Chapter 23
“How long have I been asleep?”
Her voice broke on the last word, and Catherine reached out to massage her throat. Her tone came out soft and raspy, cutting through the hush of the dimly lit room.
Catherine blinked against the faint glow of the hearth, the warm flicker of flame stretching long shadows across the floorboards.
Her mind waded slowly through fog, through fragments of memory: Henry’s shallow breathing, Duncan’s voice murmuring steady reassurance, the weight of his hand over hers.
She sat up, the coverlet falling away from her shoulders. Alice must have changed her into a nightgown while she slept; she could tell from the looseness of the ties at her throat.
Outside the window, the sky was a deep, velvety blue. Evening. Dinner hour had come and gone.
Catherine swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her body weak but her mind suddenly too alert to stay still.
The events of the night before came rushing back with brutal clarity. The fear, the fever, Duncan’s quiet strength beside her, the way his presence had steadied her when she’d been certain she would shatter.
She remembered how his voice had sounded when he’d told her to rest, how carefully his hand had brushed her hair back from her face. She’d fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
She hesitated only a moment before crossing to the door that connected their chambers. Her bare feet made no sound on the rug as she approached. She paused before the door, her pulse unsteady, but her hand lifted anyway and knocked softly.
A low sound came from within—movement, the creak of floorboards—and then the door opened.
Duncan stood there, shirt sleeves rolled, the top buttons undone. His hair was slightly disheveled, his expression shadowed but composed. He looked so handsome like that, the faint gold of firelight behind him lending his skin a burnished glow.
“Catherine.” His voice was soft. “You should be resting.”
“I’ve done nothing but rest,” she murmured, trying not to stare too obviously at the open collar of his shirt. “How many hours has it been?”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, studying her. “Enough for you to ask that question.”
Her lips curved faintly. “That’s not an answer.”
He sighed. “It’s been enough hours for you to look rested.”
That earned him a small, involuntary smile. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “May I come in?”
He hesitated just for a breath and then stepped aside. “Of course.”
She crossed the threshold slowly, conscious of how quiet everything felt between them.
His chamber was larger than hers, though just as spare. The heavy curtains were drawn halfway, the fire low but bright enough to show the deep, rich tones of the room: mahogany furniture, shelves lined with books and papers, a dueling sword mounted above the hearth.
But what struck her most were the personal touches. The small, worn objects that spoke of a man who valued memory more than display. A silver compass on the mantel. A framed sketch of Raynsford Manor faded from years of sun.
“You keep this here,” she said quietly, nodding toward the sketch.
“It was my mother’s,” he replied. “She drew it.”
Catherine looked at him, her throat tightening. “She had talent.”
He didn’t answer, but his jaw moved slightly, as though the memory had teeth. Duncan turned toward the small bell near the hearth and rang it once. A moment later, his valet appeared in the doorway.
“Bring up a tray,” Duncan said. “Dinner for two.”
Catherine blinked. “That isn’t necessary—”
“It is,” he interrupted. “You’ve barely eaten since yesterday.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but saw the quiet insistence in his expression that brooked no argument, and sighed again. “Very well. But I’ll not eat if you don’t.”
“Then it’s settled.”
When the valet disappeared, she turned toward the fire, clasping her hands together to still their trembling.
She wasn’t sure why she was nervous. Perhaps it was the intimacy of it all, standing in his chamber, the two of them alone, she in a nightgown and he only half dressed.
The absurdity of it hit her all at once. “We’re not dressed for dinner,” she murmured, glancing down at herself.
His brow arched slightly. “We’re husband and wife, Catherine. I think we’ll survive one dinner without evening attire.”
When the tray arrived, Duncan dismissed the valet with a quiet nod. The table had been set beside the fireplace. Silver cutlery gleaming, wine decanted into crystal, the faint aroma of roasted meat and herbs filling the room.
They sat opposite each other, the fire painting soft gold over the space between them.
For a while, the only sounds were the clink of silver and the occasional sigh of the hearth.
Catherine tried to eat, but her appetite was secondary to the strange pull that seemed to exist between them now.
