Chapter 14
“Raynsford, you’ve gone quiet.”
Stephen’s voice cut across the cluster of men, drawing Duncan’s attention back to the circle of conversation.
The clink of glasses, the murmur of politics, the easy laughter of peers, all of it grated against him. He had no patience for their trifles, not tonight, not with the air in his lungs burning hotter with every passing moment.
“I am listening,” Duncan replied, his tone clipped.
Stephen smirked, swirling the brandy in his glass. “Listening, yes. Engaged? Not in the slightest. Your jaw looks ready to snap in two.”
Duncan did not answer. His gaze had strayed again, drawn across the expanse of the ballroom as though by iron chains.
The violins had struck up another waltz, the crowd parting to reveal Catherine.
His wife stood radiant in pale silk, her head tipped back as she laughed at something spoken by the man whose hand enclosed hers.
The sight cleaved through Duncan like an axe.
Her smile—God, that smile—was not his tonight. It was given freely, easily, to another.
And the man? A stranger to him. Younger, slighter, hair burnished gold under the chandeliers, his face alight with admiration that Duncan could read even from a distance.
Duncan’s blood surged hot, pounding in his ears.
Who was he, and why in God’s name was Catherine allowing such liberty as laughter, as unguarded joy, in his company?
He heard Stephen nearly choke on his drink. “Ah. That explains it.”
“Explains what?” Duncan grunted.
“The thundercloud on your brow. You look ready to throttle the poor bastard.” Stephen’s grin widened, wicked as always. “And I cannot decide whether to stop you or to fetch a chair for the spectacle.”
Duncan tore his gaze away long enough to spear his friend with a look that could have frozen stone. “Tell me who he is.”
Stephen’s brows lifted. “Mr. Benjamin Selkirk, if I recall correctly. Surprised you don’t know him.
He’s been making quite a stir these past few years.
Started with nothing. An orphan, so the tale goes.
Built a fortune in trade: ships to the Indies, all that.
Tea, silk, spices. Half the merchants in London want his mark on their ventures now. ”
Duncan mulled over that information for a long moment.
An orphan. A trader.
Stephen leaned closer, amusement thick in his tone. “From Brightwater, I think. That must be the link. Your wife must have known him as a boy, no doubt.”
The name struck Duncan instantly. Brightwater.
Of course. The pieces slid into place with immense clarity.
He could see now the shared games and the bonds forged in the innocence of childhood.
Bonds that made his wife smile like that.
Bonds that allowed him to stand too close, to spin her across the floor as though she were his personal playmate.
Duncan recalled the moments he’d spent at Brightwater and sent a searching glance across the ballroom at Catherine and her companion.
Every inch of her was alive, alight, but not for me.
It was disappointing.
Stephen chuckled. “I’ll wager you’ve not glared so fiercely since you faced down half the House of Lords. You’ll have the matrons fainting in their feathers if you don’t master yourself.”
Duncan did not hear him. His vision had narrowed, the crowd fading until there was only Catherine and the stranger with his hand at her waist, only the laughter that should have been Duncan’s to claim.
Without another word, Duncan set his glass down with deliberate care and straightened to his full height.
The men around him continued their chatter, oblivious, but Stephen cursed under his breath. “Ah, Christ. He’s going to do it.”
Duncan strode across the ballroom, each step measured but heavy with intent.
The crowd parted instinctively, whispers rising as his presence cut through silk and satin with ease. The music swelled, violins spun high, as Catherine twirled beneath Selkirk’s arm. Her skirts flared, pale silk catching the light, her laughter spilling—
And then his resolve faltered.
Who am I to steal this moment of joy from my wife?
He stared at the couple long and hard and wished that he could abruptly turn about and walk in the other direction.
I must earn her smile and cherish her laughter—not be some sort of brute who steals what is not mine for the taking.
Perhaps Duncan would have pivoted and returned to the conversation he’d just left if it had not been for the way the dancers nearly collided with him.
Because he’d stopped walking right in the path where Catherine and her partner were destined to spin next, it went without saying that they collided with him.
The younger man froze, startled. He glanced upward at Duncan, recognition dawning in his eyes as though he suddenly recalled he was dancing with the Duchess of Raynsford, wife to the Duke who stood before him.
“Your Grace,” Selkirk said quickly, his voice even and lacking all the hilarity that had been there just seconds before. “A pleasure to meet you! Her Grace and I were reminiscing.”
Duncan sent his wife a long look. She nodded at him encouragingly, and he could just hear her voice in his head.
Be kind. Dazzle him with your charm.
“I…” Duncan began, but he did not know how to finish that statement.
He had been too unnerved while watching her dance with this other fellow to just calmly saunter this way now and strike up a trivial conversation. He was at a loss for what to say until it occurred to him that he need not state any other facts than the pertinent ones.
“I should like to dance with my wife now.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He released Catherine’s hand and stepped aside. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”
Without waiting for Catherine’s reply, the gentleman withdrew into the crowd.
Catherine’s lips pursed, and Duncan was aggrieved to see that her smile had vanished. He offered her his hand, and she daintily gave him her own. He listened to the musical beats, then nodded to indicate they should rejoin the dance. Once they were in motion, Catherine spoke.
“If you wanted to dance with me, Duncan, I believe the proper thing would have been to wait your turn.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured.
She heaved a beleaguered sigh. “I wished to dance with you, as well, but you did not see me pulling you away from the lords and insisting that you stand up with me immediately.”
“Yes, well,” Duncan mused, “I was not enjoying myself quite so much with the old men as you seemed to be whilst frolicking in Selkirk’s arms.”
She tossed her head. “I was not frolicking, merely completing the required steps. And besides…” She huffed as Duncan turned her so that they moved nearer to the bitter old ladies who had whispered about Benjamin earlier. “Benjamin is an old friend. That is all.”
