Page 56 of The Duchess Trap
It was not a guest, not a gossiping matron or sharp-eyed lord. It was only a servant, lantern in hand, checking the paths as though this task was the most ordinary of duties.
“Pardon me, Your Graces.” He gave a perfunctory bow, utterly unbothered, and walked past without so much as a lingering glance.
Silence followed his retreat.
For one dreadful heartbeat, Catherine and Duncan stared at each other, frozen, as though neither could quite believe their reprieve.
Before Catherine could say a word, Duncan tipped his head back and laughed loudly. Momentarily lost in the heady pleasure of the sound, Catherine mimicked his movements and giggled with delight.
But then, as the mirth subsided, she turned and met her husband’s eyes. He was still rather pleased with himself and his performance, of that much she was certain. But there was also something more lurking behind his eyes.
It was then she remembered herself, and reality crept back in like a chill.
“Duncan…” She hesitated, words heavy on her tongue. “What happened with my father?”
His smile faded as his expression hardened. “He has gone home.”
She blinked. “You—what do you mean?”
“I mean,” Duncan said evenly, “that he was in no condition to remain. I will not have your name dragged through the mire of his vices. I had a servant escort him. He is back at his townhouse.”
“Thank you, but it was my responsibility.” Her chest ached, a deep, dull throb. She looked away, her gaze fixing on the gravel at her feet. “He is my father.”
“And you aremyresponsibility,” Duncan returned. “You needn’t shoulder it all, Catherine. And you certainly do not owe anything to your father.”
Catherine’s throat worked. She forced herself to nod, her lips trembling faintly.
“And us?” she asked at last, quieter than a whisper.
Duncan’s gaze softened a fraction, though the fire in it never dimmed. “We go home.”
Her heart twisted strangely at the word.Home. Could Raynsford Hall or even the townhouse they kept in London ever be that? And yet, as he offered his arm, she found her hand sliding into the crook of it without hesitation.
The heat of him seeped through his sleeve, steadying, commanding, and she let herself lean, just a little, into that strength.
For one moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like to walk at his side without shame, without bargains, without the world watching.
Just Catherine and Duncan, man and wife.
The thought made her dizzy.
Sometime later, Catherine crossed the threshold of the townhouse with Duncan, the great door opening before them as servants bowed low. Candlelight spilled across the marble floor, painting his features in gold and shadow.
Duncan did not speak as he led her up the staircase, step by measured step. Her arm lay against his, and the nearness of him sent her heart into wild, reckless rhythms. She longed to rest herhead against his shoulder, to steal another kiss, to yield again to the provocative tenderness she had glimpsed in him.
At her chamber door, he stopped. She turned to him, breathless, her pulse thrumming painfully in her throat.
“Sleep,” Duncan said softly, his hand releasing her arm at last. “You need time to repose.”
She searched his face, but his expression showed nothing other than concern for her well-being.
He inclined his head. “Goodnight, Catherine.”
Her lips trembled. “Goodnight.”
And then he turned, striding toward his own chambers, leaving her alone with the thundering of her heart, the burning of her lips, and the unbearable truth that she wanted him.
Desperately.
