Page 37 of The Duchess Trap
“Everything is my concern when it comes to you, old friend,” Stephen said cheerfully, undeterred. “I have heard whispers already. Does your grandmother truly believe that parading the two of you about will ease the tension that exists?”
Duncan’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I cannot speak for my grandmother.”
Stephen burst out laughing, clutching the carriage door for balance. “But a ball, Duncan. Good God! Surely, you could have persuaded your grandmother to move the date. She must have seen how uncomfortable you and the Duchess are in each other’s presence and…”
“There is no discomfort,” Duncan muttered stiffly.
“Ha!” Stephen laughed anew. “Indeed. No discomfort whatsoever inside your little cozy townhouse.”
Duncan glared at his friend, wishing he would grow silent, but inwardly, his own composure wavered. A ball. A hall filled with eyes, every glance weighing Catherine and himself, every whisper judging whether their union was forged in truth or convenience. He pictured her there, candlelight glancing off her dark hair, her mouth soft and trembling as it had beneath his.
The thought twisted like a knife. He wanted her so badly that living in this state of denial was driving him to madness. When he had first proposed to her in that cramped room, Duncan had acted out of necessity. He knew what would happen the moment the door opened, and they were presented to the world. And now, he was filled with those same protective urges.
I will not allow the ton to see anything other than Catherine’s good deeds and fine work at Brightwater.
Duncan forced the breath slowly in his lungs. He could not allow this spiral. Not now. Not with Hargrave waiting and Felton’s ruin within reach.
He climbed into the carriage without another word. Stephen followed, still grinning, and the horses surged forward into the night.
“White’s first,” Stephen said, tapping the roof of the carriage as they rattled into St. James’s. “Drop me there, and once you’ve wrung Hargrave dry, come find me. I’ll be the one winning coin off men too foxed to know better.”
Duncan gave a curt nod, gaze fixed on the lamplit street beyond. “Do not let drink loosen your tongue. I’ll not have you spreading word before I choose.”
Stephen laughed. “When have I ever?”
Duncan turned his head slowly; a look he leveled enough to make even Stephen’s grin falter.
“Fair point,” Stephen said quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I shall drink little and gamble much. Content?”
“Barely.”
The carriage drew up to the club’s grand portico, its columns stark white against the dark London sky. Stephen hopped down with the careless ease of a man who feared nothing, called a jest to the waiting porter, and vanished inside.
The door shut, the wheels lurched, and Duncan was alone once more.
For a blessed moment, he was given the gift of silence. He pressed back against the leather seat, closing his eyes, commanding his thoughts to order.
Hargrave. Evidence. Felton’s ruin. These were the only matters that ought to occupy his mind.
And yet Catherine’s face intruded again, as if she were carved into the very walls of his skull. The memory of her lips parted beneath his, the soft gasp that escaped when he took her mouth with his own, the way her whole body had shivered when his voice dipped low?—
Why must she quiver at my touch? Why can she not embrace me wholeheartedly?
He dragged a hand over his jaw, rough beard scraping his palm, as though the sting might scour her from him. It did not. The taste of her lingered, sweet and defiant all at once. He could almost feel her again—the delicate give of her lower lip beneath his teeth, the way her breath had caught when he pressed closer.
Restless, he shifted against the seat, loathing the hot pulse that stirred low in his body at the mere thought of her. He pictured her where she belonged—in her bedchamber, hair unpinned, tumbling wild about her shoulders, nightgown clinging to every curve. His breath hitched as the image sharpened: her whispering his name, begging for another kiss, arching into him as though she could not help herself.
The vision left him hard and aching.
No. Enough.
He clenched his fists, forcing the breath slow in his lungs, forcing her away. He could not afford to unravel. Not now. Not when Felton’s downfall lay within reach.
The carriage turned, slowing before the Earl of Hargrave’s townhouse. Its exterior was grand but shadowed, columns lined with ivy, lanterns burning low in the mist. A butler opened the door at once, bowing stiffly.
“His lordship awaits you, Your Grace.”
Duncan strode inside, boots echoing on marble, every inch of him composed of steel. The drawing room was already lit, a fire snapping in the grate, and Hargrave stood before it, glass in hand, his expression polite but wary.
