Page 73 of The Duchess Trap
She shook her head slowly. “What if something happens to him while I?—”
“Nothing will. I am here. Both for you, and for him.”
“You cannot guarantee his safety.” Her voice cracked on the last word, barely more than a whisper.
The sound of it made Duncan’s heart hurt.
He drew a steady breath, forcing calm. “You won’t help him if you fall apart, Catherine.”
“I’m not falling apart.”
“Why must you be so stubborn?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a spark that still managed to steal his breath. “Stubbornness. Yes…I understand that is a quality that I must cultivate if I want to thrive in this marriage.”
Duncan exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. He did not understand her little speech, but could see that she had delivered it with a sense of conviction. “You’ll make yourself ill.”
“Then you’ll have two patients.”
Before he could reply, a low whimper broke through the silence.
Henry.
Catherine turned instantly, her exhaustion forgotten. She leaned over the bed, murmuring the boy’s name, while Duncan stepped closer, hand braced against the bedpost as he watched her gentle touch. The tenderness in her movements was unbearably kind.
“Shh,” she whispered to the boy, smoothing his damp curls. “It’s all right, my darling. You’re safe.”
Henry stirred, breathing uneven but steadying beneath her hand. She reached for the cloth to cool his brow, but Duncan was faster. He dipped it into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the child’s forehead.
Their fingers brushed again. The brief contact sent heat through him, ridiculous and unwanted. She didn’t even seem to notice. Her attention was all on the boy.
“Sleep, my darling,” she murmured, her voice low, almost a lullaby. “We’re here.”
The boy quieted, his breathing easing.
Duncan watched her for a long moment, then reached for the chair beside hers. He sat and rolled his neck. The tension in his shoulders refused to ease even as the room settled into fragile calm.
Catherine remained upright, her eyes never leaving the bed. Then, gradually, her head tilted, exhaustion claiming her. Her temple rested against his shoulder. The weight of her hit him harder than he expected. He couldn’t move.
Her voice came quietly after a long stretch of silence. “I grew up here, you know.”
Duncan turned slightly, enough to see the soft curve of her profile in the candlelight. “At Brightwater?”
She nodded. “My mother ran it. She called it her purpose. Every morning, she came here before breakfast and tended to the children, mended their clothes, and read them stories. She said no title or fortune could make a person noble, only kindness could.”
Duncan’s throat tightened. “She sounds remarkable.”
“She was.” A faint smile touched Catherine’s lips, but it faded quickly. “When she died, I thought the world had ended. And perhaps it had, for my father. He wasn’t cruel, only broken. He drank. I was fifteen, and the house… it grew quieter every year.The debts came, the servants left. Sometimes, I’d sit up all night with him when he was ill from it. Brightwater fell into ruin. The roof leaked, the walls crumbled, and many children were sent away.”
She swallowed hard, her voice barely steady. “And then you came. You didn’t even know me, yet you saved this place.”
Duncan said nothing. He couldn’t trust his voice.
“You restored it,” she went on. “You gave them walls again. You gavemesomething I thought I’d lost.”
Her words lodged deep, quiet, and devastating. He looked down at her hand, where it lay curled around the boy’s small fingers. Her touch was light, careful. He could see the faint tremor still in her wrist.
“Catherine,” he said quietly, “you’ve done more for this place than I ever could.”
