Page 8 of The Duchess Trap
She sucked in a breath, hating herself, hating him, hating how some reckless part of her thrilled at the thought of belonging to this man who was still little more than a stranger.
Another knock startled her. The footman this time. Within the work of a few seconds, the lock groaned, and the door swung open.
Catherine took a deep breath and prepared herself to answer an onslaught of questions, but before she could venture into the hall, the Duke grasped her elbow.
“We will face them together, My Lady.”
For a half-second, she considered shaking him off, but then she heard the footsteps of others approaching, and her spirit flagged.
“Yes,” she whispered. “From now until Christmastide, we shall present a united front.”
CHAPTER 3
“You are beautiful, Catherine. Just like your mother.” Her father’s voice was soft, almost reverent, as he looked at her with damp eyes.
It was rare for her father to give her such a compliment, so Catherine basked in the glow of his words for a long moment. “Thank you, Father,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.
The lace of her gown trembled where her free hand clutched at it. Try as she might, she could not conquer her nervousness, and because she was so unsettled, she found it difficult to stop twitching. Catherine wanted to feel radiant, wanted to bask in this moment of beauty, standing with only her father and waiting for the processional to begin, but all she felt was the thunder of her heart and the peculiar weight of a stranger’s ring already waiting at the altar.
Her father, Viscount Portsbury, shifted. The fabric of his coat brushed against her knuckles. Catherine’s eyes caught on the faint glint of silver in his breast pocket.
The neck of a flask peeked from inside his jacket.
A sharp ache lodged in her throat.
Even today. Even now.
She had prayed, foolishly perhaps, that on this one morning he might stand tall and clear-eyed, that he might be the father she remembered from childhood instead of the man who sought solace at the bottom of a bottle. The sight of that flask felt like betrayal and resignation all at once, a reminder that she could never lean on him fully, not even at the altar of her own marriage.
A cold heaviness spread in her chest. It was the dull ache of loving someone who could never be strong enough when she needed him most.
He cleared his throat. “Why do you look so solemn, my girl? It is your wedding day, after all. To a duke no less. A wealthyandyoung duke.” His smile was earnest but unsteady.
Her lips parted, but no truth escaped. She could not tell him that her stomach twisted in knots at the thought of binding herself to the Duke of Raynsford. She could not say she feared Brightwater’s salvation would taste like her own ruin.
So, she shook her head instead. When she spoke, her voice was tight. “My happiness doesn’t matter, Father. We should go.”
His smile faltered. A line creased his brow, but after a moment, he nodded and tucked her hand more firmly around his elbow in a rather nurturing motion. “As you wish, my dear.”
The double doors ahead opened with a creak. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and roses, though the atmosphere felt far too still.
Catherine drew in a breath, and together they stepped into the room.
The chapel was simple, yet elegant. Sunlight streamed through high windows, catching on the polished oak floor. A modest scattering of guests lined the pews: Helen, her dearest friend, whose hands were clasped so tightly together that her knuckles blanched; Lord Suthmeer, the Duke’s friend, Stephen, who had rescued them from the locked door, lounging as though weddings were little more than amusements; the Dowager Duchess of Raynsford, the Duke’s grandmother, stately in her dark silks, and behind them, some of the Duke’s staff stood in solemn attendance.
And at the far end, waiting with unflinching stillness, was the Duke himself.
Her stomach lurched. He looked devastatingly handsome in his dark coat, the cut of it emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, and his stillness of stance made every inch of him feel carved from stone. A lock of golden-brown hair had fallen against his brow, softening nothing, only making the stark planes of his face more striking.
His eyes, impossibly blue, fixed on her unblinkingly as she walked. The air seemed to thicken with each step she took toward him, until she was drowning in it. Her pulse hammered with every glance she dared steal at the man who was to become her husband.
She forced her chin higher, though her pulse battered her ribs.
This is duty. This is survival. Brightwater must survive.
They reached the altar. Her father pressed her hand into the Duke’s, and she almost gasped at the heat of his palm, which scorched her through the fine material of her gloves. His grip was firm and grounded. Her fingers trembled against his, and she prayed he did not notice her trepidation. But when she risked a glance upward, his mouth twitched as though he had.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…” The ceremony began. The vicar’s voice rose in the quiet room before echoing faintly against the polished wood.
