Page 89 of The Duchess Trap
“He knows about your plan,” she whispered.
“I expect he does.”
“What will he do?”
“Nothing,” Duncan said calmly. “Not yet.”
He offered his arm. “Come. We will allow his presence to deter us from making merry.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand on his sleeve. As they walked away together, heads held high, the whisper of voices followed them like wind through leaves, but Catherine felt no fear.
“Catherine!”
She turned toward the familiar voice. Helen was standing near the edge of the terrace, a shawl of pale green silk drawn around her shoulders and a knowing smile already forming on her lips.
Catherine’s heart lifted as she walked toward her, while Duncan lingered behind to speak with another guest, “Helen! I had begun to think you’d forgotten me entirely.”
“I would sooner forget how to breathe,” Helen said, taking her hands warmly. “You’ve been hidden away like a recluse. One might think marriage to a duke had rendered you invisible.”
Catherine laughed. “Hardly invisible. Only occupied.”
Helen’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Occupied. What a dangerously suggestive word.”
Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. “You misunderstand me.”
“Do I?” Helen’s smile deepened. “Perhaps not entirely. Thetonhas been whispering ever since you arrived, you know. They say the Duke and Duchess of Raynsford look quite pleased with themselves.”
“Is that what they say?”
“That, and that you appear…” Helen lowered her voice dramatically, “happy. At last.”
Catherine tried to sound casual. “Do I?”
Helen gave a little hum. “Positively radiant. And he—well, he scarcely took his eyes off you all evening.”
Catherine’s lips curved despite herself. “You exaggerate.”
“I never exaggerate where romance is concerned,” Helen said. “Tell me, what miracle has wrought this change? You owe me a confession.”
Catherine hesitated. How could she explain the slow, impossible transformation of the man who had once kept his heart locked and only revealed slices of himself to everyone else—including her? How could she describe the quiet tenderness of that morning, the laughter that still lingered in her chest, the way his smallest glance seemed to fill her with warmth?
“He stayed,” she said simply.
Helen blinked. “Stayed?”
“Little Henry from Brightwater was ill. I stayed with him, and Duncan came too. I was frightened, and he stayed beside me.”
“Oh dear! Is the poor boy all right?”
“Yes, yes. Pardon me for not clarifying that.”
Something softened in Helen’s expression. “So then,” she murmured. “The simplest gestures are the ones that show our true measures, aren’t they?”
Catherine nodded, her throat tightening. “It was… different. He was different. And then I was, too.”
Helen squeezed her hand. “My dear, I am so glad.”
Catherine smiled through the ache in her chest. “You sound as though you doubted it possible.”
