Page 27 of The Duchess Trap
She needed air. She needed Helen.
“Where is Helen? I should like to see her at once.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the maid murmured, bowing low before hurrying away. “This way.”
Catherine tugged at her gloves as she stepped into the familiar entryway. The house smelled of lemon polish and rosewater, a welcome change from Raynsford’s cavernous austerity. Already her shoulders began to loosen, though her stomach remained a knot.
The maid returned swiftly. “Lady Helen will see you at once.”
Catherine nodded and followed up the staircase, each step heavier than the last.
The maid pushed the door open, and Catherine saw her friend Helen sitting curled in a high-backed chair, a book open in her lap, steam rising from a delicate china cup on the table beside her.
At the sight of Catherine, the book fell forgotten, and Helen sprang to her feet.
“Cat!”
She barely had time to set aside her gloves before Helen flew into her arms, hugging her with all the fierceness that had developed over the course of their long friendship.
“My dearest, I thought marriage had stolen you from me forever!” Helen exclaimed against her shoulder.
Catherine laughed, the sound breaking into something dangerously close to a sob. “Never. I have missed you too much.”
Helen drew back, her eyes sparkling as she searched Catherine’s face. “You look tired. Worn thin. Has he—?” She broke off, biting her lip, but curiosity glinted behind her concern.
Catherine smoothed her gown, steadying herself. “May I sit? I have already had an exceedingly long day.”
“Sit at once.” Helen tugged her toward the sofa. She fussed with the cushions before gesturing to Catherine and indicating that the setting was just right. “Now, tell me everything. Every detail. You cannot disappear for so long and then give me only polite phrases. How is it? Marriage? What do you think of him? The great Duke of Raynsford? Do you like him? Do you despise him? Tell me all.”
Catherine’s mouth curved, though the smile did not reach her heart. “It is… complicated.”
“Complicated?” Helen arched a brow, sinking beside her. “That is the very word women use when they meandreadful.”
“Not dreadful,” Catherine said quickly, though her chest tightened. “Only confusing.”
Helen waited, eyes wide, until Catherine gave in with a sigh.
“You know he paid my father’s debts,” Catherine began softly. “All of them. He purchased Brightwater, gave funds for repairs, new windows, and proper beds. He ensures everything is provided for, without hesitation, without complaint.”
Helen leaned forward eagerly. “That sounds magnanimous.”
Catherine shook her head, twisting her gloves in her lap. “And yet he barely speaks to me. At dinner, I am met with mostly silence. If I ask about his day, he dismisses me. He does everything for me, and yet he looks at me as if I am little more than an obligation.”
Helen frowned. “A man cannot be so generous and so cold at once.”
“He can.” Catherine’s laugh was brittle. “He is.”
The words hung heavily between them. Helen reached for her hand, squeezing gently. “And when you are alone? In private?”
Catherine’s cheeks flamed. She turned her face aside, staring hard at the embroidery on the cushion. “We’ve shared a few meals and even had several coy conversations, but mostly we are not.”
“Not what?” Helen repeated, incredulously.
“Alone.” Catherine swallowed, her throat tight. “He has not touched me. Not once.”
Helen’s eyes went wide. “Not even on your wedding night—? Catherine, notat all?”
Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck. “No. He came to my chamber that first night, but when I… when I tried—” Her voice faltered. Shame pricked hot against her skin. “He stopped me. He left.”
