have you even slept?”
The question came from out of the blue, dragging Duncan’s attention from the mountain of papers strewn across his desk. He hadn’t heard the door open. Stephen stood there, one hand braced against the frame, studying him with that infuriating mix of concern and disapproval that only a good friend could manage.
Duncan leaned back in his chair, blinking against the candlelight that had burned too low. “Sleep is a waste of time,” he said flatly.
Stephen crossed the room without waiting for an invitation, his boots heavy against the carpet. “Is it?”
Duncan didn’t look up. His pen scraped once more across the ledger, steady, mechanical. The ink had begun to fade into uneven strokes, his handwriting a shadow of its usual precision.
“I’ve no time for circular conversations,” he muttered.
Stephen stopped at the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “I’ve been patient, Duncan. But this—” He gestured to the mess before him. “This isn’t work. This is penance.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “If that’s what it takes to keep this house safe, then so be it.”
“Safe from what?” Stephen demanded. “Felton’s threats? He’s a coward with a pen and too much brandy. You’ll have him tried and dealt with soon enough.”
Duncan rose so fast the chair scraped back against the floor. “Mind yourself.”
“I am,” Stephen said, unmoved. “It’s you I’m worried about. You look like hell, Duncan.”
“Thank you for your observation,” he said coldly.
Stephen took a step closer, his voice softening. “When was the last time you left this room? Or spoke to your wife? You’ve turned this house into a tomb.”
Duncan’s hand closed into a fist against the edge of the desk. The wood bit into his palm. “I told you?—”
“You’ve told me nothing,” Stephen cut in. “You scamper about the streets of London, making deals in secret, and whispering behind closed doors. But to what end? You have just as muchleverage to take Lord Felton down as you did months ago, and yet you persist in this worthless endeavor.”
Duncan ground out, “This endeavor is not worthless.”
Stephen sighed, stepping closer. “You’re right, of course. I should not have said so much. I know what she means to you.”
Duncan’s head turned sharply. “You know nothing.”
“I know you haven’t been the same since you married your Duchess. I know that you wished to throttle Lord Felton for years, to make him pay for all the crimes he committed against your father, but you held back until Catherine and Lord Portsbury entered your sphere of influence.”
“She deserves peace,” he said finally, his voice low. “I must give her that much.”
Stephen frowned. “She doesn’t want peace. She wantsyou.”
Duncan’s jaw flexed. “You think love fixes men like me? That it mends what’s broken?”
“I think it reminds us that we’re still human.”
Duncan’s hands clenched behind his back. He said nothing.
Because Stephen was right, he wanted her more than his name, more than his reputation, more than the safety he clung to like salvation. He wanted the sound of her laughter at breakfast, the light in her eyes when she talked about the children, the way her hand had felt against his chest that night after the fire. He wanted the compassion she shared openly and the warmth he’d never known until she gave it freely.
Stephen sighed. “I’ve never met a man more determined to be miserable.”
“Better miserable than reckless.”
Stephen stared at him as though he was afraid Duncan had lost his marbles.
“I won’t put her in danger again,” he said quietly.
