Page 80 of The Duchess Trap
The old man’s lips parted, but no words came. He sank back into the chair, small and hollow.
Duncan turned to leave but paused at the doorway. “For your sake … do not test me.”
When he stepped into the hall, the housekeeper was waiting, pale and anxious.
“Mrs. Webb,” he said quietly, reaching into his coat and pulling out a folded envelope with several bank notes in it.
He pressed it into her hand.
“Your Grace?”
“This is for the household. Not for him. You will remove every bottle from this house. Every decanter, every flask, even the brandy for cooking. I don’t care if he rages. If he drinks again or gambles, you will send word to me at once. If he even thinks of speaking to Lord Felton, you will not fail to alert me.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As he stepped into the cold light of morning, Duncan felt the world shift back into order.
CHAPTER 23
“How long have I been asleep?”
Her voice broke on the last word, and Catherine reached out to massage her throat. Her tone came out soft and raspy, cutting through the hush of the dimly lit room.
Catherine blinked against the faint glow of the hearth, the warm flicker of flame stretching long shadows across the floorboards.
Her mind waded slowly through fog, through fragments of memory: Henry’s shallow breathing, Duncan’s voice murmuring steady reassurance, the weight of his hand over hers.
She sat up, the coverlet falling away from her shoulders. Alice must have changed her into a nightgown while she slept; she could tell from the looseness of the ties at her throat.
Outside the window, the sky was a deep, velvety blue. Evening. Dinner hour had come and gone.
Catherine swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her body weak but her mind suddenly too alert to stay still.
The events of the night before came rushing back with brutal clarity. The fear, the fever, Duncan’s quiet strength beside her, the way his presence had steadied her when she’d been certain she would shatter.
She remembered how his voice had sounded when he’d told her to rest, how carefully his hand had brushed her hair back from her face. She’d fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
She hesitated only a moment before crossing to the door that connected their chambers. Her bare feet made no sound on the rug as she approached. She paused before the door, her pulse unsteady, but her hand lifted anyway and knocked softly.
A low sound came from within—movement, the creak of floorboards—and then the door opened.
Duncan stood there, shirt sleeves rolled, the top buttons undone. His hair was slightly disheveled, his expression shadowed but composed. He looked so handsome like that, the faint gold of firelight behind him lending his skin a burnished glow.
“Catherine.” His voice was soft. “You should be resting.”
“I’ve done nothingbutrest,” she murmured, trying not to stare too obviously at the open collar of his shirt. “How many hours has it been?”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, studying her. “Enough for you to ask that question.”
Her lips curved faintly. “That’s not an answer.”
He sighed. “It’s been enough hours for you to look rested.”
That earned him a small, involuntary smile. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “May I come in?”
He hesitated just for a breath and then stepped aside. “Of course.”
She crossed the threshold slowly, conscious of how quiet everything felt between them.
