Page 35 of A Game with the Rakish Duke
“I will get to the bottom of it,” she promised as she walked into the room. “I always do.”
Thomas closed the door with a sigh of relief before heading back down the hallway towards the staircase. He could feel the slight dull throb of a headache coming on. It was probably a combination of too much ale at the tavern the day before and his grandmother’s pestering. Really, she was like a dog mauling at a bone when she set her sights on something.
He stopped abruptly. Catherine was ascending the staircase, her brow furrowed, looking as if she were miles away. When she saw him, she stopped as well. They gazed at each other.
He cleared his throat. “I do apologize,” he said in a monotone voice. “She means well, but she can get a bit carried away.”
Catherine smiled slightly. “There is no need to apologize. She is just doing her duty as she sees fit.” She hesitated. “I like her enormously. She has such pluck. And I can see that you love and respect her.”
“Of course I do,” he replied in an abrupt voice. “She is like a mother to me.”
“She stepped in to fill the gap, then?” She gazed at him, her eyes wide. “When your mother died?”
Thomas shifted on his feet, turning and staring out the window. “I do not talk about that.”
She kept walking up the staircase until she was standing in front of him, gazing up at him. “Why? Perhaps you should…”
“And perhaps you should mind your own business,” he retorted, his anger flaring like a torch. “You are the one who keeps insisting that we keep our distance from one another. This is a marriage of convenience. Remember?”
She flinched. “There is no need to be so abrupt. I was only asking a question…”
“And I choose not to answer it,” he said shortly. “There. Are we done?”
“We are,” she snapped, anger flaring in her eyes. She jutted her chin. “I will see you at luncheon.”
“Perhaps,” he shot back. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps I will take another trip into Crompton to pass the time.”
She gave him a dirty look before hiking up the skirt of her gown, tossing back her head, and striding down the hallway towards her chambers. He heard the resounding thud of the door closing behind her.
Thomas slumped, gazing out the window again. His grandmother was right—therewassomething amiss in hismarriage. But the wonder of it was why he cared at all, or why he still hungered so badly for his wife. He would be glad when they headed back to London and could begin their separate lives.
Because being with her here was an utter torment.
Chapter Seventeen
“That was my late husband.” The Dowager Duchess stopped before one of the large oil portraits that lined the walls in the assembly room at Newden Estate, gazing at it critically. “I must confess, I have forgotten how handsome he was when we first met.”
Catherine gazed at the portrait. The fifth Duke of Newdenhadbeen a handsome man. The current Duke looked uncannily like his grandfather. They shared the same muscular, commanding physique, broad shoulders, dark hair, and even the exact shade of blue-green eyes.
A flash of memory assailed her. The Duke emerging from the lake that day, striding to the edge, the water glistening on his firm chest, flicking his hair so that water droplets fell through the air. Her stomach clenched tightly.
Catherine coughed into her hand. “Very handsome indeed, Duchess.”
The Dowager had sent a note to her this morning in her room, requesting her company. The old lady wanted to take her on a tour of the house. Just the two of them.
Catherine had no choice but to agree, but she was on edge about being alone with her after the interrogation the previous day. Was the Dowager going to start on again about when Catherine was going to conceive an heir?
“I did not want to marry him, you know,” the Dowager Duchess continued thoughtfully, leaning on her stick. “My father had to drag me to the altar by the hair, kicking and screaming.”
“Really?” Catherine looked at her, smiling slightly. She could just imagine the spirited young lady she had once been. “But why?”
The old lady shrugged. “I told myself I wished to remain independent,” she replied, with a chuckle. “I had grand plans about writing a novel in an attic in those days. Or perhaps running away to the Continent. I wanted to be free.”
Catherine’s heart lurched. “There is nothing wrong with wishing for freedom.”
The Dowager Duchess chuckled again. “Ah, yes, but that was not the entire reason,” she mused, turning to her. “I told myself that, but deep down, I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” Catherine tilted her head to the side, gazing at the old lady, unable to imagine her afraid of anything. “What were you afraid of?”
