Chapter 6
“Good God, it lives.” The voice carried easily across the club, pitched with amicable mockery.
Duncan’s shoulders stiffened before he even turned his head. There was Stephen, sprawled in his chair as though it were a throne, glass already in hand, his grin wolfish.
The hush of White’s wrapped around Duncan the moment he crossed the threshold.
Newspapers rustled like dry leaves, dice clattered in some back corner, and the air smelled faintly of brandy, smoke, and old money.
He had shrugged out of his coat and let the attendant take it, ignoring the curious glances that followed him.
Men had nodded to him out of habit, but Duncan scarcely registered their greetings. His mind was elsewhere, churning with accounts, with Brightwater, with Catherine.
“You have been a ghost,” Stephen went on, rising just enough to clasp Duncan’s arm when he reached the table. “Vanished from society, vanished from supper, vanished from this very seat for, what, a week now?” He made a show of counting on his fingers. “I had half a mind to put up a notice.”
Duncan gave him a look, the kind that had once silenced men across the gaming table. Stephen only smirked and waved the waiter for another glass.
“Well?” Stephen prompted. “Where in God’s name have you been hiding? The Season is half-spent, and your seat here has grown cold. I was beginning to think marriage had tamed you into some dull creature who dines at three and retires at six.”
Duncan’s mouth curved, though it was not quite a smile. He pushed the glass aside untouched.
“Obligations,” Duncan said flatly, pushing his glass aside as Stephen’s brows rose.
Across the polished table at White’s, his friend leaned back in his chair, the very picture of amused disbelief. The club hummed with quiet conversation, the rustle of newspapers, the clink of crystal and silver. All of it grated against Duncan’s nerves.
Stephen grinned. “Obligations. Is that what we are calling it now?”
Duncan arched a brow, willing his expression into granite. “That is precisely what we are calling it. I left Raynsford Hall to attend to my estates, to my tenants, and my accounts. London requires my presence.”
“Mm.” Stephen swirled his brandy, eyes glinting. “Curious, then, that your presence here comes only a week after your wedding. Most men prefer to linger on their honeymoon.” He tipped his glass in mock solemnity. “Unless, of course, their bride is so dreadfully dull that they—”
“Enough.” Duncan’s voice indicated he was not in a playful mood and hoped his friend would desist.
Stephen’s grin widened, unrepentant. “Struck a nerve, did I?”
Duncan stiffened in his chair, shoulders rigid. He would not rise to the bait. He knew Stephen was aching to ask for details about the week he’d spent with Catherine. But, since there was little to tell, Duncan wished to steer the conversation away from that territory.
Yet Catherine’s face intruded, unbidden, her green eyes flashing like fireworks, lips parting, trembling hands pressed against the tablecloth as she leaned forward and attempted to flirt with him.
Oh, his wife wasn’t dull. Certainly not.
Duncan reached for his glass again, though his throat was too tight to drink. “Keep your tongue leashed.”
“Oh, come now, old man,” Stephen said easily, leaning forward. “I only wish to understand. You vanished into matrimony, and within days, you reemerged here, looking as though you had been shot through the heart. What else am I to conclude but that your duchess has you in knots?”
“I am not in knots.” The words came too quickly, sharply.
Stephen chuckled. “Which is precisely what a man in knots would say.”
Duncan exhaled slowly, willing control back into his lungs. “You mistake me. Catherine is—”
His jaw clicked shut.
Stephen’s grin softened into something almost sly. “Catherine Terrell is… what?”
“Catherine is now the Duchess of Raynsford and as such, deserves to be granted a modicum of privacy…” He paused and eyed his friend carefully. “And decency.”
Stephen laughed outright this time, startling a pair of older gentlemen at the next table. “God’s teeth, you are a wonder, Duncan. I know not whether to applaud your newfound sense of chivalry or shake you and demand that you send the real Duncan out to join this conversation.”
Duncan snorted. “I am here, old friend. I only lack the mirth this discussion seems to require.” He picked up his cup and slowly swirled the brown liquid in a circle.
When he glanced sidelong at Stephen, he saw that his friend was beaming at him ridiculously.
Understanding what sort of jests were to follow, Duncan thought to head him off by muttering, “Suthmeer, mind yourself.”
“I mind myself very well indeed,” Stephen said cheerfully. “Better than you, by the look of you. Tell me—” he lowered his voice, grin wicked “—is it the bed that plagues you, then? Is the duchess keeping you awake at night?”
The question slid into Duncan’s ears like a blade.
He stilled, every muscle drawn taut. Heat surged beneath his collar, betraying him.
His mind betrayed him further, conjuring the image of Catherine in her nightdress, silk clinging to pale skin, trembling hands fumbling at ties as though preparing for execution.
He had stopped her, not for lack of wanting, but because the sight of her terror had been unbearable. Her trembling had cut through him sharper than any wound could. His throat tightened even now at the memory.
The truth was inescapable. He wanted her.
God above, he wanted her with a hunger that scorched through his entire body.
Her nearness alone was enough to set his veins alight, to undo years of discipline with a single glance.
And yet he could not have her, not like that.
Not while fear shadowed her eyes and made every breath a plea for escape.
This entire week, he had waited for her to give him a sign…
an indication of her readiness. He wanted her to show interest, rather than obligation.
He looked into her eyes and sought desire, but all he continued to see reflected was her hesitancy and reluctance.
