Chapter 3 #3
Annoyed, Catherine lifted her glass and took a long gulp of wine. Her stomach gurgled in response, so as she replaced the goblet in its proper place, she picked up her fork and knife, helped herself to a fine cut of venison, and took a hungry bite.
She was so frustrated and vexed that she intended to eat everything within her reach and boldly sample all the other foods on the table as well—even those that were not situated directly in front of her.
Instead, after tearing her way through that first portion of meat, she ate little.
The cavernous room unnerved her as it swallowed every sound until even the clink of her fork felt like mockery.
Disgruntled, she dropped her cutlery, signaled to the footman that she was finished, then left the room.
Hours later, after she had already dressed in a sheer nightdress and climbed into bed, a knock sounded in her chambers. Three firm raps against the adjoining door reverberated.
Her breath snagged. She rose from her bed, each step unsteady, until her hand found the latch. She opened it, and there he stood.
Duncan Witherley, Duke of Raynsford—barefoot, in shirtsleeves and trousers, the crisp linen of his shirt open at the throat. His hair, golden and unruly, fell loose across his brow. Without his coat, without the armor of society, he looked different somehow.
The informality of his attire paled in comparison to the look on his face. He seemed to be contemplating a great deal, and the expression he wore indicated that he found his world just as confounding as she did.
She eyed him keenly and waited for him to speak first. But, when he gave her nothing, she politely bobbed her chin at him and said softly, “Your Grace.”
“Duchess.” His gaze flicked down her body, pausing at the thin silk of her nightgown before returning to her face. “I trust the rooms are satisfactory.”
She continued to study his features. “Quite.”
“Good.”
A faint crackle from the hearth broke the quiet, the sound far too loud in the space between them. The silence stretched until she could no longer bear it.
At last, she blurted, “I was surprised by your absence at dinner this evening.”
His brows lifted faintly. “I assumed you would prefer solitude.”
“Prefer solitude? It is our wedding day, and I am your wife.” The word felt foreign on her tongue, clumsy and raw. “Should I not have anticipated the two of us breaking bread together? Am I to eat alone in perpetuity?”
His mouth twitched. “If it spares me endless chatter, perhaps.”
Her brows arched defiantly. “I do not chatter on endlessly.”
“Perhaps not yet, but I am certain once I lend you my ear, you will find reasons enough to talk incessantly.”
Catherine frowned. She was most perturbed by the assumptions he’d made regarding her character. “I will have you know that I expect nothing more from my dinner companions than polite chit chat. I…”
“Yes…” The Duke pulled out the word drolly. “Whatever would we do without the constant tittering of the ladies?”
Agitation coursed through Catherine’s insides. She squared her shoulders and stared evenly at her new husband. “Are your words designed to offend? Did you knock on my door this evening so that you might berate me, Your Grace?”
“I’m sure you are the exception to the rule, but I have found that once a young woman is given leave to pursue a course of conversation, she will continue until all the gentlemen have successfully tuned her out.
” He sighed aggrievedly. “Alas, I should not dare lump you in with the others, though, right?”
When she did not respond immediately, he added, “I speak only from experience, so—”
“Then you must have had a very narrow one.”
His eyes gleamed faintly. “Would you truly care to know the breadth of my experience, Catherine?”
The question caught her off guard, as did the use of her Christian name. Color rose swiftly to her cheeks. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and turned away.
“I thought not,” he murmured.
Catherine’s breath hitched. She was still outraged by his words and the way he had abandoned her earlier, but her body betrayed her again, shivering though the fire roared in the grate.
His nearness, his scent, twined through her like smoke, and all at once the truth she had been avoiding rose cold and clear in her mind.
He has every right to claim what the vows demand.
The thought unsettled her so completely that she could scarcely breathe. She told herself it was only duty, only what marriage required, but her pulse refused to believe it.
Her heart pounded with dread and shame.
This is what wives do. This is what is expected.
She drew in a trembling breath and took a step backward so that her nightgown brushed the bed sheets.
The Duke stilled. “What are you doing?”
Her lips barely formed the words. “What must be done.”
Her knees gave way as she lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress. Her fingers fumbled at the ties of her nightgown. She trembled so violently that she feared he would see her teeth chatter.
Slowly, agonizingly, she began to slide the fabric from her shoulders.
The Duke’s voice cut through the silence. “Stop.”
Her head jerked up, eyes wide. “But—it’s our wedding night. You—”
“Stop.” The word was sharp, brooking no refusal.
She froze, the silk clutched desperately to her chest.
For a moment, silence stretched. His eyes burned into her, but for once, Catherine could not read his thoughts clearly.
His refusal of her had been absolute, yet there was something else lurking in his eyes.
He was nursing a further batch of emotions.
When he tilted his head to the side and his eyes softened, the truth became all too evident.
He pities me.
Her throat ached as a sense of rejection flooded her. “I thought this was what you expected.”
“I do not expect much, Catherine,” he said as he continued to fix her with a sympathetic stare. “It simply never occurred to me that when we came together this way, you would quake as though facing your own doom.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel, strode back through the adjoining door, and shut it firmly behind him.
Catherine stood motionless. The wispy nightgown was still clutched at her chest.
Of all the things he might have said…
She was not sure what to make of this, her first day, as the Duchess of Raynsford. It was impossible to know if she should be offended by the Duke’s treatment or if she should feel relieved that he had noticed her reluctance and timidity and fled.
Lost in her own world of confusion, Catherine slid her nightdress back into place, tied the laces, then turned and pressed her face into the pillow. She breathed deeply and prayed that tomorrow, in the light of day, she would be granted more clarity.