Page 62 of The Duchess Trap
“See that you do. Ah, they’ve seen us. Brace yourself.”
The moment the carriage drew to a halt, three voices rose in overlapping exclamations:
“Marianne! At last!”
“Darling, you’ve been positively hiding!”
“And this must be the young duchess! How divine!”
Catherine barely had time to descend before she was enveloped in a flurry of lace, perfume, and exclamations of delight. The ladies were a force of nature: each one painted, powdered, and perfectly coiffed, their laughter filling the air like birdsong after a storm.
Lady Densham, tall and imperious, seized Catherine’s hands. “My dear, you’re prettier than I imagined.”
Lady Harbury, a round, rosy creature with mischievous eyes, leaned in. “Marianne always does that. Keeps the rest of us guessing.”
“Well,” Lady Harbury declared, fanning herself with exaggerated drama, “I must say, Your Grace, your husband is quite the sight. Last time I encountered him, half the room lost its wits the moment he walked in.”
“Half?” Lady Merrow arched a silvery brow. “I should think rather more. Even I, at my age, could admire the cut of his shoulders.”
“And that face,” Lady Harbury added with a sigh. “All angles and command. It’s positively unfair.”
“Unfair indeed,” Lady Merrow murmured, adjusting her spectacles with mock severity. “No man that handsome should be allowed to look quite so grim while being it.”
“Ah,” said the Dowager Duchess, lowering herself gracefully into a chair, “Duncan has never been one to hide his feelings. When he is pleased, it shows; likewise, when he is disappointed.”
Lady Densham gasped. “Surely, the Duke suffers no disappointments at present. He must be overjoyed to see his Duchess every morning.”
Catherine blushed and batted away the compliment. “My husband does wear his heart upon his sleeve, but I did not realize others could read him as easily as I do.”
Lady Merrow eyed her archly. “Perhaps we better understand the young Duke now that he is wed to you, Duchess. Methinks you have tamed the once wild Raynsford.”
“Tamed?” Catherine echoed faintly.
“Men,” Lady Harbury said, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret, “are like hounds. They bark, they growl, they preen, but what they truly desire is a firm hand and a soft voice.”
The other women murmured agreement. Catherine choked on a laugh.
The dowager raised an eyebrow. “Agnes, must you always sound as though you are offering advice on breeding livestock?”
Lady Harbury waved her fan. “It’s the same principle, my dear Marianne. A man either heels or bolts.”
Lady Merrow used her fan to stir the air. “I’m not sure which my husband does.”
“Bolts,” Catherine said without hesitation. “I can answer that query unequivocally.”
The others erupted in laughter. Catherine could not help but laugh too, though her pulse throbbed in her throat.
“Oh, she’s delightful,” Lady Densham said, patting her hand. “I like her already.”
Catherine relaxed slightly, warmth stealing into her chest. They were overwhelming, yes, but not cruel. Their teasing was like sunlight, bright and relentless, but not without affection.
Lady Merrow leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Tell us, Your Grace, how fares married life, really? Thetonis already quite taken with the match. They say His Grace has never appeared so… domesticated.”
Catherine nearly choked on her tea. “Domesticated?”
Lady Harbury smirked. “You must understand, my dear, your husband has tripped along, flirting with and consorting with half of London for years. To think of him now with a wife! It gives us all hope for our rakish grandsons and nephews.”
Catherine’s lips twitched. “I’m not certain I’ve domesticated him in the slightest.”
