Page 125 of The Duchess Trap
“Better,” he said. “Wait here.”
He stepped out briefly, returning moments later with two footmen carrying a large crate. Gasps filled the room as the box was set down and opened— inside, a dazzling array of wrapped gifts.
“For us?” Oliver whispered, awestruck.
“For each of you,” Duncan said, smiling faintly. “From the Duchess and me.”
The children crowded around as he handed out presents— wooden toys, dolls, ribbons, tiny books, even a few sweets wrapped in paper. Their shrieks of delight filled the hall.
Catherine watched, her eyes burning with quiet joy. Duncan knelt beside one boy, showing him how to wind the string on a carved wooden horse. The sight of his large hands moving so carefully, the tenderness in his voice, made her heart swell almost painfully.
When the last gift was given and the children were happily playing before the fire, Catherine leaned close. “You planned all this without telling me.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he murmured, eyes warm.
“It’s perfect.”
“So are you.”
She blushed, shaking her head, but her smile gave her away.
The night stretched softly onward—music, laughter, the glow of candles reflected in glass. One by one, the guests retired to their rooms. Helen and Stephen lingered by the door, whispering to each other. The dowager announced her intention to “sleep off the scandal,” leaving them all chuckling.
Finally, the hall grew quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire. Catherine turned to Duncan, who was watching her with that same look he had worn since morning—steady, adoring, impossibly full of promise.
“Shall we?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
Upstairs, their chamber was warm and dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn against the cold. A small evergreen stood by the window, strung with simple white ribbons. On the table near the bed, a little box waited, wrapped neatly in gold paper.
Catherine turned to him, smiling faintly. “You’ve been conspiring again.”
“Only a little,” he said, handing her one of the gifts. “Yours first.”
She unwrapped it carefully. Inside lay a small silver locket, its surface engraved with the Brightwater crest— a dove in flight. She opened it and found two tiny portraits within: one of him, the other of the children gathered in the garden.
Her breath caught. “Duncan…”
“So, you never forget what you built,” he said softly.
She reached up, cupping his face. “As if I ever could.”
“Your turn,” she whispered, handing him a small package.
He opened it and stilled. Inside lay a compass, the casing worn but beautifully polished. On the underside, an inscription read:
For the man who always finds his way home.
Duncan clutched the gift to his chest, then laid it gently on the side table. “My home. My heart. My…”
Catherine reached for him, and he stopped talking midsentence. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
He stilled, brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”
She moved his hand along with her own and placed them both against her stomach. “I’m with child.”
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then his eyes widened, wonder overtaking everything else.
