Page 51 of The Duchess Trap
Duncan caught Portsbury’s arm, his grip solid, and drew him aside toward the shadow of a column.
“My patience wears thin, my lord,” Duncan said under his breath, though his fury trembled at the edges. “Do you thinkI will stand idle while you stagger and jeer before the eyes of London? She carries my name now. I will not have it sullied.”
For a moment, Portsbury stared at him, mouth working, as though he might bluster. But Duncan’s gaze cut him to silence. He saw the twitch in the man’s jaw, the flicker of fear, the shame that flushed beneath the wine.
And in that instant, the years folded back. Duncan saw not Catherine’s father but his own.
The old duke, once so commanding, had been a wreck after Lord Felton destroyed him. He had turned to drink and lived out his final days stumbling around the manor house, tripping over his own feet, while always, always calling for another cup of wine.
And the end—God, he remembered that too. The night the butler had found him lifeless, bottle still clutched in his hand, when Duncan was five-and-ten.
Dead not from age or misfortune, but from surrender. From weakness.
His grip on Portsbury’s arm tightened before he forced himself to ease it.
He was not that boy any longer, helpless to the shame of another man’s collapse. He was not powerless.
“You will go home,” Duncan said as he strained to keep his own emotions in check. “Now. You will not speak another word to her tonight. I will send a carriage. If you care for her at all, you will spare her this spectacle.”
Portsbury swayed and swallowed. For a moment, the bravado drained away, and Duncan saw only a man corroded by weakness.
The Viscount dipped his head, half-bow, half-stumble, and allowed himself to be led away by the waiting servant.
The murmurs of the crowd rose again, polite chatter reasserting itself like a tide, but Duncan felt the burn of every eye upon him.
Better they whisper of the Duke’s severity than of Catherine’s humiliation.
And as he straightened his cuff, still stained with wine, he thought not of scandal but of his duchess. He had seen her eyes flare with dismay when her father’s voice rang out. He knew that dread, had lived it once.
And in that instant, his vow hardened: he would never let her suffer as he had again. Very soon, he would see Lord Felton led away with his wrists clapped in irons and no one, not him, not Catherine, would ever disturb his presence.
He exhaled slowly, willing the fury in his veins to abate. And then he caught sight of Catherine.
She slipped through the side doors, pale skirts whispering as they vanished into the night air. He had not missed the stiff set of her shoulders, the frantic tremor in her fan, or the wildness flashing in her eyes.
He followed her immediately.
The hallway led into the gardens, the air cooler, damp with night. His boots struck the stone softly as he descended the steps, scanning the shadows between lamplight and hedge. He walked deeper, the anger in his chest mingling with worry.
Where was she?
He turned down one path, then another. The lamps threw halos into the darkness, catching only fragments of silk trailing along gravel, the whisper of leaves, the sound of retreating footsteps. His pulse quickened. He lengthened his stride, his gaze finally catching on the faint glimmer of pale silk through the trees.
She stood at last by a trellis of rose buds, half-hidden in shadow, her hands braced hard against the wooden structure. Her head bowed, dark curls slipping forward, her body taut with strain as though she could anchor herself by sheer will. Moonlight painted her gown in silver, traced the line of her spine, and highlighted the delicate slope of her shoulders.
“Catherine.”
CHAPTER 16
“Catherine.”
Her name carried across the garden, low, roughened, weighted with something that made her spine stiffen as though it had struck bone.
She turned, breath catching when Duncan emerged from the shadows.
The moonlight illuminated pieces of him: broad shoulders carved against pale stone, the dark fall of his hair edged in silver, the line of his mouth softened only by the burning intensity of his gaze.
Her fingers curled around the smooth wooden trellis. Had she not been wearing gloves, she would have certainly pricked her finger on the roses’ thorns.
