Page 45 of The Duchess Trap
“Several, I suspect,” he said with exaggerated gravity, though the glimmer in his eyes betrayed him. “My powers are waning. A tragic fate for a man of my youth.”
Catherine gave a gasp, before she playfully fluttered her eyelashes. “Impossible. Tell me, is London prepared for such devastation? Must we send word to the papers that Mr. Benjamin Selkirk’s charms are in decline?”
“Do not jest,” he returned with a grin. “It has been quite the fall from grace. Why, only last week I attempted to compliment a lady’s gown and was met with silence so cold I feared I should freeze upon the spot.”
Her laughter spilled out, easy and genuine. “Perhaps you deserved it. I cannot imagine you managed the compliment without some irreverence tucked inside.”
“True,” he admitted, still smiling, though a faint color rose at his collar. “But even so, I begin to think I have met my match.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Come now, confess. Who is it that has humbled you so? Which lady has survived the hurricane of your flattery and lived to tell the tale?”
Benjamin hesitated. His grin softened, losing its boyish mischief for something gentler, more earnest. “Her name is Margaret. A baron’s daughter. She is clever, far too clever for me, and yet she listens. She does not dismiss me as a jester, Catherine. She… steadies me.” He paused, a rare flicker of uncertainty shadowing his expression. “I think I may love her.”
Catherine’s heart eased, the laughter still bright in her eyes, though now warmed with relief.
“Then you must tell her so,” she urged, her voice sincere, her smile unfeigned. “For if she is sensible, she will love you in return. Few women can resist a man who makes them laugh.”
Benjamin’s grin broke wide, boyish and irrepressible once more. “You have not changed, Catherine. Always urging others toward happiness.”
As Benjamin spun her about the ballroom, Catherine caught a glimpse of her husband. She longed to hear him laugh again. His happiness was tied to her own, after all, and even though she was pleased for her friend, she wanted something of her own, too.
“I wish you every joy,” she said as the waltz continued. “Truly, I do. And promise me you shall visit Brightwater soon. The children will be eager to hear your tales.”
“Then I will come,” he vowed, his grin bright as he caught her hand and spun her neatly beneath his arm.
Her skirts flared, and laughter bubbled between them.
As she twirled once more, Catherine sought a second glimpse of her husband, but Duncan was suddenly absent. He was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER 14
“Raynsford, you’ve gone quiet.”
Stephen’s voice cut across the cluster of men, drawing Duncan’s attention back to the circle of conversation.
The clink of glasses, the murmur of politics, the easy laughter of peers, all of it grated against him. He had no patience for their trifles, not tonight, not with the air in his lungs burning hotter with every passing moment.
“I am listening,” Duncan replied, his tone clipped.
Stephen smirked, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Listening, yes. Engaged? Not in the slightest. Your jaw looks ready to snap in two.”
Duncan did not answer. His gaze had strayed again, drawn across the expanse of the ballroom as though by iron chains.
The violins had struck up another waltz, the crowd parting to reveal Catherine.
His wife stood radiant in pale silk, her head tipped back as she laughed at something spoken by the man whose hand enclosed hers.
The sight cleaved through Duncan like an axe.
Her smile—God, that smile—was not his tonight. It was given freely, easily, to another.
And the man? A stranger to him. Younger, slighter, hair burnished gold under the chandeliers, his face alight with admiration that Duncan could read even from a distance.
Duncan’s blood surged hot, pounding in his ears.
Who was he, and why in God’s name was Catherine allowing such liberty as laughter, as unguarded joy, in his company?
He heard Stephen nearly choke on his drink. “Ah. That explains it.”
