Chapter 24
“Are you awake?” The question came in a whisper, roughened by sleep.
Catherine opened her eyes to a wash of pale winter light and found Duncan watching her. He was lying on his side, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting loosely across the coverlet between them. His hair was a little tousled; the line of his jaw bore the faintest trace of stubble.
“I am now,” she murmured, voice still husky.
He smiled faintly. “Good morning, then.”
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. The fire in the grate had burned to embers, and the chill of the room had crept in, but the heat of him beside her kept it at bay. Catherine could feel his warmth radiating through the linen, steady and real. Last night no longer felt like a dream.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Eventually.” His tone held a hint of mischief. “You?”
“When you allowed me to,” she said, trying not to smile.
His brow lifted. “I recall doing nothing to prevent you.”
“Oh, I recall rather a lot that might have prevented it.” The teasing slipped out before she could stop it.
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You wound me, madam.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then perhaps you underestimate yourself.”
Catherine felt the color rise in her cheeks; she turned toward the window where frost traced delicate patterns across the glass. The world beyond was muted and silver, a thin blanket of snow softening the edges of the park. She wondered if it had begun during the night.
Duncan followed her gaze. “First snow of the season.”
“It looks peaceful.”
“It is,” he said quietly, “for once.”
He reached for her hand, his fingers sliding over hers beneath the blankets. The gesture was simple, yet it sent a rush of warmth through her. How strange, she thought, that something as ordinary as morning could feel so extraordinary.
She studied his hand against hers—broad, strong, capable—and found herself tracing the faint scar along his knuckle. “Where did this come from?”
“Fencing accident. Years ago.”
“Did you win?”
His mouth curved. “Of course.”
She laughed softly, then caught herself staring at him again, at the calm that had replaced the usual guardedness in his face. “You look different this morning.”
“How so?”
“Less like a duke, more like a man.”
“I shall try not to take offense.”
“Don’t,” she said gently. “It suits you.”
A knock at the adjoining door interrupted them. Duncan sat up, tugging the coverlet around his waist. “Enter,” he called.
A maid stepped in with a tray balanced neatly in her hands. “Breakfast, Your Graces.”
The smell of fresh bread and tea filled the room. When she had gone, Duncan poured two cups and handed one to Catherine. She accepted it carefully, the porcelain warm against her palms.
“She must think us very lazy,” she said.
“Let her,” he replied. “We have earned one morning of idleness.”
Catherine took a sip, smiling into her cup. “Idleness, or peace?”
“Both.”
They ate together at the foot of the bed, the silver dishes gleaming in the pale light.
It felt oddly domestic, intimate in a way that unsettled and soothed her at once.
She found herself laughing more easily than she had in months, teasing him about the severity of his appetite and the scandal of a duke preferring jam to marmalade.
When he caught her wrist to wipe a stray crumb from her lip, she froze. His thumb lingered a heartbeat too long, and the look in his eyes made her breath falter.
“I thought I should not see this side of you again, husband. Yet here you are: charming,” she whispered.
“This morning, I find you quite charming as well, my sweet.” He planted a long, wet kiss on the crook of her wrist.
She drew her hand back while giggling. “We should dress. Mrs. Simms will be expecting us at Brightwater.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, leaning back on his palms. “God forbid a chalk falls on the floor and you miss it.”
Catherine was surprised by this calculated tease. “Mock me, and I shall make you scrub the floors when we arrive.”
His laughter came low and easy, rumbling through the quiet morning. “I doubt you would let me do so much as lift a broom,” he said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Wouldn’t I?” she challenged.
“I suspect you’d grow impatient and show me how it ought to be done properly.”
She smiled despite herself. “Perhaps I would.”
When they reached the orphanage gates, the children were already outside, their laughter carrying on the cold air. A few of the older boys were building a lopsided snowman; one waved excitedly when he saw her.
“Your Grace!”
She stepped down from the carriage before the footman could assist her. “Good morning, all of you!”
A chorus of greetings followed. Duncan came to stand beside her, the wind tugging at his coat. The children went suddenly shy, staring up at Duncan.
The red-haired boy from before—Thomas—tugged at his cap. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
Duncan inclined his head gravely. “Thomas, isn’t it? I’ve heard you are the fastest runner in Brightwater.”
Thomas blinked, surprised. “Aye, sir.”
“Then I expect you to prove it when the snow melts.”
