Page 1 of The Duchess Trap
CHAPTER 1
“How dare you?” Miss Catherine Terrell’s voice cut through the stale air of the little room like the crack of a whip.
She spun toward the towering man who stood with his broad shoulders nearly brushing the door frame. Her heart thudded so violently it felt improper to let him see, but she refused to take a step back.
He was too large for this tiny room, his height blotting out the lamplight, his chest rising beneath the cut of his coat in a way that made her throat tighten. Even the shadow of his beard drew her eyes against her will, darkening the firm line of his jaw, daring her to imagine what that roughness might feel like if it scraped against her skin.
The Duke of Raynsford did not so much as flinch. “And what have I done now? You will need to be more specific, My Lady. I am accused of many things.” His tone was too smooth, as if her fury were no more than a curiosity to him.
Heat rushed through her in a wave, and she despised herself for noticing how well his trousers clung to his thighs. It was most unladylike to have such thoughts—and yet, she could not shake them.
“You locked us in here.” She jabbed her finger toward the paneled door, where the handle remained stubbornly unyielding. “Is this your idea of amusement, Your Grace? To trap a lady and see how swiftly you can ruin her name?”
One dark brow lifted. “Fascinating. I thought precisely the same of you.”
Heat prickled her cheeks. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” His mouth curved in the faintest hint of mockery. There was a cruel edge to it—one that pierced her to the core and tossed cold water on the flames his closeness had previously ignited within her. “You, Miss Terrell, are the one with an ailing estate. What better way to secure a Duke than to ensnare him in a locked room?”
Catherine narrowed her eyes. “How dare you insinuate such a thing? You think I would stoop to trapping a man into marriage? I would sooner fling myself into the Thames.”
“And yet here we are,” he returned evenly. “Together. Alone. Though not by any design of mine. If I did not contrive this little trap, then perhaps you should ask yourself who did.”
The wordalonecurled low in her stomach. Her insides roiled at the thought that someone had intentionally ensnared her in this web and sought to ruin her good name. She forced her chin higher. “You flatter yourself if you think I would scheme for your attentions, Your Grace.”
He took a deliberate step closer, the air tightening with his nearness. “Andyouflatter yourself, Miss, if you think I should trouble myself to compromise you.”
A soft gasp rose in her throat. The room was too small, far too confined to contain both his body and his arrogance. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and brandy, which made her pulse leap. Her own body betrayed her, shivering though she wished to scorch him with disdain.
“What is it you want from me, Your Grace?” she demanded, each syllable clipped to keep her voice from shaking.
“An answer,” he said, low and deliberate. “You accuse me, and yet you will not explain yourself.”
“Because there is nothing to explain.”
“There is always something,” he replied in a brusque tone.
His calm and pompous exterior had begun to crack; she could see it in the way his jaw tightened and in the faint pull of his breath, as though she’d tried his patience one degree too far.
Her heart hammered erratically. “You cannot simply badger a woman until she confesses to a deed she did not commit.”
“And yet you tremble like one awaiting judgment.” The words struck deeper than they should have.
Catherine drew in a shaky breath, heat rising to her cheeks. “I am not trembling.”
His gaze lingered too long, then something in his expression changed. The anger did not fade so much as falter. It was replaced by a stillness that unsettled her more. He looked at her not as an adversary, but as though the sight of her trembling surprised him.
“You are,” he said quietly.
The altered and clearly affected sound of his voice made her chest tighten. He did not reach for her, did not move at all, but she felt the shift in the air between them, the weight of his attention pressing close enough to steal her breath.
Catherine’s throat went dry. She wanted to retort, to comment onhisappearance or perhaps even hurl words severe enough to wound his pride, but his proximity stole them from her. Her body ached with a strange, furious awareness: the warmth radiating from him, the sound of his voice, the knowledge that one more inch and his chest would brush hers.
She gathered herself, clinging to indignation as though it were armor. “Why areyouhere, Your Grace? What do you hope to gain from baiting me so? Why do you not offer to break down the door or holler for help?”
“Perhaps I do not risk moving because I am intrigued by the situation, Miss. Why did you choose to join me in these cramped quarters?”
“I did notchooseto be here,” she snapped.
