Page 113 of The Duchess Trap
“I hope so,” she said.
He lingered a moment longer, as if searching for one last fragment of conversation, but none came. His shoulders slumped. Without another word, he opened the door and left.
Catherine stood where he had been, the faint scent of brandy still lingering in the air. The silence that followed was almostunbearable. Her body trembled from the effort of holding herself together. She pressed a hand to her chest, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Outside the window, the children’s laughter floated up again, untouched by the ugliness of the world. She walked toward the sound, drawn to it. Through the glass, she saw them playing in the garden, sunlight glinting off ribbons and hair, their joy unspoiled.
Her father’s shadow still hung in the room, but she let it fall away behind her. She had chosen something different for herself now, a life she would build with her own hands, not inherited from ruin.
And though her heart still ached for the man who would not let her in, she understood one thing with perfect, painful clarity: she would not let another man break her. Not even the one she loved most.
“Good heavens, Duncan, this house looks like a mausoleum.”
The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford stood framed in the doorway, wrapped in a traveling cloak of pale gray silk, a cane in one hand and an unimpressed expression on her face. The footman behind her looked half-terrified, half-relieved to be dismissed when she waved him off.
Duncan rose from his chair behind the desk, startled. “Grandmother.”
“Yes, I see you remember me,” she said dryly, tapping her cane once against the parquet floor as her eyes swept the study. “I would have announced myself, but your butler looked as though he’d been instructed to speak only in whispers. One could hardly breathe for the gloom.”
He sighed, loosening his cravat. “I didn’t expect company.”
“No, clearly not. You’ve been hiding.”
“I have been working.”
“Ah,” she said, her gaze drifting to the heap of correspondence scattered across the desk. “Working. That peculiar Raynsford ailment that always looks so very much like penance.”
Duncan’s jaw flexed. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“Loneliness,” she said simply. “My house has grown dreadfully dull, and rumor travels faster than boredom. Half of London knows about the fire at Brightwater. The other half whispers that you and your duchess have vanished from society entirely. I decided to see which half was true.”
He sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”
“I’ll determine what troubles me, thank you.” She crossed the room with surprising grace for her age and sat opposite him, leaning on her cane like a queen surveying a disobedient court. “Now, tell me. Where is Catherine?”
“At Belgrave House,” he said shortly.
Her brow lifted. “With the children?”
“Yes.”
A pause, long and heavy. “And you?”
“I remain here. There are… matters to attend to.”
She studied him for a moment, the faintest arch of her silver brow betraying disbelief. “Matters,” she repeated softly. “You mean letters. And silence. And whatever else you use to keep from speaking to the woman you married.”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “I have my reasons.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he said, the word clipped. “If you knew the circumstances, you’d understand.”
“Try me.”
He hesitated, then stood, walking toward the fireplace. The flames had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. “Brightwater was no accident,” he said finally. “Someone set it as a warning. Later, a note arrived here, threatening to burn this house next.”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “My word.”
