Chapter 12
“Do stop frowning,” Catherine hissed under her breath, clutching her fan tightly as the carriage rolled to a halt before the blaze of lanterns. “You look as though we’ve come to a funeral.”
Beside her, Duncan did not so much as twitch. His profile, stern in the glow of the lamps, might have been carved from marble.
“I am not frowning,” he said evenly. “I am preparing.”
“For battle?” she asked archly.
“For scrutiny,” he corrected, blue eyes cutting to meet hers. “They will weigh every glance, every word, every silence. It is the nature of such gatherings.”
“Didn’t you say we shall give them nothing to pick apart? What are you worried about now?”
A flicker of approval, or even the faintest trace of amusement, passed through his gaze. But beneath it, she glimpsed something hotter, something that made her chest tighten.
Her lips tingled at the memory of their previous kisses, and she allowed her body to lean ever so slightly toward him, desperate for a touch that never came.
He must not have noticed because as she moved, so did he.
The Duke slid closer to the window, allowing an expanse of space to spring wide between them.
“They will see what I choose for them to see,” Duncan said quietly.
Catherine could not refrain from giggling at that pronouncement. Her reaction drew his attention, so she said, “Let us enjoy ourselves, husband. Try to remember the man you were weeks ago and show the world your most enchanting smile.”
Duncan grimaced slightly, which only prompted Catherine to laugh louder.
“Very well,” he conceded as his eyes focused wholly on her. “We shall make merry you and I.”
The words should have steadied her, but they only sent her pulse racing faster, though she strove to hide it. She contemplated reaching for him or scooting into the void gaping between them and resting her hand upon his knee, but before she could make such a movement, the carriage slowed.
The door swung open an instant later. The Dowager Duchess was already there, having descended from her own carriage, which had led the procession.
Her cane struck the ground with imperious rhythm, her presence commanding as a general.
Her sharp eyes swept over them both, lingering with keen satisfaction.
Duncan turned then, offering Catherine his hand with the careful formality of a butler. She laid her gloved fingers in his palm, her skin burning at the contact.
“Well done,” The Dowager Duchess remarked as she cast an appraising eye over Catherine’s new gown.
She nodded approvingly at the icy blue silk.
“At last, London shall have its spectacle tonight.” She tilted her chin toward the glowing entrance of the ballroom, jewels winking at her throat.
“I shall go in first and prepare the way. You two will follow when I call, properly announced, as you ought to be. Do try not to scowl, Duncan. And dear Catherine, keep your chin high. The ton will be watching.”
She tapped her cane smartly and moved toward the doors. People drew back to admire her as she strode regally forward.
Duncan’s hand still enclosed Catherine’s, and she warmed at the thought of staying close to him all night.
How could this be the same man, the same mouth that had stolen hers, that had coaxed a tremor from deep within her? Now his lips were pressed in a flat, polite line, his touch careful, almost detached. He held her as though she were porcelain, unbearably distant.
“I could walk unaided,” she muttered as they trailed after the Dowager Duchess.
“I am aware,” he returned evenly. “Is that what you want? Do you wish for me to let you go?”
Catherine shook her head. “I wish for you to hold me closer.”
His eyes flicked toward her, and his face spread into a slow grin. “Do you mean this?”
Perhaps she would have answered him properly and said more than a simple yes had they lingered near the carriage. But since they had elected to follow the Dowager, it was impossible to continue speaking.
The crowd quieted as the Dowager marched directly into the ballroom. The footman announced her, giving her name and title all the pomp and circumstance it required.
Then, he looked at Catherine and Duncan.
The man cleared his throat loudly before bellowing, “Ladies and gentlemen. Our guests of honor. The Duke and Duchess of Raynsford!”
Catherine knew that she and her husband were meant to be the center of attention, but she was unprepared for the reaction of the multitude. Every head turned. The hum of conversation dissolved and was broken only by the rustle of silk and the clink of glasses.
Dear God.
Her pulse leapt into her throat as heat flooded her cheeks. Duncan’s arm gripped hers, solid and steady. She took great comfort in feeling him so near her side. Together, they crossed the threshold.
Smile, she ordered herself. Smile, or you will be devoured.
