Page 30 of The Duchess Trap
He filled the doorway, tall, broad-shouldered, golden-brown hair gleaming faintly even in the dimness. His blue eyes burned like storm light as they took in her bleeding hand, her dust-streaked gown, and her precarious stance upon the ladder. She had no trouble reading the gruffness in his expression.
Catherine’s stomach plunged.
Why could he not have seen me at my best? Why did he turn up during the most inopportune moment?
He took one step into the hall, his voice a whip crack across the air. “What in God’s name were you doing up there?”
The words rang through the hall like a thunderclap. Every hammer stilled, every child’s mouth fell open, even the matron’s wide eyes bugged.
Catherine gripped the ladder, forcing her breath to flow with ease. Her cheeks burned hotter than the scrape on her palm.
“I am helping,” she answered, voice pitched with defiance, though her heart battered her ribs. “As someone must.”
The Duke strode closer, his boots striking the wooden floor with terrifying precision. He stopped at the foot of the ladder, his blue eyes glacial as they swept over her.
“Yes,” he said, voice low and cutting. “Someone must. But not my wife.”
A chill rippled through the hall. The children, who had been clustered like sparrows at her skirts, shrank back. The workers glanced at one another, suddenly fascinated by their boots.
Catherine’s throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his icy gaze, even after facing such humiliation.
“Your Grace—” Mrs. Simms began, voice trembling.
“The Duchess is finished for the day,” the Duke said sharply, not looking at her. “See that work continues without interruption.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the woman murmured, bobbing an anxious curtsy.
Catherine bristled; the sting of indignation was hotter than the scrape on her hand.
“Finished for the day?” she snapped. “You cannot dismiss me as though I were a maid in your kitchen.”
“And you cannot endanger yourself as though you were a common laborer,” he shot back while guiding her toward the door. His hand was stone hard against the small of her back. She felt the way his fingers twitched, and she wished to jerk free from him. “Enough. You are coming with me.”
The children shrieked after her, voices piping with worry: “Your Grace! Will you be back?”
Her heart cracked at the sound, but her husband did not pause. He wrenched open the great door and all but pushed her into the waiting carriage.
“Do not make matters worse,” she hissed. “At the very least, allow me to say a proper goodbye to the children and Mrs. Simms.” The Duke paused for a moment and inclined his head marginally, indicating he was giving in to her demands.
“I will see you again soon,” she called to one and all before the Duke pressed his fingertips against her spine, urging her silently to enter the carriage.
The Duke slammed the door behind them, and then darkness wrapped around them as the carriage jolted forward.
Catherine cradled her wounded hand to her chest and glared across the expanse at him. “You humiliated me before everyone. The children?—”
“The children,” Duncan interrupted, “nearly watched you break your neck. Do you imagine that would have comforted them?”
For a passing second, Catherine felt the world narrow to Duncan’s face and the small, bruised arc of her palm.
“I…I was not in danger,” she said, forcing the consonants out with a concentrated amount of effort. “A scrape, a bruise. Nothing more.”
He did not soften. He crossed his arms, the movement taut with anger and worry. “It does not matter that it wasonlya scratch. You are reckless in a way that is not amusing, Duchess. You cannot understand what I thought when I walked into that room and saw you teetering precariously. I…” He turned away from her before muttering thickly, “You are coming home now, and we will not discuss this matter further.”
Catherine was astonished by the way his voice had gone hoarse. She was so astounded, in fact, that she granted his wishes and allowed the carriage to roll on in silence.
CHAPTER 9
The carriage jolted sharply to a halt at a crossing, the wheels grinding against the stones. Catherine pitched forward with a startled cry, her hands flailing for purchase, her skirts tangling clumsily about her legs.
