Page 58 of Tamed By her Duke

He didn’t pull her away, didn’t scold her for her boldness. He just let this small patch of his skin touch hers as he held her tight and didn’t let go.

Eventually, her tears dried, her energy fading with them.

This was for the best, she decided, as if she wasn’t reserving all her power for keeping herself upright—a feat, even with Caleb’s assistance—she would no doubt be feelingmortifiedthat she’d allowed her stalwart husband to see her like this, like a pathetic, sniveling mess.

But he didn’t comment on her disarray. He didn’t push her away or demand to know what in God’s name she’d been thinking.

He just waited until she was done crying and then asked, in a low, rumbling voice that moved through her, “Are ye ready to go home now?”

It sounded so nice that she nearly started crying again. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded.

Maybe he knew, somehow, that her legs were not up to the task of carrying her back home, because he didn’t try to lead her back to the keep. Instead, he scooped an arm under her knees and carried her like she weighed nothing at all.

Though Grace knew that this, too, would mortify her tomorrow, she tucked her head against his neck and clung with all the meager strength in her arms, letting him hold her tight as he went back into the house and up the stairs. She listened to his breath as he kicked open the door to her bedchamber and deposited her against her pillows.

“Sleep,leannan,” he said.

She found that she obeyed before his hand could even finish its one, gentle caress over the top of her head and therefore did not know that her husband stood over her like a sentinel for many long minutes as she sank into a sleep that was, this time, undisturbed by dreams or fears.

CHAPTER 17

Despite the unyielding temptation to never leave her bed again—it was so lovely and soft and warm, and nobody could see her or look at cheeks that would likely never stop blazing—Grace went down to breakfast.

Maybe if she pretended that she wasn’t embarrassed then she would magically, somehow, notbeembarrassed?

Grace rolled her eyes at herself. No, that lie was simply too implausible to stand. Maybe it was like pulling out a splinter—you could do it straight away and it would hurt, or you could delay and then it would fester, and you’d still have to pull it out anyway, only now it would hurt far more.

Yes. That explanation suited her situation—and her mood.

Also, she was very hungry. Apparently traipsing about and sobbing in the dark built an appetite.

She was hungry enough, in fact, that her stomach didn’t even protest (aside from a single, dramatic swoop) when her husband entered the breakfast room.

Grace steeled herself.

“Good morning,” she said cautiously.

“Mornin’,” Caleb grunted.

And then…nothing.

Grace ate three kippers, some pickled cod on toast, some marmalade on a different piece of toast, and two cups of tea.

And still. Nothing.

Mr. O’Mailey entered. Grace had had little to do with the stern-faced butler, compared to his wife or Mrs. Bradley. But Mrs. O’Mailey’s face always softened, just a touch, when she spoke about her husband, and that was enough for Grace to feel a note of fondness for the man.

“Sunday papers, up from London, Yer Grace,” the butler said, presenting the ironed pages.

Grace paused, a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth.

It took two days, she’d learned, for the papers to arrive by post from London. If the Sunday papers were here, that meant today was Tuesday.

And if today was Tuesday, it meant that it had been two weeks, exactly, since her husband had made his bargain with her about their…relations.

Her eyes flew to his. He was already watching her, but his expression was inscrutable.

‘Thank ye, O’Mailey,” he said, turning his eyes to the newsprint after an unending moment.

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