Page 86 of The Duchess Trap
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. The fire in the grate had burned to embers, and the chill of the room had crept in, but the heat of him beside her kept it at bay. Catherine could feel his warmth radiating through the linen, steady and real. Last night no longer felt like a dream.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Eventually.” His tone held a hint of mischief. “You?”
“When you allowed me to,” she said, trying not to smile.
His brow lifted. “I recall doing nothing to prevent you.”
“Oh, I recall rather a lot that might have prevented it.” The teasing slipped out before she could stop it.
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You wound me, madam.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then perhaps you underestimate yourself.”
Catherine felt the color rise in her cheeks; she turned toward the window where frost traced delicate patterns across the glass. The world beyond was muted and silver, a thin blanket of snow softening the edges of the park. She wondered if it had begun during the night.
Duncan followed her gaze. “First snow of the season.”
“It looks peaceful.”
“It is,” he said quietly, “for once.”
He reached for her hand, his fingers sliding over hers beneath the blankets. The gesture was simple, yet it sent a rush of warmth through her. How strange, she thought, that something as ordinary as morning could feel so extraordinary.
She studied his hand against hers—broad, strong, capable—and found herself tracing the faint scar along his knuckle. “Where did this come from?”
“Fencing accident. Years ago.”
“Did you win?”
His mouth curved. “Of course.”
She laughed softly, then caught herself staring at him again, at the calm that had replaced the usual guardedness in his face. “You look different this morning.”
“How so?”
“Less like a duke, more like a man.”
“I shall try not to take offense.”
“Don’t,” she said gently. “It suits you.”
A knock at the adjoining door interrupted them. Duncan sat up, tugging the coverlet around his waist. “Enter,” he called.
A maid stepped in with a tray balanced neatly in her hands. “Breakfast, Your Graces.”
The smell of fresh bread and tea filled the room. When she had gone, Duncan poured two cups and handed one to Catherine. She accepted it carefully, the porcelain warm against her palms.
“She must think us very lazy,” she said.
“Let her,” he replied. “We have earned one morning of idleness.”
Catherine took a sip, smiling into her cup. “Idleness, or peace?”
“Both.”
