Chapter 31
“Catherine.”
The sound of her name, spoken in that familiar low voice, struck her like a draft through a cracked window. It had been years since she’d heard it with that particular weight — half accusation, half plea. She turned, startled.
Her father stood in the doorway of the drawing room at Belgrave House, hat in hand, shoulders hunched as though he’d been standing there for some time.
The sunlight caught the streaks of gray in his hair, highlighting the lines carved deep into his face.
He had once been handsome in a proud, careless way; now, he simply looked tired.
“Father,” she said, her voice careful, polite. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled faintly, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “A man might think his own daughter would be glad to see him.”
Her heart tightened. The last time he had come to her unannounced, he had sold another piece of the family estate to settle his debts. “Of course,” she said gently, “I’m only surprised.”
“Surprised,” he echoed, stepping further inside.
His coat was worn at the cuffs, and his boots left faint smudges on the polished floor.
He looked out of place among the quiet order of the Brightwater household, like something dragged in from a past she had tried to forget.
“You’ve done well for yourself, I see. Fine house. Servants. Even children running about.”
“They aren’t mine,” she said softly. “They’re from Brightwater. You remember.”
“Ah, yes.” He waved a dismissive hand.
She flinched but said nothing. Behind her, one of the maids passed through the hall, carrying a tray of books. Catherine forced a calm smile, nodding her thanks, waiting until the woman disappeared before speaking again.
“What brings you here, Father?”
He sighed, as though the question wounded him. “Must a man need a reason to visit his own blood?”
“You’ve never visited before without one.”
That earned a wry smile. “You’ve grown sharp. Marriage suits you.”
Her throat closed at that. She thought of Duncan, of the cold distance in his voice. She swallowed hard. “Please,” she said quietly, “just tell me what you need.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the children’s laughter spilling faintly from the garden. “It’s nothing so dire. A temporary matter, that’s all.”
“Money,” she said flatly.
He lifted his chin, offended. “A loan.”
Catherine’s hands tightened around the back of the chair before her. “For what?”
He shifted, clearing his throat. “You needn’t concern yourself with the details. A gentleman’s obligations are not always simple to explain.”
She studied him. The faint smell of brandy clung to his clothes, disguised poorly beneath the scent of cologne.
His eyes were bloodshot. Once, that would have broken her heart—the sight of her father, proud and desperate, pretending to be more than he was.
But something inside her had hardened since then.
“How much?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated. “A small sum. A thousand, perhaps.”
Her breath caught. “A thousand pounds?”
“I would repay it,” he said quickly. “You know I would.”
She did not.
“Father,” she said softly, “I can’t.”
His smile faltered. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.”
The silence between them thickened. Somewhere outside, a child shouted in laughter. The sound made her ache.
He frowned. “You think yourself above me now. Is that it? The Duchess of Raynsford, too fine for her own blood?”
She forced a steady tone. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about principle. You’ve made promises before. I can’t fund your drinking or your debts any longer.”
His expression darkened. “You sound just like your dreadful husband—so cold and unfeeling. Always judging everyone else while…”
Her pulse spiked, but she kept her voice even. “Don’t speak of my husband.”
He seemed stunned by the authority in her voice.
“Come,” she ordered as she spun on her heel and directed him to the nearest chair.
Catherine stood across from him, her spine straight, watching him sit uneasily in his assigned place.
“Do you know what it was like,” she began quietly, “to grow up in a house where every knock on the door felt like a threat? Where I had to hide the silver after supper because I didn’t know whether you’d sell it before morning?”
He stiffened. “I did what I had to.”
“No,” she said, her voice rising. “You did what you wanted. You gambled. You drank. You made promises you never kept, and when the money ran out, you looked to me to fix it.”
His mouth opened, but no sound came.
She took a step closer to him, and he squirmed.
“Do you remember that night, Father—when you came home reeking of brandy, furious because you’d lost half the estate in cards?
You said it was my duty to mend the family’s name, that I was born to repair what you’d ruined.
You made me feel like a pawn, not a daughter.
And now you stand here, asking for more. ”
He rose unsteadily. “You’ve changed,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Because I had to.”
They stood in silence. The clock on the mantel ticked, slow and heavy.
Her voice softened then, almost kind. “I don’t hate you, Father. But I can’t carry your sins anymore. You must learn to bear them yourself.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he nodded once—a small, broken movement—and turned toward the door.
He paused on the threshold, his back still to her. “You sound just like your mother,” he said quietly.
“I hope so,” she said.
He lingered a moment longer, as if searching for one last fragment of conversation, but none came. His shoulders slumped. Without another word, he opened the door and left.
Catherine stood where he had been, the faint scent of brandy still lingering in the air. The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Her body trembled from the effort of holding herself together. She pressed a hand to her chest, the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Outside the window, the children’s laughter floated up again, untouched by the ugliness of the world. She walked toward the sound, drawn to it. Through the glass, she saw them playing in the garden, sunlight glinting off ribbons and hair, their joy unspoiled.
Her father’s shadow still hung in the room, but she let it fall away behind her. She had chosen something different for herself now, a life she would build with her own hands, not inherited from ruin.
And though her heart still ached for the man who would not let her in, she understood one thing with perfect, painful clarity: she would not let another man break her. Not even the one she loved most.
“Good heavens, Duncan, this house looks like a mausoleum.”
