Page 112 of The Duchess Trap
He shifted, clearing his throat. “You needn’t concern yourself with the details. A gentleman’s obligations are not always simple to explain.”
She studied him. The faint smell of brandy clung to his clothes, disguised poorly beneath the scent of cologne. His eyes were bloodshot. Once, that would have broken her heart—the sight of her father, proud and desperate, pretending to be more than he was. But something inside her had hardened since then.
“How much?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated. “A small sum. A thousand, perhaps.”
Her breath caught. “A thousand pounds?”
“I would repay it,” he said quickly. “You know I would.”
She did not.
“Father,” she said softly, “I can’t.”
His smile faltered. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.”
The silence between them thickened. Somewhere outside, a child shouted in laughter. The sound made her ache.
He frowned. “You think yourself above me now. Is that it? The Duchess of Raynsford, too fine for her own blood?”
She forced a steady tone. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about principle. You’ve made promises before. I can’t fund your drinking or your debts any longer.”
His expression darkened. “You sound just like your dreadful husband—so cold and unfeeling. Always judging everyone else while…”
Her pulse spiked, but she kept her voice even. “Don’t speak of my husband.”
He seemed stunned by the authority in her voice.
“Come,” she ordered as she spun on her heel and directed him to the nearest chair.
Catherine stood across from him, her spine straight, watching him sit uneasily in his assigned place.
“Do you know what it was like,” she began quietly, “to grow up in a house where every knock on the door felt like a threat? Where I had to hide the silver after supper because I didn’t know whether you’d sell it before morning?”
He stiffened. “I did what I had to.”
“No,” she said, her voice rising. “You did what you wanted. You gambled. You drank. You made promises you never kept, and when the money ran out, you looked to me to fix it.”
His mouth opened, but no sound came.
She took a step closer to him, and he squirmed.
“Do you remember that night, Father—when you came home reeking of brandy, furious because you’d lost half the estate in cards? You said it was my duty to mend the family’s name, thatI was born to repair what you’d ruined. You made me feel like a pawn, not a daughter. And now you stand here, asking for more.”
He rose unsteadily. “You’ve changed,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Because I had to.”
They stood in silence. The clock on the mantel ticked, slow and heavy.
Her voice softened then, almost kind. “I don’t hate you, Father. But I can’t carry your sins anymore. You must learn to bear them yourself.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he nodded once—a small, broken movement—and turned toward the door.
He paused on the threshold, his back still to her. “You sound just like your mother,” he said quietly.
