Page 92 of The Duchess Trap
Mrs. Simms appeared from the kitchen, flour on her sleeves and good humor in her eyes. “You’ll wear yourself to the bone, Your Grace. You’ve not stopped a moment since morning.”
“I can’t stop now,” Catherine said, turning to inspect a crooked wreath. “If I do, they’ll replace the candles with marbles again.”
Mrs. Simms laughed. “They’re only excited. It isn’t every day they’re allowed to decorate the hall.”
“I know.” Catherine’s tone softened. “And they’re doing beautifully, truly. They only need… occasional guidance.”
From somewhere behind the stairwell came the unmistakable crash of a falling bucket, followed by guilty silence.
Catherine closed her eyes. “Occasional,” she repeated faintly.
She went to investigate and found two small boys ankle-deep in spilled water, their faces pale as snow. “It was meant to be for the pine boughs,” one whispered.
“I gathered as much.” She knelt, wringing out a cloth, then looked up with mock severity. “If we hurry, perhaps Mrs. Simms won’t notice. Now fetch the mop, and not another word.”
By the time order was restored, the hall glowed with light. Candles burned safely in glass globes, garlands looped along the rafters, and the children’s paper stars gleamed proudly above the windows.
Catherine stood back, a strand of hair escaping her ribbon, cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. She hadn’t felt this alive in years.
A shout rose outside, followed by the rumble of wheels on gravel. “It’s him!” someone cried.
Catherine turned as the door opened. Duncan stepped inside, brushing snow from his coat. The chilly air came with him, and for a moment every head turned. He looked unreasonably handsome in the plain dark wool, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he took in the chaos.
“My word,” he said mildly, “have I stumbled into a military campaign?”
“Only if ribbons count as ammunition,” Catherine replied. “You’re late.”
“I was told you had an army at your disposal,” he said, unbuttoning his gloves. “I assumed my presence unnecessary.”
“On the contrary,” she said, arching a brow. “We’re short one ladder and two sensible hands.”
“Then I fear you’ll have to settle for mine.”
Before she could reply, a group of children swarmed him. “Your Grace! You promised a race when the snow melted!”
“I did indeed,” he said gravely. “But since the snow refuses to oblige, I suppose we must invent another contest.”
“Hide-and-seek!” cried one.
“Marbles!” shouted another.
“Spillikins,” Duncan offered.
The roar of approval nearly shook the garlands loose. Catherine groaned. “You’re encouraging them.”
“Merely giving them strategic options.”
Within moments, he had been dragged toward the far table, laughing as the children argued over the rules. Catherine tried to reclaim order, but the sight of the dignified Duke crouched at a child-sized table, frowning in mock concentration, dissolved her authority entirely.
Mrs. Simms sidled up beside her, smiling. “He’s rather good with them, Your Grace.”
“Alarmingly good,” Catherine admitted. “He’ll have them sitting on his lap and begging to hear stories before the day is out.”
“You sound proud, not alarmed.”
“Perhaps both.” She couldn’t stop watching him, the ease in his posture, the warmth of his laughter. It was strange how the severity she had once found intimidating now seemed part of his charm.
A sudden cheer broke out. Duncan looked up, triumphant, holding a handful of marbles like trophies. “I believe I’ve been soundly defeated,” he said, grinning. “Does the victor demand his prize?”
