Chapter 15
“Catherine!” Helen’s voice cut through the rising murmur of the ballroom as she hurried to her friend’s side. “Good heavens, are you all right?”
Catherine blinked, still dazed. “I—yes, I believe so.” Her gaze flicked toward the far end of the room, where a small commotion still lingered. “My father—he…”
“I saw,” Helen said gently, laying a steadying hand on her arm. “The poor man could hardly stand. Half the room was whispering before anyone moved.”
“Since the marriage, since I left him, he’s only grown worse,” Catherine murmured, the words catching in her throat. “It feels as though my leaving took what little steadiness he had left. I should have gone to him—”
“And done what? Shared his humiliation?” Helen’s tone was firm but kind.
“No, my dear. I see that the Duke has already gone to see to him.” Helen’s eyes darted toward the far side of the ballroom where Duncan’s tall figure now stood, speaking low to a footman while two servants discreetly guided the Viscount toward the doors.
“Your husband may be many things, but inattentive is not one of them.”
Catherine’s pulse stumbled. “He should not have to—”
“He should, and he does,” Helen said matter-of-factly. “And from the look of it, he’s handling the matter with a good deal more grace than anyone else could have.”
She gave Catherine’s hand a reassuring squeeze, her expression softening. “Now breathe. The moment is already being forgotten. And besides…” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I daresay the ballroom is far more interested in your dancing than your father’s claret.”
“What?” Catherine looked up and met her friend’s joyous expression. She was baffled. “My dancing?”
Helen arched a brow. “What on earth was that display?”
Catherine shook her head slowly. She was still muddled by all that had happened over the course of the last quarter of an hour.
When she said nothing, Helen explained, “Half the room stopped breathing when your Duke approached you and Mr. Selkirk. But then, in the blink of an eye, all was well again, and you and the Duke appeared to be more enamored with each other than ever.”
Helen released a soft laugh.
“I had not thought there was much affection between you, especially when taking into account what you told me during our last private conversation, but have my eyes deceived me, Catherine? Have you and the Duke somehow become better…”
“I hardly know,” she interjected, her voice low, strained.
She was not certain what others saw when they looked at her and Duncan, but she knew that if her father had not interrupted and she had permitted her husband to lead her out onto the balcony, the heat simmering between them would have boiled over.
Helen gave her a pointed look, lips twitching with suppressed amusement. “Well, truth be told, I have never seen a man more smitten than your Duke. He looks at you as though you are his last breath.”
“Helen!” Catherine hissed, scandalized, even as the memory made her knees weaken.
“Oh, hush.” Her friend waved a dismissive hand. “Better to be envied for passion than pitied for indifference.”
But Catherine did not know how to react. Her fan trembled against her lips.
Passion.
That was what they had seen. Not the humiliation of being called out by her father.
Not the way Viscount Portsbury had slurred his words and spilled claret down his sleeve.
All those gathered saw was a Duke and Duchess who were taken with one another.
They glimpsed a bit of the lusty desire that rolled between the pair and admired their union all the more for it.
Before she could summon a retort, a trio of women swept toward them, silks rustling, jewels glittering in the candlelight, Catherine recognized them at once: Lady Ashcombe, Lady Stanhope, and Mrs. Keating. These three women represented the very picture of ton refinement and venom.
“Your Grace,” Lady Ashcombe cooed, approaching with a flutter of lace and a smile too sweet to trust. “We were simply dreadfully concerned. Such an unfortunate little scene. I do hope your father is quite well?”
Catherine’s spine straightened, the smile fixed on her lips not quite reaching her eyes. “He will be, thank you.”
“How very reassuring,” Lady Stanhope said smoothly, her gaze sweeping Catherine from head to toe. “One does so hate when these…family embarrassments occur in public. But at least you have His Grace to manage such matters for you.”
“Indeed,” Lady Ashcombe chimed in as her lips curved into a flattering smile. “And what a fortunate match it is. Marriage to the Duke of Raynsford! Why, quite the achievement.”
