Page 50 of The Duchess Trap
The words landed just as she intended, and for a heartbeat, the ladies’ false smiles faltered. Helen laughed lightly, and Catherine took satisfaction in knowing that while the others chose to speak in riddles, her own words would not be misconstrued.
Lady Ashcombe regained her composure immediately. “Devotion is admirable, of course. But one must admit, it isunusual. A duchess with dirt beneath her nails, tending to riffraff instead of gracing drawing rooms. One wonders what His Grace makes of such eccentricities.”
Catherine sent a sidelong glance at Helen, who only shrugged as if to say, “Are these women really so daft as to continue in this vein?”
And then Lady Stanhope added something that made Catherine’s head spin, for her words were not cloaked in delicacy or enigmas. “One can hardly imagine why anyone would marry into your family. Such entanglements are unfortunate.”
For a moment, Catherine saw red. She had never been so insulted in all her life, and her first instinct was to reply with a waspish retort. But she was saved from stooping so low by Helen, who carefully squeezed her forearm and pulled her half a step away from the terrorizing trio of ladies.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” Catherine said coolly, mastering her impulses so that she was able to behave as she ought, rather than how she wished.
With that, she turned on her heel, her silks whispering as she walked away, leaving the vipers to choke on their own venom.
Helen hurried after her, whispering furiously, “Do not heed them, Catherine. They are bitter, petty creatures. You outshine them all.”
But the words slid off her like water on glass. Their barbs had struck too deep.
Why would anyone marry into your family?
The cruel line echoed in her skull, louder than the violins, louder than the chatter of the crowd.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps Duncan’s coldness, his mercurial temper, his constant restraint and sudden violence of passion…perhaps all of it stemmed from seeing her as less. Too tied to the shame of her father, too mired in Brightwater’s mess to ever be the wife a duke deserved.
Her throat ached. She turned slowly to search for her husband, who she assumed was still dealing with the fallout of her father’s behavior, but she could not find him.
Does he despise my weakness? Does he wish that he had been locked inside that room with another young lady?
She bit back tears as a reminder of that first night they were trapped together returned to the forefront of her mind.
Why was it the two of us? What twist of fate brought us together? Even then, Duncan knew he needed to protect me, but did he fully comprehend how much of his attention I would require?
The ballroom pressed too close, the candlelight too bright, the whispers too sharp. Catherine’s fan shook in her hand. She could not breathe beneath the weight of so many eyes.
“I need air,” she whispered, more to herself than to Helen.
She slipped through the throng, her skirts brushing against silks and satins, her heart pounding with every step.
At last, she found a side door leading to the garden. Cool night air rushed against her flushed cheeks, carrying the faint scent of roses and damp earth. The garden stretched before her, dark and quiet beneath the stars.
Catherine gripped the balustrade, drawing in great gulps of air. Her hands shook, but she held steady.
I will not fall apart. I will not require Duncan to rush out here and rescue me. He has enough to deal with in managing my father.
Catherine’s heart ached. Even though she knew that she should not wish for her husband to come to her aid, she wanted him still. She wanted her needs to be placed above all others, and she chided herself for harboring such selfish thoughts.
“Viscount.”
Duncan’s voice cut through the ballroom din, low and iron-edged. Lord Portsbury jolted at the sound of it, wine sloshing over the rim of his glass. The man’s cheeks were ruddy, his cravat askew, his eyes glazed with the indulgence of too many cups.
“Ah, Your Grace,” Portsbury said, his voice booming, too loud, drawing fresh stares. “There you are! You must drink with me. We’ll toast your bride, eh? My Catherine, my jewel?—”
“Enough.”
Duncan’s hand closed over the stem of the glass and wrenched it from the man’s grip. Red splashed across his own cuff, but he did not care.
The crowd drew back instinctively. Moments before, they gawked and had been held spellbound by the spectacle before them. But now that the Duke had engaged himself in the matter, even the most vicious gossips in thetonwere reluctant to stick around and witness the chaos.
A servant darted forward at Duncan’s nod, seizing the glass.