She curved her lips, praying it looked natural, praying no one saw the truth, that her stomach was knotted with dread, that her skin burned with memories of his mouth, and that her marriage was nothing like what they imagined.
The crowd parted, bowing, curtseying, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Whispers rose again, muted but sharp.
“Duchess.” The voice made her start. Her father.
The Viscount Portsbury stood awkwardly near the edge of the crowd, his shoulders hunched, his hair thinner than she remembered.
He gave her a quick, jerky bow, his eyes darting between her and Duncan as though uncertain of the ground beneath his feet.
“Father,” she said softly, her voice catching.
She stepped closer, torn between the impulse to embrace him, to scold him, or to pretend nothing at all had changed. For years, she had been the one to mind him, to smooth his debts, and to carry burdens no daughter should.
Now she stood beside Duncan as a duchess, and could no longer fall into that old role, yet she felt its pull all the same.
“You look… well,” he managed at last, tugging at his cuffs with restless fingers.
His gaze lingered on her gown, on the jewels at her throat, then slipped away quickly, as though ashamed to meet her eyes.
Her heart squeezed. “I am well,” she said, though the words felt hollow. “And you?”
“I manage,” he murmured, his mouth twitching in what might have been a smile, though it never reached his eyes.
A silence fell, unbearably raw.
Catherine swallowed. “I thought I might see you when we both visited Brightwater. Or I fancied that you might… You might call on me.”
He shifted uneasily, eyes flicking to Duncan’s hand resting at her back. “You are a duchess now. You have greater concerns than your father.”
She opened her mouth, desperate to deny it, to tell him she would always be his daughter before anything else, but her lips closed around the words.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “I must greet an acquaintance. Excuse me.”
And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Catherine stood rooted, her chest aching, her fingers tightening around her fan until the sticks creaked. She forced her lips into another smile, though it felt brittle, ready to shatter.
“Do not,” Duncan said low beside her, “let the tension between you and your father trouble you.”
Her eyes flashed to his. “How can it not?”
His gaze held hers, steady, unflinching. “Because soon…very soon…all his burdens will melt like snow,” he said quietly. “He will be better, and when he has recovered fully, your relationship will improve.”
Catherine did not understand Duncan’s meaning. She was grateful to him for discharging her father’s debts, but his words indicated that there was more to the story.
What does the Duke know about my father’s struggles that he has failed to share with me?
Before she could answer, another voice intruded too smoothly.
“Your Graces.”
Lord Felton stood before them, bowing low. His coat gleamed, his smile was dazzling, his manners faultless. Only the faint gleam in his eyes betrayed the viper beneath.
Catherine’s skin crawled. Duncan inclined his head the barest fraction, his expression unreadable.
“Felton,” he said.
“May I offer my congratulations?” Felton purred. “A splendid match. London will not stop speaking of it.” His gaze lingered on Catherine a moment too long, his smile a shade too wide. “And you, Your Grace, you outshine every lady in the room.”
Her stomach twisted. She managed a curtsy, her voice cool. “You are kind, my lord.”
“Merely truthful, Your Grace, not kind,” he said smoothly.
I know you are not kind, she wished to respond. You do not have a kind bone in your body.
Duncan’s hand brushed hers, only a whisper of contact, but enough to ground her. His voice, when it came, was low. “Excuse us, Felton. There are others to greet.”
“Of course,” Lord Felton said with mock warmth, bowing again. “Enjoy your evening.”
They moved away, Catherine’s heart pounding, every nerve on edge. She glanced up at Duncan, searching his face for any sign of the fury she felt, but he gave her nothing.
She leaned toward him slightly, her fan trembling against her gloved fingers. “How can you stand there so calm,” she whispered, “when you see a snake like Lord Felton standing before us?”
His head dipped closer, his voice low and rough against her ear. “Who told you I was calm?”
She blinked up at him, startled. “Your face. You look as though nothing touches you.”
“Not everything is the way it appears,” he said, eyes holding hers for one charged instant.
Before she could press him, another voice rang out, far too familiar. “Your Graces! I would bow, but I fear the sight of such beauty might unbalance me completely.”
