Page 123 of The Duchess Trap
“You’re all making too much noise for this early in the morning.”
The dowager duchess stood there, her silver hair gleaming beneath her fur-lined hood, her cane tapping lightly against the floor.
“Grandmother!” Duncan said warmly.
She gave him a pointed look. “Yes, yes, here I am. Now the celebration may begin.”
Catherine smiled and curtsied. “Merry Christmas, Grandmother.”
“Merry Christmas, child.” The older woman surveyed the room with satisfaction. “I must say, this house hasn’t looked so alive in years. Well done, Duchess.”
Catherine’s throat tightened with emotion. “Thank you.”
The dowager’s expression softened. “And you—” She gestured at Duncan with her cane “—don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Not a chance,” he said quietly.
Before Catherine could blush further, the butler reappeared. “Lord Portsbury,” he announced.
The room fell still.
Catherine turned toward the doorway. Her father stood there, hat in hand, looking smaller than she remembered—older, perhaps—but sober.
“Father,” she said softly.
He nodded once. “Catherine.” His voice was low, careful. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not,” she said, stepping forward. “I’m glad you came.”
“I received your letter,” he murmured, eyes shifting toward Duncan. “And your husband’s invitation. It seemed… timely.”
“It is time that we reunited,” she said simply.
For a moment, they stood in silence. Then, quietly, she gestured toward the fire. “Come warm yourself. We’re just about to have music.”
The awkwardness between them was fragile but real, the kind that comes before forgiveness. And for the first time, she didn’t feel anger, only something gentler. Sympathy, perhaps.
The children gathered in front of the hearth as Helen took her place at the pianoforte. The dowager and Stephen found chairs nearby, Duncan stood beside Catherine, and even her father lingered at the back of the room.
“Are we ready?” Catherine asked.
“Yes, Your Grace!” came the chorus of voices.
Helen began to play. The first notes of the carol rose softly, uneven at first, then stronger as the children found their courage. Their small voices filled the hall—sweet, off-key, but full of joy.
Tears pricked Catherine’s eyes. Around her stood everyone she loved: her husband, her friends, the children she had fought for, and the father she might one day forgive.
When the last verse ended, applause filled the room. Duncan’s hand found hers, warm and steady.
“They’re magnificent,” he murmured.
Catherine smiled through her tears. “They’re home.”
Outside, snow drifted down in slow, silent flakes, settling against the glass. Inside, light and laughter glowed bright as the fire.
And for the first time in a long while, Catherine felt her heart entirely whole.
The dining room gleamed with candlelight, every surface polished to brilliance. The great table stretched beneath garlands of evergreen and ribbons of gold, laden with enough food to feed a regiment—roasted pheasant, buttered parsnips, sugared fruits, and puddings that steamed beside silver pitchers of brandy cream. The Brightwater children filled the end of the table, flushed and happy, their chatter rising like birdsong.