He was quiet, his posture measured, his gaze dropping to his plate as though to disguise the exhaustion in his eyes.
“You look tired,” she said finally. “Have you slept at all?”
His gaze lifted to hers. “Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I had matters to attend to.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I should’ve let you rest.”
“This time,” he said softly, “it wasn’t a disturbance.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “This time?”
A hint of a smirk touched his lips. “You’ve been a disturbance in my life since the day we met. But a most riveting one.”
Her pulse skipped. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I believe so.”
She rolled her eyes, then smiled despite herself, warmth blooming quietly in her chest. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Silence fell again, gentler this time. Catherine glanced at him over the rim of her wine glass. The candlelight caught the edges of his face: the hard lines softened, the shadows gentler now. He looked at ease, or as close to it as she had ever seen him.
“Duncan,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For helping me with Henry. For staying.”
He shook his head. “You’ve thanked me once already. And it was the least I could do.”
“The least?” She set her glass down. “You saved his life.”
He stared at her, and she could see something akin to affection darting through his eyes. “No, Catherine. You did.”
She wanted to argue, but the tone of his voice stopped her. Instead, she studied the way he moved. She marked the languidness of his motions and wondered what could have kept him up after and motivated him after enduring such hardship last night.
Just as she was about to give voice to her concerns and question his whereabouts outright, he said, “I went to see your father this morning.”
Her fork froze halfway to her lips. “My father?”
He nodded. “I needed his cooperation. I’m making a case against Felton that requires his testimony.”
“A case against Lord Felton?” Her heart began to thrum uneasily. “And you mean to involve my father in all of this?”
“It’s necessary,” Duncan replied. “He was one of Felton’s worst victims. His statement will make the evidence unassailable.”
She hesitated, dread and admiration colliding. “I understand the logic. But you don’t know what Felton did to him. He wasn’t only swindled; he was threatened. Manipulated. I think my father feared him.”
“As do many men,” Duncan said, his voice cooling. “That’s how men like Felton thrive. Through fear.”
Catherine’s throat felt dry. “But confronting him—my father…I worry it might have been too harsh for him. You could have left it alone.”
His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. “No. I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what addiction does,” he said quietly. “How it consumes a man. How it poisons everything it touches.”
Something in his tone made her still. “Addiction?” she echoed softly.
He looked into the fire, his expression distant now.
He sighed. Once. Twice.
“My father,” he said after a long silence.
“Laudanum. He started taking it for pain after an injury. But he didn’t stop.
He was preyed upon by Lord Felton as well.
” His voice trailed off, the memory clearly one he seldom touched.
“He squandered our fortune, allowed Felton into our circle, let him twist the estate into ruin. When he died, it was debts and disgrace he left behind. I spent years rebuilding what he destroyed.”
Catherine felt something tighten deep in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Don’t be. It taught me to recognize weakness and what it costs those around it. I saw that same look in your father’s eyes. The same surrender.”
She drew a slow breath, her voice trembling. “You saw pain, too. You must have.”
His gaze met hers again, softer now. “Perhaps.”
The firelight flickered, catching the blue in his eyes.
He leaned forward slightly, his tone quieter now. “You faced that kind of ruin, too. The same hunger, the same despair. And yet you never let it take you. You rebuild what was broken every single day. You gave those children hope. You gave me something, too.”
Her lips parted. “What’s that?”
He hesitated. Then, simply, “Compassion.”
Catherine went still. Her breath trembled as warmth surged through her chest, threatening to undo her.
She looked at him, at the man who had once seemed so untouchable, and saw not the duke or the relentless force that commanded every room, but the man who had carried her through the rain, who had sat beside her in silence through the longest night of her life.
Her throat ached. “Duncan…”
He reached across the small table and covered her hand with his. His touch was steady, grounding.
“From the very beginning, even when we were locked in that room together, I could see your goodness shining through.” He shook his head as a rueful smile graced his face.
“I might not have believed your words outright, and perhaps I even doubted your naivety and sweetness. But Catherine, my dearest, your compassionate nature has never once been questioned.”