Catherine turned, her breath catching anew, to see Lord Suthmeer, Duncan’s friend, cutting through the crowd toward them. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish, his grin broad, his eyes alight with mischief.
“Lord Suthmeer,” she curtsied at him, “a pleasure to see you.”
“Your Grace,” he said to her, then kissed her hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine. I suspect half the ladies here will abandon their dances in despair.”
“Oh, my lord,” she said warmly, dipping her head as he released her hand. “You flatter me.”
“As every man in this room should. Especially my friend here.” He turned towards the Duke. “I must say, Duncan, you keep her well-hidden. One might think you were afraid someone else might steal her.”
“Suthmeer,” the Duke grunted, his eyes narrowing.
Lord Suthmeer’s eyes glinted at Duncan, ensuring he heard every word. “I believe I am quite ruined already by you, Your Grace. Though I suspect your husband will never forgive me for admitting it.”
Her laugh broke free, her hand rising instinctively to cover her mouth.
She dared a glance at Duncan then. His aloofness had somehow faltered; He appeared to be doing his best to contain a smile.
“Go on,” she prompted. “Indulge yourself.”
Duncan tipped his head back and laughed, which drew a reaction from her core, as well as a ripple of guffaws from his friend.
I made him smile. He laughed because I drew it out of him.
The idea thrilled her more than it ought. She lingered in the moment deliberately, exchanging another smile with Lord Suthmeer, her cheeks still warm, her laughter light on her lips.
Before she could think of what to say to coax a second genuine laugh from her husband, another voice interrupted. “Catherine!”
Helen appeared, her cheeks flushed, her curls arranged tightly about her face, her eyes sparkling with delight.
She seized Catherine’s hands at once. “You look magnificent, darling!”
Catherine squeezed her friend’s fingers, relief flooding her chest. “Helen. I feared you might not come.”
“How could I parade about this ballroom without you?” Helen grinned, then cast a curious look at the men beside them.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Catherine turned. “This is the Marquess of Suthmeer. A friend of Duncan’s. Lord Suthmeer, this is my dear friend, Lady Helen Watton.”
The Marquess swept another bow, lower this time, his grin wicked. “At your service, Lady Helen. I daresay Her Grace neglected to warn me that she kept such a radiant creature hidden among her acquaintances.”
Helen blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “You mistake me for the sort of girl who swoons at a compliment, my lord. I assure you; I am not so easily won.”
Suthmeer’s grin only deepened. “Then I shall have to work harder. I relish a challenge.”
Catherine pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh.
“You needn’t bother, my lord,” Helen shot back. “You will only tire yourself.”
“Not at all,” the Marquess said cheerfully. “I have boundless energy when properly motivated.”
Helen rolled her eyes and turned back to Catherine. “Is he always so chipper?”
“Always,” Duncan deadpanned.
Catherine glanced at her husband, and his expression was neutral. Because he gazed off toward the crowd, she could not be sure what caught his eye, but then his hand at her back pressed just a fraction firmer.
Her body betrayed her, shivering at the contact, a tremor running beneath her stays that she could not disguise. Heat licked up her throat, and she forced a breath, desperate to steady herself, to keep her smile fixed while her heart clamored.
Around them, the swell of voices rose again, lords eager to draw Duncan into talk of Parliament, politics, and land.
Lord Suthmeer, for his part, kept up with the lords, as well as lavished attention on Lady Helen.
It was not until one gentleman, a person whom Catherine had surprisingly not encountered at any time during her three Seasons in Society, appeared and beckoned for Duncan and Lord Suthmeer to follow that she felt any uneasiness at all.
“You will be safe with your friend,” Duncan said quietly, before he followed Lord Suthmeer with reluctance. She knew that Duncan was hesitant to leave because of the way his hand lingered on her, making contact until the very last moment they must be torn asunder.
Even then, they locked eyes and she could see that her husband would much prefer to stay at her side, than go and deal with whatever business required his attention. After giving the smallest inclination of his head, he was gone into the crowd.
Safe.
The words sent heat racing through her. She wanted to call him back and demand that he stay right next to her.
Instead, she lifted her chin, smiled at Helen, and tried to pretend her world had not tilted so entirely.
The ball had only just begun, and already her heart was in chaos.