The boy grinned. Catherine bit back a laugh.
Mrs. Simms appeared at the door, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Your Graces! Good morning. Do come in. We’ve kept the fires lit.”
“Mrs. Simms, where is Henry?” Catherine asked at once. “I should like to check on him first.”
“Oh, he’s much better, thanks to you, Your Graces. Let me lead you to his—”
But before Mrs. Simms could finish, a small voice piped up from the stairwell. “Your Grace!”
Catherine turned. Henry stood halfway down the steps, wrapped in a thick shawl, his face still pale but bright with excitement.
“Henry!” she exclaimed, hurrying to him. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m better,” he protested. “Mrs. Simms says I may come down if I don’t run.”
Catherine looked at the matron, who nodded indulgently. “He’s mended well, thanks to your concern.”
Duncan came forward then, crouching to the boy’s level. “So, you’re the patient who gave us such a fright.”
Henry nodded solemnly. “I wasn’t very brave.”
“Brave enough,” Duncan said. “Bravery isn’t in shouting; it’s in enduring.”
The boy considered this, then smiled. “Are you returning for Christmas, sir?”
Catherine laughed softly. “Henry, we’ve not planned that far—”
But Duncan’s gaze met hers, amused. “That depends. Would we be welcome?”
The children erupted into cheers before Catherine could answer. Mrs. Simms clapped her hands. “There now, it’s settled! Christmas at Brightwater!”
Catherine turned to him, incredulous. “You cannot be serious.”
He shrugged, lips curving. “I find myself curious to see what sort of celebration my wife would plan for a dozen orphans.”
Her eyes softened. “They deserve a little joy.”
“Then we shall give it to them.”
She stared at him for a moment, struck by the quiet certainty in his tone. It was not the Duke of Raynsford who had spoken, but the man she had glimpsed last night, the one capable of passion and tenderness.
She had never seen him like this: unburdened, smiling easily, letting the world touch him.
When he caught her watching, he mouthed, What?
“Nothing,” she whispered back, but her cheeks burned with affection.
Inside, the orphanage smelled of woodsmoke and bread. Garland of evergreen and dried orange peel hung along the hall, an early preparation for Christmas.
Catherine’s heart lifted at the sight. “You’ve begun decorating!”
“The children insisted,” Mrs. Simms said. “They’ve done nearly everything themselves.”
Duncan glanced upward at a crooked sprig of holly dangling from a beam. “An industrious lot,” he said dryly.
By the time they left, dusk had fallen again, and the first stars pricked the sky. As the carriage rolled away, the children waved from the gate, their shouts echoing down the lane.
“They adore you,” she said.
“They adore the one who brought me,” he replied. Then, softer, “You change a place merely by entering it.”
She felt the words settle deep inside her. “You exaggerate.”
“I do not.”
Two days later, they attended Lady Penworth’s winter soiree, a glittering affair of ice sculptures and hot spiced wine served beneath a glass pavilion.
Catherine wore pale blue silk and Duncan a dark coat that made his eyes almost impossible to look at for long. They moved through the crowd together, the new ease between them drawing more notice than she liked. Everywhere she turned, she heard murmurs.
Duncan leaned close. “Ignore them.”
“I was attempting to.”
“Then let me make it easier.” He brushed her gloved hand with his fingers, a small, private gesture that sent warmth through her despite the cold.
Before she could answer, a hush rippled through the guests near the fountain. Catherine followed the direction of their glances and felt her stomach tighten.
Across the terrace, Lord Felton stood among his acquaintances, glass of wine in hand. His smile was pleasant, but his dark, assessing eyes lingered on them too long.
Duncan’s body went still beside her.
“He knows about your plan,” she whispered.
“I expect he does.”
“What will he do?”
“Nothing,” Duncan said calmly. “Not yet.”
He offered his arm. “Come. We will allow his presence to deter us from making merry.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand on his sleeve. As they walked away together, heads held high, the whisper of voices followed them like wind through leaves, but Catherine felt no fear.
“Catherine!”
She turned toward the familiar voice. Helen was standing near the edge of the terrace, a shawl of pale green silk drawn around her shoulders and a knowing smile already forming on her lips.
Catherine’s heart lifted as she walked toward her, while Duncan lingered behind to speak with another guest, “Helen! I had begun to think you’d forgotten me entirely.”
