Page 77 of The Duchess Trap
The rise and fall of her chest was slow, peaceful. Strands of hair clung to her temple, and the morning light caught on the curve of her cheek. She looked younger like this, almost untouched by the world, though he knew better. She had faced more than most men he knew.
Duncan admired his sleeping wife and determined that once they both had rested well, he would share with her his feelings.
When the carriage drew up to the townhouse, she was still asleep. Duncan signaled for silence as the footman approached, then rose and bent to gather her into his arms.
She made a small sound, instinctively shifting closer, her head resting against his shoulder. Her weight was slight but strangely grounding. He carried her up the steps, past the curious eyes of the servants, and into the dim hush of her chamber.
Catherine’s maid gasped softly. “Your Grace—shall I?—?”
He nodded once. “Help me.”
Together, they eased Catherine onto the bed. Alice began unlacing her gown, hands quick and professional, while Duncan stood close enough to guide but not intrude.
“Carefully,” he murmured when the woman started on Catherine’s shoes. The maid obeyed without question.
When at last Catherine was settled beneath the coverlet, Duncan dismissed the maid with a nod. The door clicked shut behind her.
He stood there for a long moment, looking down at his wife. Her hair fanned out across the pillow in soft disarray. A faintflush still lingered on her cheeks from the long night. Even in exhaustion, she was achingly beautiful.
He reached out, his knuckles brushing her cheek. Her skin was warm and alive, but she had not caught the fever from the young boy back at the orphanage. Relief swelled in him.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, though she couldn’t hear him.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself linger. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, the delicate curve of her neck where her pulse beat faintly beneath the skin.
The urge to kiss her was almost unbearable. But he didn’t. Not when she wouldn’t remember. He let his hand fall away and straightened, pulling the blanket a little higher over her shoulder. She sighed softly, as though feeling the motion even in sleep.
Duncan stepped into the corridor, his expression set, the tenderness that had touched his features vanishing into something harder, colder.
He looked at the butler waiting below. “Have my carriage readied again.”
The man hesitated. “Your Grace—so soon?”
“Yes. I’ll return before noon.” He took his gloves from his pocket, sliding them on with deliberate precision. “I’m going to Lord Portsbury’s.”
The butler stepped back immediately, bowing low as Duncan strode past him and into the pale morning light. The air was sharp with the scent of rain-soaked stone and coal smoke, the street gleaming wet beneath the wheels of the waiting carriage. He climbed in, shut the door behind him, and gave a single order through the window.
“To Portsbury House.”
The horses started forward at once, their hooves splashing through shallow puddles.
He should have been exhausted, but the steady motion of the carriage only hardened his focus. The tenderness of the last few hours, the sight of Catherine asleep and safe, the warmth of her head against his shoulder, the peace he’d felt for the first time in years—it all had left a strange ache in his chest. A softness he could not afford.
He needed to think. To act. To ensure no more children, no more families, were at the mercy of men like Felton.
Felton’s power was built on fear and debt, both of which Duncan despised. And Catherine’s father had been Felton’s perfect prey: weak, vain, greedy for attention and admiration, and too proud to admit ruin.
Duncan’s hand clenched around the edge of the seat. When he had visited Lord Portsbury earlier in the day, their meeting had not gone as planned. Portsbury was still suffering from the aftereffects of drinking one too many cups of claret, and Duncan had been agitated by his unmanly whimpering. But now that time had passed and Portsbury was sure to have recovered, Duncan set forth with a renewed sense of fervor.
Portsbury will speak against Felton. He will.
By the time the carriage rolled to a halt before Portsbury House, the morning had brightened into a thin, cold gold.
Duncan entered without waiting to be announced. The butler, startled, stammered his name, but one look silenced him.
“Where is he?” Duncan demanded.
“In his study, Your Grace. I—I believe His Lordship is?—”
