Page 14 of The Duchess Trap
Catherine pressed her palms to her eyes, drawing a deep breath. The bed beside her lay untouched, sheets smooth and unwrinkled. Duncan’s door had remained firmly closed through the night.
He had not returned. He had left her trembling, humiliated, and burning with a shame she could not shake.
Very well,she thought fiercely, pushing herself upright.If he will not play the husband, then I shall play the duchess.
By midmorning, she was already in the morning room with Mrs. Hardwick, the housekeeper. Ledgers and account books lay spread before her, the ink crisp, the columns of figures stark against the pages. Catherine scanned them with practiced eyes. Her years managing her father’s dwindling household had honed her instincts. She knew at a glance where corners had been cut, where repairs had been delayed, and how money had been misused.
“This roof in the east wing,” Catherine said, tapping a finger against one entry, “it was noted for repair last year and again this spring. Why has it not been done?”
Mrs. Hardwick blinked, clearly startled. “It has been His Grace’s custom to delay until the cost could be?—”
“Delay no longer. It’s best to have it done before the winter.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And here—” Catherine flipped to another page, lips tightening. “The tenants at Wexford. Their rent is too high for the yield of their fields. Have the steward reduce it by ten percent.”
The housekeeper’s brows lifted further, but she dipped her head. “As you wish.”
The thrill of purpose coursed through Catherine like fire. For the first time since the vows had been spoken, she felt steady. This, at least, she could do. She could manage, she could protect, she could ensure Raynsford Hall did not rot under neglect as her father’s estates had.
Hours passed in a blur of lists and instructions. Footmen came and went. The cook presented menus, and the gardener requested approval for new plantings. Catherine dealt with each swiftly, her pen scratching across the page with confidence. She even made time to send a quick missive to Lord Felton.
You will receive the payment shortly.
With a flourish, she signed her married name,Her Grace, the Duchess of Raynsford.
This simple act filled Catherine with incalculable stores of satisfaction. With one stroke of her quill, she had effectively dismissed Lord Felton and his schemes and had saved the children at Brightwater.
And yet, beneath the surface of every task and amid this heady triumph, a single thought pulsed relentlessly.
Where is he?
By afternoon, Catherine found herself beside Mrs. Hardwick again, reviewing staff rosters.
She glanced up, feigning nonchalance. “And His Grace, how does he usually spend his days?”
The housekeeper folded her hands. “His Grace is a busy man. He keeps his accounts in order himself and manages his affairs directly. He has little patience for idleness, but he is… fair.”
“Fair?” Catherine pressed.
“Strict, yes,” Mrs. Hardwick said carefully, “but fair. He does not demand more than he is willing to do himself. He rewards diligence, and he will not tolerate dishonesty.”
Catherine’s lips curved faintly, though not in humor. Strict, fair, unyielding. All the things she had already seen. Yet the wordslittle patience for idlenessdid not sit quite right. As far as she knew, the Duke had a reputation for carousing and spending time with mistresses aplenty. If that was not a show of idleness, she did not know what it was.
Disconcerted once again by the enigma that was her husband, Catherine closed the ledger with a snap. “That will be all.”
When the housekeeper withdrew, Catherine rose and crossed to the window. The lawns stretched out in sweeping perfection, the autumn leaves gilded gold beneath the afternoon sun. Somewhere out there, she imagined the Duke astride a horse. It had simply never crossed her mind that he might spend his days locked in a study, poring over accounts, and managing his estate.
This new take on her husband was enlightening.
Perhaps he is not the rake I thought him to be…
Catherine left the last of the maids with instructions about the linen presses, smoothing her skirts as she made her way toward the dining room.
The day had been long, an endless parade of names, duties, decisions, and she had buried herself in it gratefully, as if sheer labor might drown the ache in her chest. Dinner, she told herself, would be no different, just another task to be done before bed.
She pushed open the door, expecting only the quiet grandeur of the empty table.