“I would sooner forget how to breathe,” Helen said, taking her hands warmly. “You’ve been hidden away like a recluse. One might think marriage to a duke had rendered you invisible.”
Catherine laughed. “Hardly invisible. Only occupied.”
Helen’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Occupied. What a dangerously suggestive word.”
Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. “You misunderstand me.”
“Do I?” Helen’s smile deepened. “Perhaps not entirely. The ton has been whispering ever since you arrived, you know. They say the Duke and Duchess of Raynsford look quite pleased with themselves.”
“Is that what they say?”
“That, and that you appear…” Helen lowered her voice dramatically, “happy. At last.”
Catherine tried to sound casual. “Do I?”
Helen gave a little hum. “Positively radiant. And he—well, he scarcely took his eyes off you all evening.”
Catherine’s lips curved despite herself. “You exaggerate.”
“I never exaggerate where romance is concerned,” Helen said. “Tell me, what miracle has wrought this change? You owe me a confession.”
Catherine hesitated. How could she explain the slow, impossible transformation of the man who had once kept his heart locked and only revealed slices of himself to everyone else—including her?
How could she describe the quiet tenderness of that morning, the laughter that still lingered in her chest, the way his smallest glance seemed to fill her with warmth?
“He stayed,” she said simply.
Helen blinked. “Stayed?”
“Little Henry from Brightwater was ill. I stayed with him, and Duncan came too. I was frightened, and he stayed beside me.”
“Oh dear! Is the poor boy all right?”
“Yes, yes. Pardon me for not clarifying that.”
Something softened in Helen’s expression. “So then,” she murmured. “The simplest gestures are the ones that show our true measures, aren’t they?”
Catherine nodded, her throat tightening. “It was… different. He was different. And then I was, too.”
Helen squeezed her hand. “My dear, I am so glad.”
Catherine smiled through the ache in her chest. “You sound as though you doubted it possible.”
“Not doubted,” Helen said, “but feared. I have heard such differing accounts of his behavior. Some said he was rogue, destined to break your heart by cavorting with a mistress. But in other instances, he appeared to be cold as ice. I worried that even you could not reach him.”
“And now?”
Helen’s grin returned, wicked and affectionate. “Now I think ice melts faster than gossip when it stands too close to you.”
Catherine laughed outright. “You are incorrigible.”
“Undeniably. And tell me, does he know how fortunate he is?”
“Helen,” she chuckled.
“Please do remind him frequently. Men require repetition.”
They were still laughing when another familiar voice intruded. “Lady Helen.”
Helen turned, startled. “Lord Suthmeer! I did not see you there.”
Stephen was standing a few paces behind them with his hat tucked awkwardly beneath one arm. His usual confidence had deserted him; he looked, Catherine thought with amusement, rather like a schoolboy summoned before a headmistress.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said to Catherine with a jovial bow.
“Lord Suthmeer,” she replied, amused. “I hope you are enjoying the party.”
“Indeed, quite.” His gaze darted to Helen and back. “I had meant to inquire after Lady Helen’s father, but he seems in excellent health, so—well—”
Helen’s brow lifted. “My father is perfectly well, Lord Suthmeer. I assure you, he does not require constant inquiry.”
He colored slightly. “No, of course not. I only—well—”
“Only wished for an excuse,” Catherine supplied kindly.
Helen shot her a look that promised retribution, but her cheeks were pink now, and Stephen, for once, smiled without artifice.
“I had better fetch you a drink, Lady Helen,” he said, recovering himself. “Would you permit me the honor?”
Helen hesitated, then relented. “Very well. But if you return with anything weaker than champagne, I shall be disappointed.”
He bowed again, rather too deeply, and vanished toward the refreshment table.
Helen exhaled, shaking her head. “Men.”
“Men,” Catherine agreed, though warmth lingered in her tone. “He is quite taken with you.”
“I know,” Helen said softly, watching his retreating form. “It’s terrifying.”
Catherine smiled. “You’ll survive it.”
“Will I?” Helen asked, glancing back at her. “You make it sound easy, being adored.”
“It isn’t,” Catherine admitted.
Her eyes drifted across the garden, where Duncan was speaking with Lord Penworth. His profile was outlined against the lantern light, strong and composed. Even from a distance, she could sense his presence as surely as if his hand was still resting at her back.
“But it’s worth it,” she finally added.
Helen followed her gaze, her expression gentling. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I believe it must be.”