Page 7 of The Duchess Trap
He paused and sighed discontentedly.
“The second option is that we take control of the situation and make the best of this matter on our own. If, when we emerge from this cramped cell, we tell those waiting that we have fallen in love and agreed to marry one another…”
“Love?” Catherine squeaked. “Must we tell such a lie?”
“Very well. We will not pretend to be enamored with each other, but we should seem moderately pleased by thoughts of our impending nuptials.”
Catherine’s breath shook. Her mind screamed that this was lunacy, that she should not bind herself to him. And yet Brightwater, sweet Brightwater, hovered in her thoughts, the children’s faces rising one by one.
Her eyes stung, her chest burning with heartbreak. She was cornered.
He studied her calmly. “I can see you warring with your emotions, My Lady. The struggle is futile. You must see that our future is as I have just described. We will marry, and you should not look upon our union with such unkind eyes. A match with me means security for you. For your orphanage. For your reputation. And on my side, I cannot deny the benefits, either. Wedding you means an end to the interminable parade of ambitious women who would see me restrained and tamed.”
Her breath hitched. “So, I am to be your shield?”
“And I, yours.”
Her defenses lowered when she looked up and saw the tenderness in his gaze. This was not the flirtatious man other young ladies had fawned over in the ballroom. Nor was this the man who needled and cajoled her to make her admit to entrapping him in this very room. The Duke of Raynsford was looking at her in an imploring way, as though his reasons for marrying were just as needful as her own.
He leaned forward slightly and propped one hand on the wall behind her. For one terrifying instant, she thought he might kiss her, as perhaps a method of sealing the pact between them.
She licked her lips quickly and acknowledged that if he did not move, she might. The wait was nearly torturous, and the moment of indecision made her palms perspire.
Far worse than that discomfort, a part of her mind screamed at her to kiss him first.
He's right. If we are to be locked in this situation together, should I not at the very least explore all the possibilities?
Another knock crashed through the moment, shattering the tension like glass.
“Duncan?” The voice was bright, amused.
Catherine froze, her breath ragged. The Duke’s eye arched ruefully, but he did not move away.
“Duncan, old boy, are you in there?” The man behind the door rattled the handle. “What the devil are you doing, hiding away at a party?”
Catherine nearly died on the spot. “Make him go away,” she hissed, eyes wide with horror.
The Duke’s lips curved faintly, wickedly. “Why? Ashamed?”
She glared, her chest heaving. “Do it.”
He turned his head toward the door at last. “Fetch a footman, Stephen. The lock is jammed.”
Catherine did not know this man the Duke referred to so informally, but his joyous laugh rang down the corridor. “Of course it is. I’ll send someone. Don’t do anything scandalous while I’m gone.”
His footsteps retreated, leaving silence once more.
The Duke studied her, still too close. Suddenly, she became far too aware of the trembling of her lips.
“Now that rescue is imminent, we must come to a decision. Do we leave this room in the best way imaginable—as a pair whohave agreed between themselves to become man and wife? Or—do we allow the talons wielded by the ladies of thetonto tear us apart?”
“I—” She broke off, swallowing hard.
Brightwater’s faces rose in her mind: little hands, little voices, all depending on her. Her heart ached, her pride bled, and still the weight of his nearness clouded her every thought.
At last, she whispered, “I… I accept your offer, Your Grace.”
His eyes glinted, satisfied.
