Page 99 of The Duchess Trap
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly: “Thank you.”
By the time the last embers had been doused and the night began to pale with the first hint of dawn, the courtyard had turned into a strange sort of camp. Servants moved among the children with blankets and water. Duncan oversaw the loading of the carriages, giving orders with the same clipped precision he used in business, anything to keep his mind from returning to the sight of her collapsing in his arms.
When the first carriage was ready, he went to find his wife.
“Catherine,” he said.
She looked up from where she sat beside a boy whose hand she was bandaging with torn linen. “Yes?”
“It’s time to leave.”
Her gaze drifted toward the building, now nothing but a shell of smoke and ruin. He saw the moment her throat tightened. “They’ll rebuild,” he said quietly. “Better than before.”
She nodded, but her hand trembled as she tied the cloth. “This place… it was my mother’s heart. I don’t know if I can bear to see it like this.”
He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the pain in her voice. But he understood there was no comfort he could provide. So, he offered what he could: certainty.
“You’ll have it back,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”
Her eyes flicked to his, and for a heartbeat, something passed between them, an understanding so deep it made his heart sing.
Then she lowered her gaze. “Thank you, Duncan.”
He cleared his throat. “Come. The children are waiting.”
They rode in the first coach, Catherine beside him, the rescued children huddled opposite. The interior smelled of soot, wool, and exhaustion. Every few minutes, a small head would tip against her shoulder, and she would whisper soft reassurances, each word a balm he didn’t know the world could hold.
He watched her in the dim light, unable to look away. Her face was streaked with smoke, her lashes damp. She held a child in her arms as naturally as if she had been born for it. Something in his chest clenched.
He turned his head, staring out at the dark fields as they passed. The sky was beginning to lighten. The fire’s reflection had longsince faded, but its heat remained lodged under his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her and the way she’d run into that inferno without hesitation, the way her body had fit against his when he caught her.
When they reached his estate, the city was just waking. Pale light filtered through a veil of smoke and fog. Belgrave House loomed ahead, vast and elegant, long unused except for formal receptions. By the time they arrived, servants from his main residence had already thrown open its doors. Warmth spilled out, the smell of bread and tea filling the air.
The children filed inside, wide-eyed and silent, clutching blankets too large for them. Their small feet scuffed against the marble floors, leaving smudges of soot on white stone. A few stared up at the chandeliers, blinking at the light as if it were something foreign after so many hours of smoke. One little boy began to cry— a quiet, hiccupping sound that seemed to echo too loudly in the grand hall.
Catherine was beside him before Duncan could take a step.
“Hush now,” she murmured, crouching so their eyes met. “You’re safe, love. Look—there’s a fire in the hearth, and warm bread waiting for you.” She brushed the ash from his hair with the side of her hand. “Go on. Help Mrs. Simms find your bed.”
The child nodded and shuffled forward, still clutching her skirt until the last possible moment.
She didn’t rest. When another boy stumbled on the threshold, she caught him by the shoulders and steadied him, her voice low and sure.
“Careful, darling. One step at a time.” She guided him toward the maids, then turned to the next group, pointing gently toward the corridor that led to the lower chambers.
“Two to a room,” she told the housekeeper softly. “The little ones by the windows—they’re afraid of the dark.”
Her words were calm, but her hands never stopped moving. She straightened blankets, adjusted collars, and wiped a smudge from a girl’s cheek. The children seemed to orbit her, drawn by some quiet gravity she didn’t seem to notice.
Duncan stood near the doorway, his steward beside him, taking notes as he issued instructions. “The east wing will do for the staff. Send for the physicians at once. I want cots set up by the fires—here and here.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Catherine passed through the hall again, skirts brushing lightly against the marble, a strand of hair slipping free to rest against her neck. A child reached for her hand, and she took it without hesitation, leading the girl to a maid who waited with warm milk. She moved with purpose, like light pouring through smoke.
He watched the soft line of her shoulders as she bent to whisper something that made the girl smile through tears. He watched the way her fingertips lingered on the child’s hair, gentle but sure. He had never seen anyone so at home in chaos.
His steward asked him a question, something about supplies, but Duncan barely heard. His throat had gone dry.
