Page 111 of The Duchess Trap
Stephen shook his head. “You think she isn’t already suffering? You think this distance doesn’t wound her more than any threat from Felton ever could?”
Duncan’s throat tightened. “Better she hates me and lives.”
Stephen’s voice softened. “And what of you? Are you living?”
He looked down at the papers scattered across his desk, letters to solicitors, drafts of statements, reports on Felton’s men. The evidence of his life: order, reason, control. But in the spacebetween the ink and parchment, he saw her face, the memory of her laughter, the warmth of her.
Their eyes locked, two stubborn men staring down the same truth. Then Stephen shook his head, defeated. “If you push her away long enough, she’ll believe you don’t care. And when that happens, it won’t matter what Felton does because you’ll have destroyed yourself.”
He turned and walked toward the door. Duncan didn’t stop him.
When the door closed, the silence rushed back, heavy and suffocating. He stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, before crossing to the desk. The brandy decanter sat half-empty beside the pile of letters. He poured a measure into his glass, staring at the amber liquid before setting it down untouched.
The fire crackled softly. He stared into it until his vision blurred, until he could almost see her there, her eyes fierce and bright as the flames that had nearly taken her.
He pressed a hand to his chest, the ache so deep it felt physical. He missed her. He missed her so much that it made breathing a conscious effort.
But he couldn’t let that weakness destroy what control he had left.
CHAPTER 31
“Catherine.”
The sound of her name, spoken in that familiar low voice, struck her like a draft through a cracked window. It had been years since she’d heard it with that particular weight — half accusation, half plea. She turned, startled.
Her father stood in the doorway of the drawing room at Belgrave House, hat in hand, shoulders hunched as though he’d been standing there for some time. The sunlight caught the streaks of gray in his hair, highlighting the lines carved deep into his face. He had once been handsome in a proud, careless way; now, he simply looked tired.
“Father,” she said, her voice careful, polite. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled faintly, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “A man might think his own daughter would be glad to see him.”
Her heart tightened. The last time he had come to her unannounced, he had sold another piece of the family estate to settle his debts. “Of course,” she said gently, “I’m only surprised.”
“Surprised,” he echoed, stepping further inside. His coat was worn at the cuffs, and his boots left faint smudges on the polished floor. He looked out of place among the quiet order of the Brightwater household, like something dragged in from a past she had tried to forget. “You’ve done well for yourself, I see. Fine house. Servants. Even children running about.”
“They aren’t mine,” she said softly. “They’re from Brightwater. You remember.”
“Ah, yes.” He waved a dismissive hand.
She flinched but said nothing. Behind her, one of the maids passed through the hall, carrying a tray of books. Catherine forced a calm smile, nodding her thanks, waiting until the woman disappeared before speaking again.
“What brings you here, Father?”
He sighed, as though the question wounded him. “Must a man need a reason to visit his own blood?”
“You’ve never visited before without one.”
That earned a wry smile. “You’ve grown sharp. Marriage suits you.”
Her throat closed at that. She thought of Duncan, of the cold distance in his voice.She swallowed hard. “Please,” she said quietly, “just tell me what you need.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the children’s laughter spilling faintly from the garden. “It’s nothing so dire. A temporary matter, that’s all.”
“Money,” she said flatly.
He lifted his chin, offended. “A loan.”
Catherine’s hands tightened around the back of the chair before her. “For what?”
