Page 81 of The Duchess Trap
His chamber was larger than hers, though just as spare. The heavy curtains were drawn halfway, the fire low but bright enough to show the deep, rich tones of the room: mahogany furniture, shelves lined with books and papers, a dueling sword mounted above the hearth.
But what struck her most were the personal touches. The small, worn objects that spoke of a man who valued memory more than display. A silver compass on the mantel. A framed sketch of Raynsford Manor faded from years of sun.
“You keep this here,” she said quietly, nodding toward the sketch.
“It was my mother’s,” he replied. “She drew it.”
Catherine looked at him, her throat tightening. “She had talent.”
He didn’t answer, but his jaw moved slightly, as though the memory had teeth. Duncan turned toward the small bell near the hearth and rang it once. A moment later, his valet appeared in the doorway.
“Bring up a tray,” Duncan said. “Dinner for two.”
Catherine blinked. “That isn’t necessary?—”
“It is,” he interrupted. “You’ve barely eaten since yesterday.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but saw the quiet insistence in his expression that brooked no argument, and sighed again. “Very well. But I’ll not eat if you don’t.”
“Then it’s settled.”
When the valet disappeared, she turned toward the fire, clasping her hands together to still their trembling.
She wasn’t sure why she was nervous. Perhaps it was the intimacy of it all, standing in his chamber, the two of them alone, she in a nightgown and he only half dressed.
The absurdity of it hit her all at once. “We’re not dressed for dinner,” she murmured, glancing down at herself.
His brow arched slightly. “We’re husband and wife, Catherine. I think we’ll survive one dinner without evening attire.”
When the tray arrived, Duncan dismissed the valet with a quiet nod. The table had been set beside the fireplace. Silver cutlery gleaming, wine decanted into crystal, the faint aroma of roasted meat and herbs filling the room.
They sat opposite each other, the fire painting soft gold over the space between them.
For a while, the only sounds were the clink of silver and the occasional sigh of the hearth. Catherine tried to eat, but her appetite was secondary to the strange pull that seemed to exist between them now. He was quiet, his posture measured, his gaze dropping to his plate as though to disguise the exhaustion in his eyes.
“You look tired,” she said finally. “Have you slept at all?”
His gaze lifted to hers. “Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I had matters to attend to.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I should’ve let you rest.”
“This time,” he said softly, “it wasn’t a disturbance.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “This time?”
A hint of a smirk touched his lips. “You’ve been a disturbance in my life since the day we met. But a most riveting one.”
Her pulse skipped. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I believe so.”
She rolled her eyes, then smiled despite herself, warmth blooming quietly in her chest. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Silence fell again, gentler this time. Catherine glanced at him over the rim of her wine glass. The candlelight caught the edges of his face: the hard lines softened, the shadows gentler now. He looked at ease, or as close to it as she had ever seen him.