The pause lingered just long enough for the sting to land. Helen’s fingers tightened protectively around Catherine’s arm.
Mrs. Keating gave a soft, pitying laugh. “Though I confess, Your Grace, I would never have guessed it. All those years devoted to your little orphanage. How touching. It seems compassion can open doors that ambition alone cannot.”
“Or perhaps,” Lady Stanhope added sweetly, “His Grace mistook one for the other.”
Catherine’s fan stilled. She did not entirely understand what these women meant to say.
In one instance, she could have sworn they had converged so they might attack her father and call his behavior into question.
But, in the very next breath, it appeared that they were insulting her and Duncan—making a mockery of their hasty marriage.
Even though Catherine found their words difficult to interrupt, she fully understood the vitriol those cuts contained.
She met their gazes squarely, her voice steady though her pulse thundered. “If compassion offends you, my ladies, I suggest you make better acquaintance with it.”
The words landed just as she intended, and for a heartbeat, the ladies’ false smiles faltered. Helen laughed lightly, and Catherine took satisfaction in knowing that while the others chose to speak in riddles, her own words would not be misconstrued.
Lady Ashcombe regained her composure immediately. “Devotion is admirable, of course. But one must admit, it is unusual. A duchess with dirt beneath her nails, tending to riffraff instead of gracing drawing rooms. One wonders what His Grace makes of such eccentricities.”
Catherine sent a sidelong glance at Helen, who only shrugged as if to say, “Are these women really so daft as to continue in this vein?”
And then Lady Stanhope added something that made Catherine’s head spin, for her words were not cloaked in delicacy or enigmas. “One can hardly imagine why anyone would marry into your family. Such entanglements are unfortunate.”
For a moment, Catherine saw red. She had never been so insulted in all her life, and her first instinct was to reply with a waspish retort. But she was saved from stooping so low by Helen, who carefully squeezed her forearm and pulled her half a step away from the terrorizing trio of ladies.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” Catherine said coolly, mastering her impulses so that she was able to behave as she ought, rather than how she wished.
With that, she turned on her heel, her silks whispering as she walked away, leaving the vipers to choke on their own venom.
Helen hurried after her, whispering furiously, “Do not heed them, Catherine. They are bitter, petty creatures. You outshine them all.”
But the words slid off her like water on glass. Their barbs had struck too deep.
Why would anyone marry into your family?
The cruel line echoed in her skull, louder than the violins, louder than the chatter of the crowd.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps Duncan’s coldness, his mercurial temper, his constant restraint and sudden violence of passion…perhaps all of it stemmed from seeing her as less. Too tied to the shame of her father, too mired in Brightwater’s mess to ever be the wife a duke deserved.
Her throat ached. She turned slowly to search for her husband, who she assumed was still dealing with the fallout of her father’s behavior, but she could not find him.
Does he despise my weakness? Does he wish that he had been locked inside that room with another young lady?
She bit back tears as a reminder of that first night they were trapped together returned to the forefront of her mind.
Why was it the two of us? What twist of fate brought us together? Even then, Duncan knew he needed to protect me, but did he fully comprehend how much of his attention I would require?
The ballroom pressed too close, the candlelight too bright, the whispers too sharp. Catherine’s fan shook in her hand. She could not breathe beneath the weight of so many eyes.
“I need air,” she whispered, more to herself than to Helen.
She slipped through the throng, her skirts brushing against silks and satins, her heart pounding with every step.
At last, she found a side door leading to the garden. Cool night air rushed against her flushed cheeks, carrying the faint scent of roses and damp earth. The garden stretched before her, dark and quiet beneath the stars.
Catherine gripped the balustrade, drawing in great gulps of air. Her hands shook, but she held steady.
I will not fall apart. I will not require Duncan to rush out here and rescue me. He has enough to deal with in managing my father.
Catherine’s heart ached. Even though she knew that she should not wish for her husband to come to her aid, she wanted him still. She wanted her needs to be placed above all others, and she chided herself for harboring such selfish thoughts.
“Viscount.”
