Chapter 4
“Your Grace, will you be wishing to rise now?”
Catherine blinked awake to the soft knock at her door. Morning light spilled across the chamber, gilding the heavy drapes and casting warmth upon the carpet. She sat up, smoothing the tangled hair from her face.
It was her first morning as a wife. As a duchess. The words clanged hollowly inside her head.
“Yes,” she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt.
Alice curtsied as she entered before scurrying away to fetch water.
Catherine pressed her palms to her eyes, drawing a deep breath. The bed beside her lay untouched, sheets smooth and unwrinkled. Duncan’s door had remained firmly closed through the night.
He had not returned. He had left her trembling, humiliated, and burning with a shame she could not shake.
Very well, she thought fiercely, pushing herself upright. If he will not play the husband, then I shall play the duchess.
By midmorning, she was already in the morning room with Mrs. Hardwick, the housekeeper.
Ledgers and account books lay spread before her, the ink crisp, the columns of figures stark against the pages.
Catherine scanned them with practiced eyes.
Her years managing her father’s dwindling household had honed her instincts.
She knew at a glance where corners had been cut, where repairs had been delayed, and how money had been misused.
“This roof in the east wing,” Catherine said, tapping a finger against one entry, “it was noted for repair last year and again this spring. Why has it not been done?”
Mrs. Hardwick blinked, clearly startled. “It has been His Grace’s custom to delay until the cost could be—”
“Delay no longer. It’s best to have it done before the winter.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And here—” Catherine flipped to another page, lips tightening. “The tenants at Wexford. Their rent is too high for the yield of their fields. Have the steward reduce it by ten percent.”
The housekeeper’s brows lifted further, but she dipped her head. “As you wish.”
The thrill of purpose coursed through Catherine like fire. For the first time since the vows had been spoken, she felt steady. This, at least, she could do. She could manage, she could protect, she could ensure Raynsford Hall did not rot under neglect as her father’s estates had.
Hours passed in a blur of lists and instructions. Footmen came and went. The cook presented menus, and the gardener requested approval for new plantings. Catherine dealt with each swiftly, her pen scratching across the page with confidence. She even made time to send a quick missive to Lord Felton.
You will receive the payment shortly.
With a flourish, she signed her married name, Her Grace, the Duchess of Raynsford.
This simple act filled Catherine with incalculable stores of satisfaction. With one stroke of her quill, she had effectively dismissed Lord Felton and his schemes and had saved the children at Brightwater.
And yet, beneath the surface of every task and amid this heady triumph, a single thought pulsed relentlessly.
Where is he?
By afternoon, Catherine found herself beside Mrs. Hardwick again, reviewing staff rosters.
She glanced up, feigning nonchalance. “And His Grace, how does he usually spend his days?”
The housekeeper folded her hands. “His Grace is a busy man. He keeps his accounts in order himself and manages his affairs directly. He has little patience for idleness, but he is… fair.”
“Fair?” Catherine pressed.
“Strict, yes,” Mrs. Hardwick said carefully, “but fair. He does not demand more than he is willing to do himself. He rewards diligence, and he will not tolerate dishonesty.”
Catherine’s lips curved faintly, though not in humor.
Strict, fair, unyielding. All the things she had already seen.
Yet the words little patience for idleness did not sit quite right.
As far as she knew, the Duke had a reputation for carousing and spending time with mistresses aplenty.
If that was not a show of idleness, she did not know what it was.
Disconcerted once again by the enigma that was her husband, Catherine closed the ledger with a snap. “That will be all.”
When the housekeeper withdrew, Catherine rose and crossed to the window.
The lawns stretched out in sweeping perfection, the autumn leaves gilded gold beneath the afternoon sun.
Somewhere out there, she imagined the Duke astride a horse.
It had simply never crossed her mind that he might spend his days locked in a study, poring over accounts, and managing his estate.
This new take on her husband was enlightening.
Perhaps he is not the rake I thought him to be…
Catherine left the last of the maids with instructions about the linen presses, smoothing her skirts as she made her way toward the dining room.