The Dowager Duchess of Raynsford stood framed in the doorway, wrapped in a traveling cloak of pale gray silk, a cane in one hand and an unimpressed expression on her face. The footman behind her looked half-terrified, half-relieved to be dismissed when she waved him off.
Duncan rose from his chair behind the desk, startled. “Grandmother.”
“Yes, I see you remember me,” she said dryly, tapping her cane once against the parquet floor as her eyes swept the study. “I would have announced myself, but your butler looked as though he’d been instructed to speak only in whispers. One could hardly breathe for the gloom.”
He sighed, loosening his cravat. “I didn’t expect company.”
“No, clearly not. You’ve been hiding.”
“I have been working.”
“Ah,” she said, her gaze drifting to the heap of correspondence scattered across the desk. “Working. That peculiar Raynsford ailment that always looks so very much like penance.”
Duncan’s jaw flexed. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“Loneliness,” she said simply. “My house has grown dreadfully dull, and rumor travels faster than boredom. Half of London knows about the fire at Brightwater. The other half whispers that you and your duchess have vanished from society entirely. I decided to see which half was true.”
He sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself.”
“I’ll determine what troubles me, thank you.” She crossed the room with surprising grace for her age and sat opposite him, leaning on her cane like a queen surveying a disobedient court. “Now, tell me. Where is Catherine?”
“At Belgrave House,” he said shortly.
Her brow lifted. “With the children?”
“Yes.”
A pause, long and heavy. “And you?”
“I remain here. There are… matters to attend to.”
She studied him for a moment, the faintest arch of her silver brow betraying disbelief. “Matters,” she repeated softly. “You mean letters. And silence. And whatever else you use to keep from speaking to the woman you married.”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “I have my reasons.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he said, the word clipped. “If you knew the circumstances, you’d understand.”
“Try me.”
He hesitated, then stood, walking toward the fireplace. The flames had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. “Brightwater was no accident,” he said finally. “Someone set it as a warning. Later, a note arrived here, threatening to burn this house next.”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “My word.”
“I know who sent it,” he went on. “Lord Felton. He’s desperate. Cornered. And until he’s dealt with, Catherine is not safe.”
She considered him quietly, her expression unreadable. “And so, you’ve decided that shutting her out will keep her safe.”
“It’s the only way.”
“Is it?”
He turned sharply. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see her in that smoke, holding a child while the roof came down around her. I almost—” He stopped himself, exhaling hard. “If I hadn’t reached her in time…”
Her voice was quiet. “But you did.”
“By chance. And chance isn’t something I rely on.”
The dowager’s gaze softened, though her tone remained firm. “Duncan, you cannot control every breath in the world. You’ve spent your life believing you could, but this—”
“I call it a reasonable response,” he said.
His grandmother tutted. “Reasonable? I know what you’re doing,” she continued. “You believe that if you love her less, it will hurt less when the world takes her from you. But you’re wrong. You can’t outwit grief, Duncan. You can only choose whether to face it with someone beside you or alone.”
The old lady rose slowly, leaning heavily upon her cane. She stepped closer, her eyes bright with something fierce and proud. “You’re a man who built his life from ashes. I respect that. But if you think love is the fire that will burn you down, you’ve forgotten who you are.”
He forced a breath. “And who is that?”
Her lips curved faintly. “A man who has already walked through pain and come out stronger. A man who knows that control is not the same as courage.”
The room went still. The words hung there between them, uncomfortably true.
She studied him for a long moment. “Catherine is not your ruination. She is your chance to rise above his shadow.”
His hands tightened at his sides. “She deserves safety.”
“She deserves you.”
He shook his head. “She deserves peace.”
The dowager’s gaze softened. “Then give her both.”
He looked away. The fire popped, a faint spark leaping and dying in the grate.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked, steady and low, counting out the seconds like heartbeats.
Finally, she exhaled. “You are my grandson, Duncan. I’ve seen you bend the world to your will, command men twice your age, rebuild what others would have let burn. But this stubborn pride will ruin you.”
Her tone softened again, the steel giving way to warmth. “You deserve happiness. You both do. Don’t let fear cheat you of it.” She turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “If you value what you love, act like it. Before she forgets how to believe in you.”
The door clicked softly behind her.
Duncan stood motionless for a long moment, the echo of her words reverberating through the empty room.
He poured himself a drink and didn’t touch it. The brandy’s amber glow caught the firelight, gleaming like molten gold. He stared at it, seeing not the drink but the memory of Catherine’s eyes, deep and warm and full of something he’d been too afraid to claim.
Her voice came back to him then, that night in the study: We’re stronger together.
He’d told himself he was protecting her. That distance was safety. That control meant survival. But the bitter, undeniable truth was that every wall he built only pushed her further from reach. And the further she went, the colder he became.
A muscle worked in his jaw. He’d thought he could live without her warmth, that he could bury himself in order and reason until the ache dulled. But it hadn’t dulled. It had sharpened.
Catherine had shown him love and compassion, and he had betrayed that love with silence.
For the first time in weeks, his pulse steadied. The haze lifted. He turned from the window, striding back to the desk. The firelight caught the glint of metal on the inkstand—the sharp edge of his father’s old signet knife. He stared at it for a long moment, then reached for paper instead.
If Felton wanted a war, he would have one. But not at the cost of her.
He wrote until the candles burned low, until the sky beyond the window began to pale with the first light of morning. When he set down the pen, his decision was made.
He would not lose her.
For the first time in a long while, Duncan allowed himself to breathe.
And when he finally rose from his desk, he knew exactly where he was going.