Page 9 of The Duchess Trap
Catherine stood motionless, her hand still caught in the Duke’s, her skin prickling at the weight of so many eyes upon her. The words blurred. The clergyman spoke solemn phrases about duty and devotion, but all his fine words slipped past her ears. All she heard was the roar of her own thoughts.
A stranger. I am marrying a stranger.
And yet the Duke did not feel wholly unknown to her. When the cards had been stacked against them, he had come up with a plan to secure their salvation. And, once he had convinced her of its merits, he had leaned forward and temptingly gazed upon her. Every inch of her remembered the nearness of him in that locked room, the brush of his breath against her cheek, the threat of his mouth hovering over hers.
Her eyes flickered to him despite herself. The Duke stood rigid, his profile severe, carved clean as though from marble. Not a twitch betrayed what sorts of thoughts might be flitting through his mind as the vicar spoke.
“Do you, Miss Terrell, take His Grace, Duncan Witherley, Duke of Raynsford, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Her throat closed, and her breath caught. The room seemed to tilt. She could not form the words.
Brightwater’s faces rose in her mind and her mother’s voice whispered.
Promise me you’ll protect them, Catherine.
She forced the word past her trembling lips. “I do.”
The sound of those two precious words leaving her felt enormous. It was no surprise then when she heard the guests exhale softly. They, too, had felt her moment of hesitancy and were relieved when she regained the power of speech.
“And do you, Your Grace, take Miss Terrell to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” His voice rang deep and steady, with the finality of a verdict passed down.
The vicar nodded to Lord Suthmeer, who stepped forward with the rings.
The Duke took hers first, sliding the band slowly onto her finger. The metal was cool, biting against her skin, but the heat of his hand seared through the glove, steady and unyielding. She stared at the simple gold encircling her finger, a circle that seemed to tighten like a shackle.
Her turn came. Her fingers shook as she lifted the second ring. She pressed it onto his hand. The Duke flexed his fingers in an experimental fashion once the ring was in place, and Catherine noticed the way a trace of a smile drifted over the contours of his face.
Her breath quickened as he reached for her hand once more and intertwined their fingers, thereby sealing them together.
“It is done,” the vicar intoned. “By God’s grace and man’s witness, I pronounce you husband and wife.”
The words resounded through her, causing a set of butterflies to flutter through her abdomen. A wife. She was now the Duke’s wife.
Catherine’s chest rose and fell too quickly, her corset biting into her ribs. She dared not look at him again, for fear of what sort of reaction she might witness him having.
Her anxiety was ignored by one and all as the congregants applauded dutifully, and the Duke led Catherine away so they might sign their marriage certificate.
There was a pause in the action—a brief moment when Catherine turned around and realized that she had been left utterly alone with her new husband.
“What…what should we…?” She stammered uncertainly.
The Duke snorted lightly, then squeezed her fingertips.
Catherine’s head whipped toward the Duke. Now that she gave him her full attention, she saw that he was not nearly as perplexed as she. If anything, his expression seemed rather nonchalant—almost intimating that he got married every other day.
Slowly, with reverence she did not expect, the Duke lifted his free hand. The warmth of his palm brushed her cheek. Gently, he caressed a tendril of her hair that hung near her temple. Catherine froze. Her pulse skipped so violently she thought all those still sitting in the other room must be able to hear it. His thumb traced once, lightly, just beneath her cheekbone, before he leaned in.
The first brush of his mouth against hers was light, almost chaste, but the weight of it sent a shock through her entire body. Her knees weakened, her heart lurched, and her lips parted automatically, answering him without thinking.
For an instant, the kiss deepened as the Duke applied the faintest pressure. Catherine’s head spun with the taste of heat and command and desire.
She pulled back quickly, breathlessly, with her cheeks aflame. The room blurred, and she shook her head in a bewildered fashion to clear the fog that gathered.
The Duke, of course, looked completely composed, as though he had not just turned her world inside out with the mere press of his lips. Catherine’s hand trembled in his. She lowered her eyes, ashamed of how her body still burned and ached for more.
The hush broke as the vicar joined them. It took but an instant for Catherine and the Duke to sign the certificate of marriage, and then the guests stirred. From just outside the antechamber doors, Catherine could make out polite voices rising with words of felicitation. Helen was the first to step forward into the cramped room, skirts whispering against the floor as she approached. She reached for Catherine’s hands, squeezing them warmly, though her eyes were fixed on the Duke with a sharpness that could cut glass.
