Page 34 of The Duchess Trap
“I very much doubt that, wife,” he replied without hesitation, his hand settling briefly at her back to guide her toward the stairs.
The touch was light, scarcely more than pressure through fabric, yet her whole body leapt to life at it. She stiffened, furious with herself, but she did not shake him off.
“Duncan!” The call rang through the great hall, crisp and imperious. “Where is my grandson?”
His jaw flexed. He gave Catherine a single, warning glance before they descended together.
The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford was a vision of black silk and gleaming jet beads, her frame slender but ramrod straight, her chin lifted as though the entire house belonged not to her grandson but to her alone. A diamond brooch glinted at her throat. Her gray hair was swept into a coiffure so severe it looked carved rather than arranged.
Her eyes, however, were keen as a hawk’s. They landed on Duncan first, then shifted to Catherine and lingered.
“Well.” Her voice sliced through the silence, dry as old sherry. “So, the honeymoon is not quite over yet?”
Catherine forced a curtsy, though her knees trembled. A flush of embarrassment overtook her as well once she recognized how the Dowager had misread the situation between herself and the Duke. “Your Grace.”
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed. “You’re pretty enough. But too nervous.” Her gaze snapped back to Duncan. “You’ve not frightened the poor girl into silence already, have you?”
“No,” Duncan said evenly.
“Yes,” Catherine said at the same time, cheeks flaming.
The Dowager’s brows shot up. “Which is it?”
Catherine darted a glance at Duncan, who stood as immovable as a marble statue, then blurted, “He has a dreadful way of staring. One feels one has committed some grave crime simply by existing in his presence.”
The Dowager barked a laugh. “At last, a woman with a tongue sharp enough to answer him. About time. Duncan, you ought to be grateful. Heaven knows I despaired of ever seeing you married before your hair turned white.”
“Grandmother,” Duncan said, his tone flat with warning.
“Oh, hush. You cannot silence me.” She swept forward, skirts rustling, and seized Catherine’s hand with surprising strength. “Well then, girl. How goes the marriage?”
Catherine’s mouth opened, but Duncan’s voice cut across hers in the same instant.
“Smoothly,” he said.
“With difficulty,” Catherine admitted at the same time, her voice soft but far too honest.
The Dowager’s eyes glittered. “Ah. Differing opinions, I see.”
Catherine’s cheeks burned hotter. “I did not mean—only?—”
“She exaggerates,” Duncan said smoothly.
“I do not!” Catherine snapped, then bit her lip too late.
The Dowager’s laughter rang out while scandalized servants shifted uncomfortably along the walls. “Oh, I like you. You’ve got some spirit. God help us all, perhaps enough to match him.” She released Catherine’s hand and tapped her cane smartly against the floor. “Now then, tell me, did I interrupt the two of you whilst you were in the throes of passion?” Her curious eyes flicked up and down Duncan’s unruly appearance. “Have you settled your chambers as man and wife ought?”
Catherine froze, every drop of blood in her body surging to her cheeks.
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “That is a private matter.”
“Private?” The Dowager scoffed. “Rubbish. A marriage without heirs is no marriage at all. You are a duke, Duncan, and your line depends upon it. Have you?—”
“Grandmother,” Duncan interrupted, voice low and edged with perturbation, “you will not interrogate my wife on the subject of our bedroom habits.”
Catherine’s entire body felt as if it had been set aflame. Images she had tried to banish surged to the fore—his mouth descending on hers in the carriage, the way she felt when he pulled her closer, and how much it had hurt to be so cruelly disregarded once the carriage stopped rolling.
Her thighs pressed together beneath her gown, desperate to still the ache those memories conjured.
