Page 42 of Tamed By her Duke

Her bravado was not feigned.

“Goodness, youdothink highly of yourself, don’t you?” she accused. “I’ve seen far more frightening things, thank you very much. You are no more than a sarcastic recluse. You’ll have to do better if you intend to alarmme. And,” she said, holding up a finger, “I think you will find that if you put in amodicumof effort, you needn’t tremble in fear of your neighbors just because your father was a boor.”

She was, alas, simply precious in her defiance—glaring up at him so intently, while wearing naught but a thin linen nightdress and a blanket—that he could not help his laughter. When he saw her pleased reaction, he did not attempt to hold it back.

He enjoyed the way she looked at him, there in the moonlight, so very much that it was not until later, when they had both retired to their beds, that he wondered whatfrightening thingshis pampered aristocratic wife had ever been forced to face.

Grace had not been in the habit of lurking around kitchens since she was a child hoping to pilfer a jam tart or three, but she found, in her second week at Montgomery Estate, that she was spending a fair amount of time there. Her reasons were twofold. First, it was the warmest room in the house by far. She learned this during an unfortunate cold snap that had wandered into the house and attempted to stay within its stone walls long after the weather outside had recalled that they were well into spring. Grace, who held a moral objection to shivering in one’s home, had plunked down in the kitchens, fluffed herself out like a disgruntled bird, and tried to ignore all the cautious looks theservants gave her until they decided she was probably there for harmless reasons.

Second, as she’d learned around the time that she’d stopped rubbing her arms to banish the chill, Mrs. Bradley chattered while she cooked.

This made the kitchen the most wonderful font of information.

Plus, there were very often biscuits.

“—and if ye’re thinkin’ this is cold, Yer Grace, just ye wait until His Grace takes ye to Scotland. Oh, that’ll put a right shiver in yer bones, it will.”

Mrs. Bradley, Grace had learned, had been all too happy to come south—as she called it—to serve in Caleb’s household after he’d inherited.

“Why, I remember one spring where we got snow so late—why, it must’ve been near on June, since I was worried the eggs would freeze and I’d not be able to make a cake for Master Leonard’s birthday?—”

“Who is Leonard?” Grace asked idly. She was shelling peas, mainly because she’d seen the peas and started, and all the maids seemed too worried about offending her to ask her to stop. It had been one of the chores she hadn’t minded, when she’d been away, and her movements were deft and mindless.

“His Grace’s bro—” The woman stopped herself, as if realizing she were about to speak out of turn. Then cleared her throat, apparently deciding it was far too late for discretion. “His Grace’s brother,” he said, far less animatedly than she had been mere moments before.

Grace’s fingers stilled.

“I—I didn’t realize His Grace had a brother,” she said, feeling like the worst kind of idiot for having to say it out loud. It was bad enough that the whole household seemed to know that Caleb wanted her only for the heirs she might provide, but it stung to be reminded of this fact, particularly when things had been going reasonably smoothly between them.

Mrs. Bradley cast a glance over her shoulder, and whatever she saw in Grace’s face made the woman turn from the stove and wipe her hands with the ever-present rag she kept tucked into the front of her apron.

“Master Leonard was His Grace’s brother,” she amended, the emphasis clear enough for Grace to fill in the rest of the story in her head.

“Ah,” Grace said.

The cook pressed her lips together, as if deciding what else she wanted to say. “Those boys…well, they loved one another something fierce,” she said at last. “Even so, they were different as can be. Master Caleb—as we called him then, ye ken—wasalways much as ye know him now. Big. Brave. Not afraid to speak his mind.”

Despite her mounting dread at this line of conversation, Grace felt her lips twitch. That was her husband indeed.

“Master Leonard, though… He was smaller. More sensitive. And his big brother doted on him. Once, when one of the local lads tried to pick a fight with Leonard—who was half his size, mind—His Grace beat the boy so badly he near on killed him. Might have finished the job, had not his wee brother calmed him down.”

The cook seemed musingly pensive now, as if too lost in her reminiscences to fully appreciate what she was revealing. Grace, meanwhile, was shocked.

How could she reconcile her husband—the man she’d just honestly declared to be not at all frightening in the least—to someone who could so lose himself to fury that he nearly beat another boy to death?

How could she imagine the man who’d brazenly told her she was a broodmare and nothing else as a boy who so fiercely loved his brother that he would shed blood to defend him?

Mrs. Bradley heaved a sigh, seeming to come out of her reverie.

“Well,” she said, reaching for her rag with automatic movements. “T’was a sorry day when we all lost Master Leonard,I’ll tell ye that. And it hit His Grace the hardest, of course. So mayhap that’s why ye’ve not heard talk of him. Some wounds stay fresh, ye ken?”

Grace’s mind flickered, however briefly, to the wounds of her own that she tried never to disturb.

“Of course,” she said, proud when her voice came out even. “I thank you for telling me, Mrs. Bradley. I shall do my best to avoid upsetting His Grace on any such topic.”

Mrs. Bradley shot Grace a fond look, even as she turned back to the stove. Despite her soft gaze, she seemed to censor her words before she spoke.

“We’re all mighty pleased to have ye here, Your Grace. I hope ye know that.”

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