Page 68 of The Duchess Trap
Her voice broke. She blinked hard against the sting of tears.
A memory surfaced: Henry’s smile, bright and unguarded, when he’d asked about Duncan.Is he at home?
She’d said yes. She’d lied, or perhaps she hadn’t. She didn’t know anymore. She only knew that Duncan lingered in her mind relentlessly, all-consuming like a fever.
Where was he now? Would he come?
The butler had promised to send word.
Would Duncan read it soon? Would he fly to her aid?
Catherine pressed her hand over Henry’s. It was small and fragile, the pulse fluttering beneath the skin like a trapped bird.
“Please,” she whispered, brushing the damp curls from his forehead. “Please hold on. You’ll be better soon.”
But even as she said it, she doubted it. The words felt like an offering cast into a void.
The candlelight wavered. She felt sweat bead at the back of her neck. It was too warm, too close. She stood and crossed to the window, pulling the curtains open. Cool air spilled in, stirring the flame.
Outside, the clouds had deepened into a bruised purple. Rain was coming.
Mrs. Simms returned with a basin of water and a stack of clean linens. “Here, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
They worked together in silence, changing the compress, cooling the boy’s skin. Catherine moved with mechanical precision, but her thoughts would not still.
Hidden,the dowager had said.His heart is in the right place. It’s just hidden.
And where is he now when I need him?
Catherine felt so powerless that she longed to unleash a wail of agony.
She could not find her husband…could not save little Henry. She could do nothing but hope and pray that all would be well.
She wrung out the cloth, water dripping through her fingers, and laid it across Henry’s forehead. His eyes flickered open for a heartbeat, but they were glassy, unfocused.
“Your Grace…” he murmured.
Catherine leaned closer. “Yes, my dear. I’m here.”
The boy sighed faintly and slipped back into half-consciousness. Catherine sat beside him, unable to move. Her mind refused to stop spinning from Henry’s fever to Duncan’s absence to the hollow ache spreading through her chest.
She’d wanted to understand him, to be patient as the dowager advised. But patience was a luxury she could not afford now, not while the world kept asking her to be strong for everyone else.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To tell him how angry she was that he had left her to face all this alone, that she had to play duchess and savior and wife all at once.
The storm outside broke at last. Rain began to strike the windows, soft at first, then harder. The sound filled the room.
Catherine dipped the cloth again, her movements slower now, the exhaustion seeping into her bones.
“He’ll be all right,” she murmured. “He must be.”
Mrs. Simms hovered near the door, twisting her apron. “The physician still hasn’t come,” she said quietly.
Catherine looked up, eyes burning. “Then send another messenger. Offer whatever sum they ask. The money is of no importance. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death.”
Mrs. Simms nodded and hurried away again.
