Page 118 of The Duchess Trap
Through the glass, he saw her, kneeling in the grass among the children, the early sun glinting off her hair. She was smiling faintly, her eyes tired but gentle. She looked… whole.
He stopped, watching her from a distance. For the first time in months, the tension in his chest eased. The weight that had ruled his every breath seemed to lift, just slightly.
He didn’t go to her yet. He didn’t deserve that peace until he gave her back her safety and her truth. But as he stood there, watching her laugh softly with the children, one thing became clear:
He had spent too long fearing the fire.
What he’d forgotten was that sometimes, fire cleansed as much as it destroyed.
And Catherine—his wife, his match, his undoing—had always burned brighter than the fear that kept him from her.
He turned slightly toward the butler who had appeared behind him, waiting for orders.
“Send word to Bow Street,” Duncan said quietly. “Tell them the Duke of Raynsford will be giving a full statement this morning. And see that a carriage is made ready for my wife.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
When the butler left, Duncan looked back toward the garden.
Catherine was still there, sunlight catching the pale curve of her cheek as she leaned to whisper something that made one of the children giggle. The sight of her steadied him like nothing else could.
Today, he would tell her everything. About Felton. About the fire. About the fear that had made him a coward.
And if she turned away, he would bear it. But at least she would know the truth.
CHAPTER 33
“Mary, careful with the blanket—Thomas will trip if you spread it so close to the edge.”
Catherine’s voice was calm, patient, though she hadn’t drawn a full breath in what felt like hours.
The garden was bright with late-morning sun, the scent of cut grass and bread from the kitchen window mingling in the air. Children’s laughter rippled around her, the sound as light and fleeting as the breeze that stirred the lilac branches above.
She was kneeling on the lawn beside a basket of fresh linens, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hair pinned hastily at her nape. Her hands were steady even when her heart wasn’t.
For days now, she had worked without pause, overseeing the new supplies for Brightwater, arranging lessons, keeping the little ones fed, clothed, and safe. There was comfort inmovement, in lists and order and small victories. Anything that left no space for thought.
“Your Grace,” one of the older girls called from the far end of the garden. “Mr. Whitby says the carpenter has arrived with the plans.”
“Thank you, Betty. Tell him I’ll join him shortly.”
The girl nodded and darted off, skirts fluttering. Catherine rose, brushing the grass from her gown. A few of the children tugged at her hands, chattering about the robin’s nest they’d found in the hedgerow. She smiled as best she could, though her smile no longer reached her eyes.
“Show me later,” she said softly. “We’ll leave the poor creature in peace for now.”
The children nodded and scattered again, their laughter bright as birdsong. Catherine exhaled and turned toward the house. And then she saw him.
Duncan stood just beyond the open terrace doors, half in shadow, half in sunlight. For a heartbeat, she thought he was an illusion—a trick of light, a memory her mind had conjured from exhaustion. But then he stepped forward, boots quiet on the stone.
The world seemed to still around them. Even the children’s laughter dimmed in her ears.
“Your Grace,” she said at last, her voice polite, cool, distant. The kind of voice she had perfected for society calls and uncomfortable dinners.
“Catherine.”
“I did not expect to see you today.”
“I finished what I needed to,” he said.
