Page 28 of The Duchess Trap
Helen gasped. “The man must be mad.”
“Perhaps I do not live up to his expectations,” Catherine whispered. “Perhaps he finds me inadequate.”
“Inadequate?” Helen scoffed. “You are the most beautiful woman in London, Catherine. And the most giving. If he cannot see what a treasure he’s found in you, he is blind.”
Catherine tried to laugh, but the sound wavered. “Beauty and generosity do not make a wife, apparently. Silence does. And he has that in abundance from me, whether I wish it or not.”
Helen studied her, brow furrowing. “And what of you? Do you wish it?”
Catherine hesitated. In her mind, the Duke’s face flashed again. She could not help but admire the sharp line of his jaw, the merciless blue of his eyes, and tingle at the thought of the heat of his palm when he had placed the ring on her finger or the devastating memory of his lips on hers after their wedding ceremony.
She sighed. “I do not know what I wish. He wounds my feelings, Helen. He barely speaks to me, and yet…” Her voice fell, trembling. “Yet when he looks at me, I burn.”
“I know he is handsome. But, darling,” Helen’s eyes softened, though worry lingered. “Guard your heart. A man like that, he may give you everything you need, but never what you long for most.”
Catherine’s throat tightened. She blinked quickly, but tears still pricked hot at the corners of her eyes. “And what is it you think I long for most?”
Helen smiled sadly. “Love.”
Catherine turned away, pressing her glove to her lips as if to silence the word.
Love.
Helen had managed to sum up Catherine’s feelings in one simple word: Love. She had heard so much of the Duke’s reputation and had yet to experience a great deal for herself. She wanted him to love her, to adore her, to treat her as if she meant more than all his other conquests combined.
Unfortunately, the Duke did not see her in such a light. He took care of her and obliged her needs, but he did not love her.
CHAPTER 8
“No, Mrs. Simms, I will not sit idly by while men hammer and saw as though Brightwater were some merchant’s warehouse,” Catherine declared, planting her hands firmly on her hips.
Mrs. Simms pursed her lips until they nearly vanished. “Your Grace, it is not proper. A duchess ought not soil her gown with plaster dust, nor risk splinters. The workmen can manage perfectly. Please, do not trouble yourself.”
“I haven’t always been a duchess,” Catherine lifted her chin. “Let them grow accustomed to being managed by me. I will not stand by as though I am a mere visitor. These children are mine to protect, and this house—” She glanced around at the cracked plaster and half-finished beams “—is mine to see restored.”
The matron muttered something under her breath about headstrong young ladies, but Catherine ignored it.
For six days, she had risen earlier than the workers, rolled up her sleeves, and inserted herself into every corner of the renovations. She fetched water for the men when the heat grew unbearable, helped the children sweep away sawdust, and even argued over which colors the walls should bear once painting began.
Her palms were no longer soft, her nails bore the faint crescents of labor, and more than once she had returned home with dust clinging stubbornly to her hair. She had endured the matron’s scandalized sighs and the workmen’s uneasy bows, but she would not relent.
It was not stubbornness alone that propelled her. Every strike of hammer against wood reminded her of her mother, of afternoons when she had run through these halls chasing the same children who now looked to her for guidance.
Her mother’s voice lingered in memory, warm and certain,“Always stand where you are needed most, Catherine.”
And so, she stood, even if her husband would likely scowl were he to hear of it.
That thought made her heart skip, though she forced herself not to dwell on the Duke. For an instant, when she had brought him to Brightwater, she had dared to imagine that things would be different between them once they returned to the townhouse. But—she’d been wrong. From that day forward, the Duke dressed and left their shared home before dawn. He disappeareduntil late, when he would march through the doors and straight to his own bedchambers.
More than once, it occurred to her that her husband might spend some of his time visiting with a mistress, but she refused to allow such thoughts to occupy her headspace. Instead, she poured herself into her work.
She did not insert herself into the renovations at Brightwater because she wished to annoy Mrs. Simms or impede the improvements. Rather, when she was here, she felt useful. Her presence was not just logged; it was appreciated. And that was more than she could claim for her situation once she returned home.
By the sixth day, Brightwater hummed with progress. The front hall rang with the clang of hammers, beams being measured and fitted into place overhead. Children pressed their noses to the edges of the work, wide-eyed, whispering and giggling in awe of the noise and bustle.
“Step back, darlings, else you’ll have dust in your curls,” Catherine told them, laughing as a little boy clutched her skirts.
She smoothed his hair, heart swelling. If her husband’s money had bought these beams, then she would repay it with her labor and sweat.