It was unsettling and made him feel like the rogue she dreamed him to be.
Stephen’s laugh was softer now, though no less pointed. “Ah. So that is it. She rattled you more than you care to admit.”
Duncan’s jaw worked. He shook his head slowly, forcing composure into his voice. “I am never rattled.” The lie felt ludicrous as it dripped from his lips. Surely, Stephen, who had known him for ages, would see through this fabrication.
But Stephen only watched him, sharp eyes gleaming with mischief. “I have known you long enough to tell when you are hiding something. And right now, my friend, you look like a man who cannot decide whether he wants to run away from his wife or kiss her senseless.”
Stephen proved to be as astute as ever. The words struck too close. Duncan’s grip tightened around his glass, though he did not lift it.
He wanted to press his lips against her, to stop the endless clash between what he thought and what he felt. The sight of her trembling haunted him, stirring something he could neither master nor name. God help him, he wanted her to relax around him and give him leave to do as he wished with her.
Stephen leaned back, smug as a cat with cream. “Say nothing, if you must. But your silence tells me everything. You, Duncan Witherley, Duke of Raynsford, master of control, are undone by a woman. It is almost poetic.”
Duncan closed his eyes briefly, dragging in a breath.
Control. I must master myself. I must.
“It is business,” he said again, each syllable ground out. “My accounts, my tenants, my obligations. That is all.”
Stephen smirked. “If you say so. Though I suspect the true balance you are struggling with is not in your ledgers.”
Duncan ignored him, staring hard at the tablecloth as though it were a battlefield map. But Catherine’s face came into his mind again. The curve of her lips, the fire in her gaze…
He ground his teeth in agitation. He had thought himself impervious. He had thought no woman could pierce the armor he had forged through years of discipline and duty.
And yet Catherine had done it in a week. A week, and already she haunted him.
“Felton,” Duncan said abruptly, the word like flint striking against stone.
Stephen, who had been halfway through a smug sip of port, stilled. One brow rose. “Lord Felton? Ah. A viper, to be sure. But I did not think he featured further in your business. Am I wrong? Has he slithered back into the tale?”
Duncan set his glass down with deliberate care, as if too much force might betray what seethed beneath his skin. “He was involved with my father-in-law’s debts. Deeply.”
Stephen leaned back in his chair. “I had thought as much. The man’s nose twitches at coin like a hound at blood. What, pray, do you intend to do? Challenge him to pistols at dawn? Or shall you simply glower until he withers?”
Duncan shot him a look that could have frozen rivers. “I intend to gather proof. Enough to have him arrested. Extortion, fraud, whatever will see him ruined. Portsbury himself could provide testimony. If I can bind that with other evidence…”
Stephen whistled low, setting his glass down. His usual grin faded into something more sober. “Dangerous game, old friend. Felton will not go quietly. He is a rat, yes, but rats bite when cornered.”
“I am not afraid of his teeth.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened, and the muscles in his neck grew taut as a bowstring. He welcomed the thought of Felton cornered, stripped of his smirk, his power broken. He could almost taste the satisfaction.
How many nights had he stood at his father’s study door, listening to raised voices, to coin changing hands, to the long, ugly silence that followed?
His father had thought himself clever, striking bargains with men like Felton, masking weakness with bravado.
But Duncan had seen the truth. He had watched a proud man drink himself into cowardice, watched debts mount until the Raynsford title, once unshakable, was whispered with pity.
And when ruin came, it was not only his father’s shame that was buried.
It was the family’s honor as well as the security of every tenant who looked to Raynsford for strength.
He had sworn then, standing in that cold hall as a boy of fifteen, that he would never fall to such disgrace. That he would never beg, never gamble, never lean upon another man’s word. He would take what was his, hold it with iron, and never let it slip through his fingers.
So, Duncan had poured his every effort into restoring his family’s good name and recuperating the wealth his father had lost. He made friends with everyone he met and sweet-talked quite a few ladies so that they felt compelled to whisper in the ears of their husbands.
He had earned his reputation by cavorting with gorgeous young ladies as well as mingling with widows.
With each new conquest, he sought to build relationships and establish greatness where his father had brought disgrace.
Duncan knew his reputation was not pristine, but the change he had exacted served to buoy his estate, save his tenants, and fill him with a sense of pride.
But Lord Felton… When Duncan thought of that wily man with his sly smiles and ledgers of blood, he saw only the very face of the men who had bled his father dry.
Stephen poured another measure of port with leisurely care.
“My advice, for what it’s worth: forget Felton for a night.
Forget your grand schemes of justice. Focus instead on the woman fate has strapped to your side.
She is young, beautiful, and by all accounts, charitable.
” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “You could do worse.”
Duncan swallowed hard.
Beautiful. Charitable.
His chest ached with the truth of it, even as his mind screamed against it. Catherine was all those things and more.
“I do not require your advice,” he said curtly.
“Of course you don’t,” Stephen drawled, raising his glass in mock salute. “And yet you look precisely like a man who does.”
Duncan exhaled slowly. He wanted to rise, to leave, to bury himself again in ledgers and reports, anything to drive her from his mind. But even here, in the smoke-scented halls of White’s, Catherine lingered.
The phantom press of her lips. The sound of her voice.
There was so much more he wished to give her, yet he would not take that which she did not willingly offer.
Until his wife invited him into her bedchambers, he would keep his distance.