Page 37 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Lady Clambly’s voice stood out to him, her shrill tone carrying across the hushed space.
“Did you hear?” she announced to her company, her eyes gleaming as she postured herself to deliver the news. “My cousin just informed me that Miss MacTavish and her mother are practically penniless! They are about to lose their home and be cast out into the mud! Utterly ruined! They are lucky to have the kindness of Lady Marchant!”
Richard excused himself from Lord Tillworth, who was still taking in the lingering gossip, pushing his way through the mass of people. His gaze swept the crowd, sharp and searching—until it caught on Catriona slipping through the doors to the balcony.
He followed at once, finding her alone in the moonlight, her back to him, shoulders trembling as she fumbled with the fastenings of her dress.
Catriona spun around, her face pale but her brown eyes still blazing with the fierce defiance he had come to know her by.
“Leave me alone, Yer Grace. Please, I havenae the strength to argue with ye now,” she whispered as she wrung her arms in discomfort.
He strode towards her quickly, unable to contain his concern as his voice came out in a low growl.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded.
“Please, Yer Grace,” she said as she sniffled. “I truly cannae talk right now. Nae one hurt me.”
Richard ignored her pleas and stepped closer, his presence strong, powerful, and insistent. “I. Will. Not,” he said firmly, “Tell me who spread those vile lies about you. I will?—”
“They are nae lies,” Catriona whispered, her voice thick.
She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the coldness that sought to consume her.
Richard reached out to touch her arm gently, but quickly she flinched away.
“Nae,” she pleaded with him, her strong voice breaking. “Just… just go.”
He stood his ground, his eyes unwavering on her, until, finally, as her composure dwindled.
“I will not leave you alone until you tell me what is going on,” Richard demanded, his anger seething at her protestation.
Damn it, can’t she see I am here to help her?
“I dinnae need yer pity, or yer charity, Yer Grace.”
“Do I look like the kind of man who gives charity?”
“It doesnae matter what ye look like…” she said as tears prickled at her eyes.
“I am here because I want to be. Now, look at me and tell me what is troubling you—so I can put it right, and see that it never touches you again.”
She turned and faced him, shaking her head in defeat. The dam holding everything within her had broken, and the truth threatened to spill out in a torrent flow of pain and desperation.
She told him about the letter her mother had received from her father’s heir—their home was under threat, the future uncertain. All of it, the burden, the pressure, had been hers to bear alone.
“Ye have nae idea how much I understand pain, as hard as this is, it’s just a reminder of all that I’ve been through,” she said as she composed herself, wiping her tears away.
“I was just eighteen when I lost me faither,” she whispered as they leaned against the railing of the balcony, looking out at the distant stars.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words weren’t soft. They weren’t meant to be. They were firm, certain—anchored in something real. “You’ve carried far too much. For too damn long.”
He reached for her without hesitation, laying a hand on her shoulder—broad, steady, a gesture of assurance more than comfort.
He didn’t offer false promises or tender platitudes. Just strength. Just presence.
And then, Catriona turned. No hesitation. No words. She stepped into him, into his arms, like she’d done it a thousand times before.
His body went still.
