Page 10 of The Duchess Trap
“Congratulations, my dearest,” Helen said, her voice pitched sweetly for the room at large. Then, lowering slightly, fierceenough for him alone: “You take care of her. She is my friend, and if you so much as think of?—”
“Helen,” Catherine whispered quickly, mortified, heat rushing to her cheeks.
But the Duke only inclined his head and acknowledged Helen and her words of warning with a stiff bow. “You have my word, Lady Helen.”
Lord Suthmeer appeared next, a grin tugging at his lips. “My congratulations. And may the walls of Raynsford House be sturdy enough to survive your wedding night.”
Catherine’s cheeks flamed scarlet. She snuck a sideways glance at her husband and saw that the Duke was none-too-pleased with his comrade’s hijinks, for he scowled in response. Lord Suthmeer held up his hands as if he meant to surrender, then backpedaled slightly so that he disappeared into the throng as other well-wishers scuttled forward.
The Dowager Duchess swept forward then, regal in her silks. She took Catherine’s hand, studying her with sharp eyes. “So, this is the young lady. Pretty, indeed. Though I must say, Duncan dear, the hastiness of the affair was most unbecoming. A wedding should be a grand event.”
Catherine’s pulse quickened, waiting for the Duke to bristle. But his voice came smooth and decisive. “Grandmother, it is done. And well enough.”
The Dowager’s brows arched, but she inclined her head, silenced for now.
Finally, her father approached. He kissed her cheek. The bristle of stubble on his chin, that which should have been shaved clean hours ago, scratched lightly against her skin. She smelled the faint burn of alcohol clinging to his breath. Her stomach clenched.
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” he whispered. “I know you did this for our family…”
Her eyes stung, fury and heartbreak warring within her. “Not just for us, Father. And sorry, sorry is not enough,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. “You’ve work to do.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. Then he turned to the Duke, bowing stiffly. “Your Grace,” he said, the words thick, uneven. “You have my daughter now. I pray you will… treat her well.”
Duncan bowed cordially before making a cool and precise reply. “She shall have all that is due the Duchess of Raynsford.”
The formality of it landed like a stone between them. Catherine stood in the midst of them all, her hand still caught in the Duke’s, her heart a storm of longing, rage, and despair.
The journey from the church passed in silence. Catherine sat very still, her gloved hands folded in her lap, the folds of her gown shifting faintly with each turn of the carriage.
Duncan spoke only once, to instruct the driver, and then he fell back into that impenetrable stillness she was already learning to dread. Catherine understood that her new husband was not a loquacious man, but she felt the situation called for a bit of conversation. She tried, at varying intervals, to ask him about the estate and even begged to know how long the journey might take, but her Duke answered her only with stern grunts or shakes of the head.
I simply cannot understand his silence. He must know that I am nervous. He must feel the tension roiling between us. Why does he refuse to speak to me?
By the time the gates of Raynsford Hall loomed ahead, Catherine was beyond frustrated but knew there was little more she could do in the way of prompting her husband to engage in conversation.
When the wheels of the carriage stopped turning and a footman lowered the step, she breathed a sigh of relief it was splendid to leave behind those closed confines and be excused from sitting with her silent husband.
“Welcome to Raynsford Hall, Your Graces.”
The butler’s bow was so deep that Catherine feared he might never straighten again. He was tall and narrow as a candlestick,his black livery immaculate, silver hair gleaming at the temples. Even his voice seemed polished, trained by years of deference until not a single inflection betrayed thought or feeling.
A neat line of staff mirrored him along the edges of the marble hall, every head bent, every eye discreetly lowered. The air was thick with polish and restraint, the faint scent of beeswax and lavender, the soft echo of footsteps swallowed by high ceilings. Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows, striking the black-and-white tiled floor in a cold sheen.
Catherine tightened her fingers around the Duke’s proffered arm as they crossed the threshold. The sound of their steps reverberated faintly, as though the house itself were listening.
The Duke’s voice rang steady, low. “This is your duchess. Attend to her every need.”
A ripple of murmured assent echoed down the line. Catherine felt the weight of their eyes, polite, appraising, full of expectations she could not hope to meet.
And then the Duke shimmied away from her so that she was forced to relinquish the hold she had on his arm.
“You will want to rest,” he said, his gaze unreadable. “Mrs. Hardwick will see to you.”
Before she could gather her thoughts enough to reply, he was gone. He strode down a side corridor with the certainty of a manwho knew precisely where he was going and did not need to announce his intentions to anyone else—even his new bride.
Catherine blinked after him.
He leaves me already?
