Chapter 1 #2
Instantly, the Duke fell silent. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped at his temple, but he did not utter a word.
On the other side of the door, Lord Felton continued, his tone tinged with false geniality. “I merely wished to remind you, my dear, that should your father fail to provide the sum by week’s end, Brightwater House and all his holdings will pass to another.”
Catherine froze. Her lungs forgot their purpose; her heartbeat thundered painfully in her ears.
Brightwater—the orphanage her mother co-founded and helped maintain, the children’s laughter, the very place where her happiest memories lived—reduced to a line in a creditor’s ledger.
The thought of losing it felt like being torn in two, as though her mother’s voice, her promises, her legacy, would be silenced forever.
“Do keep that in mind,” Felton added smoothly, and the sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Silence followed. Long, crushing silence.
Catherine pressed a hand to her racing heart.
She was grateful to the Duke for remaining quiet, but now, she was unable to meet his gaze.
The air felt heavy, suffocating, as though the walls themselves knew the shame that had just been laid bare.
The Duke mentioned just a few moments ago that he knew her father’s estate was crumbling, and they were in a desperate way, but she did not wish for him to be privy to all her family’s affairs.
No one needed to know that she and all she held dear were hanging on by a thread.
She stared at the door, willing it to open, to free her, to undo the words she had just heard.
But no liberator came.
Only the sound of her own shallow breath and the unbearable awareness of the man behind her lingered. She had never felt so exposed or utterly defenseless.
“Explain.” The words came low and sharp, not shouted but pressed from the Duke’s jaw like iron.
Catherine had never heard a man command so much with so little sound. It was intolerable. But worse, it was effective.
“There is nothing to explain, Your Grace,” she said quickly, turning away, feigning composure she did not feel.
The paneled wall blurred before her eyes. She pressed her palm harder against her ribs, as though that might slow the frantic pace of her heart.
“No?” He pressed. “Felton threatens to strip your father of every last brick he owns, and you call that nothing?”
Her throat tightened. “It is none of your concern.”
He barked out a humorless laugh. “Everything about this is my concern when I am locked in a room with you, listening to that man threaten to take away everything you and your father own. He means to make you paupers—or mayhap I misinterpreted. Tell me the truth.”
She swung back to him, chin high. “And what will you do with the truth, Your Grace? Parade it about White’s? Mock me over port with your friends?”
He stepped forward. His hulking frame loomed over her own. Defiantly, she tipped her chin a pinch higher so that she could continue reading his expression and see clearly into his eyes. “Do I strike you as a man who wastes his time with gossip, Miss Terrell?”
He did not. He struck her as a man who wasted nothing, neither time, nor breath, nor the heat now radiating off his frame as he closed the distance between them.
Catherine swallowed hard, hating that her body thrilled at his nearness, hating that she could not breathe properly with his gaze locked so firmly upon her.
“This is a private family matter, Your Grace; I will not be interrogated,” she whispered, though her voice lacked the steel she craved.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “You plead delicacy rather than surrender the details. Where did all the fire you displayed before go? Why do you cower now? Is not this the moment of revelation? Should you not bear your soul to me and pour out your family’s downtrodden saga?”
“You think me capable of deceit?” She scoffed. “You believe I would invent an entire tragedy for pity?”
“I believe,” he said, stepping closer, “that you have reason to hide something. Whether for pity or for gain, I cannot yet decide.”
It had become difficult to keep track of her ever-changing emotions.
One moment, she was filled with contempt for Lord Felton and gratitude toward the Duke for holding his tongue.
But now that he had begun talking again, she could not help feeling incensed.
“Not every silence conceals a scheme, Your Grace. Some things are simply too heavy to be spoken.”
His expression shifted, as though the thought unsettled him. “Then you would have me guess? I should cobble together the full story based on only what I’ve heard and the reaction I watched you display?”
“You may do as you please,” she said quietly. “It will make little difference.”
“You mistake the matter entirely,” he replied, his voice low. “What you say makes all the difference. I would rather be wrong than misled.”
She contemplated that heavy statement. She, too, did not enjoy being kept in the dark, and she preferred always to have honest, frank conversations, rather than ones rich with innuendo and irony.
But can I trust this man? Just because he is here—now—showing a modicum of concern, does he deserve to know the entirety of my family’s plight?
“You care for this…Brightwater,” he said slowly, pulling her from her reverie.
She blinked owlishly.
“I have heard of it, My Lady, and of the generous work you do there, but I know little of the establishment myself.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
“Tell me about the place,” he pressed. “Help me understand why it is so important to you and your family.”
Finally, she whispered, “It is an orphanage, Your Grace.”
The word slipped out soft and reverent, as though naming a holy place. Something flickered in his expression.
“I gathered as much previously. But I wish to know more.” He rubbed his hand down the length of his cheek before scratching the whiskers of his beard. “Your work?” he asked.
“My mother’s,” Catherine breathed, and her throat closed around the rest. She turned away, unable to let him see the sheen in her eyes. “She devoted her life to the place and the…the children. I… I try to continue what she began.”
“Hmmm…” The Duke hummed softly, breaking the silence with his musing. “And Lord Felton—he appeared just now bearing that dreary remainder because he holds the deed to the property?”
She forced herself to nod.
His hand flexed at his side, as though he longed to strike something. “Is he one of your father’s main creditors?”
Another nod. Shame burned through her.
“Wretched man.” The words were quiet and spoken almost to himself, yet they seared the air.
Catherine wrapped her arms around her middle, fighting the ache rising in her chest. Brightwater, the children’s bright faces, their laughter, their fragile safety, balanced on the edge of Lord Felton’s whim. If she lost it, she would lose her mother all over again.
Her breath trembled.
You must not break here, not before him.
But the Duke was still watching. She could see him making quick calculations and evidently attempting to size up the situation based on the sparse bits of information he had gleaned.
At last, he exhaled, low and slow, as though deciding something monumental. His gaze swept over her, from the trembling of her lips to the clenched fists hidden in her skirts.
Then he spoke in a voice like thunder cloaked in thick, heavy cloud cover, “Marry me.”