“I hope that is true.”
Catherine’s right eyebrow quirked curiously. “I cannot decide if you are jealous of the friendship I have with Benjamin or if you are simply annoyed because anyone dared to outshine you tonight.”
“No one outshines me,” Duncan said in a tone he hoped would elicit a laugh from his wife.
She giggled. “That is true.” She smiled at him sweetly. “You are rather dashing when you want to be.”
He squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on her hands. “You think me dashing?”
“I think I have heard tales of your playful antics, but I am waiting to witness the proof with my own eyes.”
Duncan allowed his mouth to drop open in a mocking gape. “And I do not impress you this evening? I have not shown you just how lively and spirited I can be?”
Catherine tipped her head from side to side as though contemplating the matter with care. “A lively and spirited man would not have sent one of my oldest friends running. He would have waited until the end of the dance, joined us for a bit of a chat, and…”
“I understand,” Duncan interrupted. “And I shall not make the same mistake again. I will endeavor to be irresistible and disarmingly courteous until the break of day.”
She laughed, and his heart soared. Duncan had achieved what he most longed for, and now all that remained was to travel the length of his room with his beautiful wife.
The waltz swelled, drawing them into another turn.
In his frenzy to keep up with her, his hold never loosened, nor did he allow the distance propriety demanded.
They were too close, scandalously so, yet Duncan could not bring himself to care.
Her light and sweet scent filled his lungs, and the warmth of her pressed against him burned hotter than the candles overhead.
He wanted to lower his head, to taste the flush blooming across her skin, to claim her mouth as he had claimed her hand on this floor.
But not here. Not yet.
The final notes of the waltz rang out, lingering in the hush that followed. Couples dipped and curtsied, bowing out of the dance with polite laughter. Duncan held Catherine fast, ignoring the whispers that rippled through the room.
At last, he released her hand only to offer his arm, his desire unspoken but undeniable.
He guided her from the floor, the crowd parting before them as though sensing the longing that bound them together.
Every nerve in him clamored with want. The warmth of her hand burned through his sleeve, and the faint brush of her skirts against his leg made his blood pound harder than any battle drum.
He wanted her.
God help him, he wanted her with a fervor that rattled his composure.
He recalled the words she’d said to him hours before as they’d entered the ballroom. She had told him that his yearnings were not singular—she wanted to be with him, too. Then, she had shown him the truth of those statements by being his partner and dancing just as closely as they dared.
“Come outside with me,” he said.
Her eyes widened, lips parting. He saw the quick flutter of her breath, the battle raging in her as she warred between doing what was proper and doing what felt right.
Before she could answer, a harsh voice slurred across the chamber. “Catherine! Catherine, my girl!”
Her head whipped toward the sound, her body tensing beside him. Duncan followed her gaze.
At the far side of the ballroom, the Viscount of Portsbury, her father, stumbled into view. His cravat was askew, his coat wrinkled, his hand clutched loosely around a glass that sloshed red wine down his sleeve.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as he lurched forward, laughter too loud for the music, words spilling without care.
“My darling girl!” he bellowed, weaving toward them. “The duchess herself! Come now, Catherine, give your old father a smile—tell these fine people I raised you well, eh? You ended up a duchess.”
A few guests turned away; others whispered behind gloved hands. The violins faltered, one note lingering too long before the melody died altogether.
“Portsbury,” someone muttered under their breath, and the name spread through the hush like smoke.
Catherine inhaled sharply, horror flaring across her face. She took a step forward, but Duncan’s arm barred her path at once.
“No.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument.
She looked up at him, anguish bright in her eyes. “He will disgrace himself. When I saw him earlier, I did not know he would overimbibe. I should have said something then. Should have cautioned him. Should have…”
She squeezed her eyes shut and muttered something unintelligible under her breath.
Then, she continued, “He will—”
“He will disgrace you,” Duncan finished for her, his jaw tight. “I will deal with this.”
Her lips trembled, fury and shame battling in her gaze. “You cannot simply—”
“I can,” he said, his tone flat with command. “And I will.”
The music faltered as more heads turned toward the disturbance.
“Another bottle!” Lord Portsbury called, raising his glass high enough for the claret to spill down his sleeve. “A celebration, eh? My daughter—my fine, beautiful duchess of a daughter—she’s done what her old father could not!”
Laughter, loud and misplaced, burst from his chest. “Married herself a fortune and a title all in one. Smart girl—takes after her mother!”
Catherine blanched, and Duncan took another step toward the Viscount.
“My lord…perhaps some air,” a servant murmured, stepping forward with uncertain hands.
“Air?” Portsbury barked. “Nonsense. What’s a ball without a little cheer? Come now, Your Grace!” His eyes swept those gathered until they found Catherine. “Don’t look so grim, my girl. Smile for the guests, show them the Portsbury charm!”
His voice rang out across the marble floor, too loud, too familiar. A murmur rippled through the assembly; fans paused mid-flutter, and the whisper of silk stilled.
Catherine’s hand clenched into a fist at her side. Her shoulders straightened. Duncan saw the love she still bore for a father who had failed her, the despair of a daughter who could not stop him, and the shame of a duchess whose family might drag her down.
He leaned into his wife and lowered his voice so that no one else might overhear them. “Stay here. I will fix this. Do not move.”
Her chin trembled, but she gave a single, tight nod.
He released her arm, though it cost him, and squared his shoulders. His stride was steady, controlled, but each step carried the weight of fury tightly leashed.
The crowd shifted around him, eyes following as the Duke of Raynsford cut across the ballroom with purpose.
He would end this spectacle before it destroyed her.
For he wouldn’t let anyone disgrace his wife so.