Page 87 of The Duchess Trap
They ate together at the foot of the bed, the silver dishes gleaming in the pale light. It felt oddly domestic, intimate in a way that unsettled and soothed her at once. She found herself laughing more easily than she had in months, teasing him about the severity of his appetite and the scandal of a duke preferring jam to marmalade.
When he caught her wrist to wipe a stray crumb from her lip, she froze. His thumb lingered a heartbeat too long, and the look in his eyes made her breath falter.
“I thought I should not see this side of you again, husband. Yet here you are: charming,” she whispered.
“This morning, I find you quite charming as well, my sweet.” He planted a long, wet kiss on the crook of her wrist.
She drew her hand back while giggling. “We should dress. Mrs. Simms will be expecting us at Brightwater.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, leaning back on his palms. “God forbid a chalk falls on the floor and you miss it.”
Catherine was surprised by this calculated tease. “Mock me, and I shall makeyouscrub the floors when we arrive.”
His laughter came low and easy, rumbling through the quiet morning. “I doubt you would let me do so much as lift a broom,” he said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Wouldn’t I?” she challenged.
“I suspect you’d grow impatient and show me how it ought to be done properly.”
She smiled despite herself. “Perhaps I would.”
When they reached the orphanage gates, the children were already outside, their laughter carrying on the cold air. A few of the older boys were building a lopsided snowman; one waved excitedly when he saw her.
“Your Grace!”
She stepped down from the carriage before the footman could assist her. “Good morning, all of you!”
A chorus of greetings followed. Duncan came to stand beside her, the wind tugging at his coat. The children went suddenly shy, staring up at Duncan.
The red-haired boy from before—Thomas—tugged at his cap. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
Duncan inclined his head gravely. “Thomas, isn’t it? I’ve heard you are the fastest runner in Brightwater.”
Thomas blinked, surprised. “Aye, sir.”
“Then I expect you to prove it when the snow melts.”
The boy grinned. Catherine bit back a laugh.
Mrs. Simms appeared at the door, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Your Graces! Good morning. Do come in. We’ve kept the fires lit.”
“Mrs. Simms, where is Henry?” Catherine asked at once. “I should like to check on him first.”
“Oh, he’s much better, thanks to you, Your Graces. Let me lead you to his?—”
But before Mrs. Simms could finish, a small voice piped up from the stairwell. “Your Grace!”
Catherine turned. Henry stood halfway down the steps, wrapped in a thick shawl, his face still pale but bright with excitement.
“Henry!” she exclaimed, hurrying to him. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m better,” he protested. “Mrs. Simms says I may come down if I don’t run.”
Catherine looked at the matron, who nodded indulgently. “He’s mended well, thanks to your concern.”
Duncan came forward then, crouching to the boy’s level. “So, you’re the patient who gave us such a fright.”
Henry nodded solemnly. “I wasn’t very brave.”