Duncan’s voice cut through the ballroom din, low and iron-edged. Lord Portsbury jolted at the sound of it, wine sloshing over the rim of his glass. The man’s cheeks were ruddy, his cravat askew, his eyes glazed with the indulgence of too many cups.
“Ah, Your Grace,” Portsbury said, his voice booming, too loud, drawing fresh stares. “There you are! You must drink with me. We’ll toast your bride, eh? My Catherine, my jewel—”
“Enough.”
Duncan’s hand closed over the stem of the glass and wrenched it from the man’s grip. Red splashed across his own cuff, but he did not care.
The crowd drew back instinctively. Moments before, they gawked and had been held spellbound by the spectacle before them. But now that the Duke had engaged himself in the matter, even the most vicious gossips in the ton were reluctant to stick around and witness the chaos.
A servant darted forward at Duncan’s nod, seizing the glass.
Duncan caught Portsbury’s arm, his grip solid, and drew him aside toward the shadow of a column.
“My patience wears thin, my lord,” Duncan said under his breath, though his fury trembled at the edges. “Do you think I will stand idle while you stagger and jeer before the eyes of London? She carries my name now. I will not have it sullied.”
For a moment, Portsbury stared at him, mouth working, as though he might bluster. But Duncan’s gaze cut him to silence. He saw the twitch in the man’s jaw, the flicker of fear, the shame that flushed beneath the wine.
And in that instant, the years folded back. Duncan saw not Catherine’s father but his own.
The old duke, once so commanding, had been a wreck after Lord Felton destroyed him. He had turned to drink and lived out his final days stumbling around the manor house, tripping over his own feet, while always, always calling for another cup of wine.
And the end—God, he remembered that too. The night the butler had found him lifeless, bottle still clutched in his hand, when Duncan was five-and-ten.
Dead not from age or misfortune, but from surrender. From weakness.
His grip on Portsbury’s arm tightened before he forced himself to ease it.
He was not that boy any longer, helpless to the shame of another man’s collapse. He was not powerless.
“You will go home,” Duncan said as he strained to keep his own emotions in check. “Now. You will not speak another word to her tonight. I will send a carriage. If you care for her at all, you will spare her this spectacle.”
Portsbury swayed and swallowed. For a moment, the bravado drained away, and Duncan saw only a man corroded by weakness.
The Viscount dipped his head, half-bow, half-stumble, and allowed himself to be led away by the waiting servant.
The murmurs of the crowd rose again, polite chatter reasserting itself like a tide, but Duncan felt the burn of every eye upon him.
Better they whisper of the Duke’s severity than of Catherine’s humiliation.
And as he straightened his cuff, still stained with wine, he thought not of scandal but of his duchess. He had seen her eyes flare with dismay when her father’s voice rang out. He knew that dread, had lived it once.
And in that instant, his vow hardened: he would never let her suffer as he had again. Very soon, he would see Lord Felton led away with his wrists clapped in irons and no one, not him, not Catherine, would ever disturb his presence.
He exhaled slowly, willing the fury in his veins to abate. And then he caught sight of Catherine.
She slipped through the side doors, pale skirts whispering as they vanished into the night air. He had not missed the stiff set of her shoulders, the frantic tremor in her fan, or the wildness flashing in her eyes.
He followed her immediately.
The hallway led into the gardens, the air cooler, damp with night. His boots struck the stone softly as he descended the steps, scanning the shadows between lamplight and hedge. He walked deeper, the anger in his chest mingling with worry.
Where was she?
He turned down one path, then another. The lamps threw halos into the darkness, catching only fragments of silk trailing along gravel, the whisper of leaves, the sound of retreating footsteps.
His pulse quickened. He lengthened his stride, his gaze finally catching on the faint glimmer of pale silk through the trees.
She stood at last by a trellis of rose buds, half-hidden in shadow, her hands braced hard against the wooden structure.
Her head bowed, dark curls slipping forward, her body taut with strain as though she could anchor herself by sheer will.
Moonlight painted her gown in silver, traced the line of her spine, and highlighted the delicate slope of her shoulders.
“Catherine.”