Page 15 of The Duchess Trap
And froze.
Duncan was there, seated at the far end of the long mahogany table, perfectly upright. His stiff posture made the dark coat he wore look impeccable. His golden-brown hair glimmered in thecandlelight. A decanter of claret rested near his hand, though his glass was only half filled.
He looked up as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her once, steadily, before settling into a stare that seemed to pin her in place.
Her heart jolted. There were so many things she wanted to say, but now, with her thoughts spiraling wildly, she knew not how to conjure a single syllable of speech.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice even, deep.
Her throat worked. “Good evening,” she returned, softer than she wished.
When she reached her seat, the chair was drawn back by a footman. Catherine lowered herself and smoothed her skirts once more. Unbidden, her palms began to sweat, and she recalled how he had looked last night when he’d arrived in her room. Gone was the disheveled Duke who taunted her for being verbose, then gazed upon her with pity coloring his expression. Now, he had reverted to sitting rigidly, practically daring her to prove his assumption correct.
Nervous as she was, Catherine would not allow herself to give him the satisfaction of being right.
I shall not yield. I will not be the first to engage him in conversation.
Silence stretched between them, heavy, unnatural. The clink of cutlery and the muted shuffle of servants laying dishes filled the void, but every sound was magnified by the cavernous space.
She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, even when she could feel his gaze across the expanse of polished wood, steady and unrelenting. It pressed against her skin like heat from a fire she dared not step too near.
Awkward. Stifling. Intimate in all the wrong ways.
Catherine’s resolve wavered. She wanted to share with him all she had done today. She wished, especially, to crow about the note she had penned and sent away directly to Lord Felton. But she was intimidated.
In this light, at his own estate, her husband presented a commanding and untouchable persona. There was something in his stillness that unsettled her more than any teasing or taunting he might display. The sheer composure of him, the carved precision of his posture, made her prickle as if he might rise suddenly, stride the length of the table, and take her breath with his nearness.
She swallowed, which pained her slightly because her throat was tight. To cover her discomfort, Catherine forced her chin higher as though that small tilt indicated to her husband that she was ready and willing to listen to whatever he wished to say.
And yet, the silence endured.
She gazed at him down the length of table and arrived at the conclusion, quite readily, that she hated the distance. Hated how it carved the gulf between them into something visible, tangible, a chasm neither words nor propriety could bridge.
The servants began their silent dance, filling her glass, setting dishes before her. Soup first, velvety and steaming. She lifted her spoon, forcing her hand not to shake.
The silence was unbearable. Each clink of silver rang too loudly, and each breath she drew seemed to echo in the cavernous room.
Finally, when she could not take the feeling of solitude that dared to envelope her, she ventured, “You have been busy, I take it.”
“Indeed.”
One word. Nothing more.
She pressed her lips together before allowing another attempt. “And was it a fruitful day?”
The Duke lifted his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. “That is my business.”
Her spoon halted mid-air. She set it down and fixed him with a curious stare.
So, this is how it will be. Ice. Always ice.
“Your business?” she repeated softly. “Surely there are matters you might share with your wife.”
A flat shake of his head. No more than that.
He means to shut me out. Very well.
Inevitably, the words he’d spoken the night before returned to her, and she remembered once again that the Duke did not wish to sit with a woman who prattled on obnoxiously. So, she chose to take this conversation on a different route. Using all the charm she could muster, Catherine leaned forward slightly and whispered in a playful manner, “Do you mean to say we are to sit across from one another every evening in complete silence? Never exchanging a word beyond ‘pass the salt’?”