The day had been long, an endless parade of names, duties, decisions, and she had buried herself in it gratefully, as if sheer labor might drown the ache in her chest. Dinner, she told herself, would be no different, just another task to be done before bed.
She pushed open the door, expecting only the quiet grandeur of the empty table.
And froze.
Duncan was there, seated at the far end of the long mahogany table, perfectly upright. His stiff posture made the dark coat he wore look impeccable. His golden-brown hair glimmered in the candlelight. A decanter of claret rested near his hand, though his glass was only half filled.
He looked up as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her once, steadily, before settling into a stare that seemed to pin her in place.
Her heart jolted. There were so many things she wanted to say, but now, with her thoughts spiraling wildly, she knew not how to conjure a single syllable of speech.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice even, deep.
Her throat worked. “Good evening,” she returned, softer than she wished.
When she reached her seat, the chair was drawn back by a footman.
Catherine lowered herself and smoothed her skirts once more.
Unbidden, her palms began to sweat, and she recalled how he had looked last night when he’d arrived in her room.
Gone was the disheveled Duke who taunted her for being verbose, then gazed upon her with pity coloring his expression.
Now, he had reverted to sitting rigidly, practically daring her to prove his assumption correct.
Nervous as she was, Catherine would not allow herself to give him the satisfaction of being right.
I shall not yield. I will not be the first to engage him in conversation.
Silence stretched between them, heavy, unnatural. The clink of cutlery and the muted shuffle of servants laying dishes filled the void, but every sound was magnified by the cavernous space.
She kept her eyes fixed on her plate, even when she could feel his gaze across the expanse of polished wood, steady and unrelenting. It pressed against her skin like heat from a fire she dared not step too near.
Awkward. Stifling. Intimate in all the wrong ways.
Catherine’s resolve wavered. She wanted to share with him all she had done today. She wished, especially, to crow about the note she had penned and sent away directly to Lord Felton. But she was intimidated.
In this light, at his own estate, her husband presented a commanding and untouchable persona.
There was something in his stillness that unsettled her more than any teasing or taunting he might display.
The sheer composure of him, the carved precision of his posture, made her prickle as if he might rise suddenly, stride the length of the table, and take her breath with his nearness.
She swallowed, which pained her slightly because her throat was tight. To cover her discomfort, Catherine forced her chin higher as though that small tilt indicated to her husband that she was ready and willing to listen to whatever he wished to say.
And yet, the silence endured.
She gazed at him down the length of table and arrived at the conclusion, quite readily, that she hated the distance. Hated how it carved the gulf between them into something visible, tangible, a chasm neither words nor propriety could bridge.
The servants began their silent dance, filling her glass, setting dishes before her. Soup first, velvety and steaming. She lifted her spoon, forcing her hand not to shake.
The silence was unbearable. Each clink of silver rang too loudly, and each breath she drew seemed to echo in the cavernous room.
Finally, when she could not take the feeling of solitude that dared to envelope her, she ventured, “You have been busy, I take it.”
“Indeed.”
One word. Nothing more.
She pressed her lips together before allowing another attempt. “And was it a fruitful day?”
The Duke lifted his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. “That is my business.”
Her spoon halted mid-air. She set it down and fixed him with a curious stare.
So, this is how it will be. Ice. Always ice.
“Your business?” she repeated softly. “Surely there are matters you might share with your wife.”
A flat shake of his head. No more than that.
He means to shut me out. Very well.
Inevitably, the words he’d spoken the night before returned to her, and she remembered once again that the Duke did not wish to sit with a woman who prattled on obnoxiously.
So, she chose to take this conversation on a different route.
Using all the charm she could muster, Catherine leaned forward slightly and whispered in a playful manner, “Do you mean to say we are to sit across from one another every evening in complete silence? Never exchanging a word beyond ‘pass the salt’?”
“Preferably not even that,” the Duke said tersely, wholly ignoring her jesting manner.
Her jaw dropped as her sense of propriety escaped her. She was once again dismayed by her husband’s behavior. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am always serious.”