Page 25 of Tamed By her Duke

Except maybe she was still dreaming, because what other explanation could she offer for finding herself inexplicably kissing her new husband?

“Leannan,” he murmured, the word fracturing into a groan as he pressed back into her kiss. His cheek was warm beneath her palm.

For just a moment, he kept his hands to himself—then he took the fingers that had been creeping up her wrist, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake, and knotted them in the hair at thebase of her neck, right above where her plait began. He used the grip to tilt her back, to maneuver her, until her body was arching up toward him and her mouth was opening beneath his. He brushed his tongue ever so gently across her bottom lip, and she darted her own tongue out daringly, seeking to mimic the action?—

And met only cold air as he released her so quickly that she nearly fell back onto the icy flagstones.

Her eyes fluttered open to find her husband staring at her as if it was now his turn to wake up from a nightmare. He cleared his throat and then—there was no other word for it—fled.

He fled, without so much as a “goodbye” thrown over his shoulder and left her there on the floor.

She wasn’t cold, though, despite the chill of the house—because she was bleedingsimmeringwith anger.

“Your descendent,” she told the dour, praying man in the portrait in front of her, “is an arsehole.”

It was, she’d decided, an acceptable time to start saying the oaths out loud. It even made her feel just the tiniest bit better about things. It gave her enough momentum, at least, to carry her through the dark hallways that had seemed so unsettling on her way down. None of the paranoia could touch her, not as she stomped her way back up to her bedchamber, not bothering to be quiet as she slammed the door. Shehopedit unsettled her husband from his rest.

When she didn’t see him the next day, she was glad for it. When he didn’t come to dinner, she didn’t seek him out. Instead, she ate every bite with a kind of vicious satisfaction, then went down to the kitchen to compliment Mrs. Bradley, who blushed like a schoolgirl.

On the third day, she decided he was hiding. Good. Coward.

And if he was going to be a coward who avoided her because he was ashamed of his own bad behavior, she decided as she threw on her warmest shawl—her luggage had finally arrived, but she hadn’t packed for the chill this far north—she was going to beeverywhere.

He could avoid her if he liked, but he was going to have to work for it.

“Mrs. O’Mailey,” she said as soon as she found the housekeeper, who was giving instructions to one of the downstairs maids. “I would like a tour of the house at your earliest convenience.”

The Scottish woman pressed her lips together so firmly Grace wondered if she would do herself an injury. The pause was, once again, just on this side of insubordination. Grace just waited.

If these people thought she would wilt over a few uncomfortable silences, Grace thought, they were dead wrong. She was a woman who had learned not even to flinch when she got smacked with a broom handle because she’d dropped a cloth, spilled a speck of soup, or simply because Mrs. Packard had been feeling irritable that day.

“Very well,” Mrs. O’Mailey said after a moment, sounding enormously put out.

They moved through the house room by room. In each space, Grace asked questions. How was the room normally used? Was it effective to heat, or challenging? Was the amount of work that went into the upkeep worth the level of use it saw?

Mrs. O’Mailey had blinked at that one, the first time she’d shown any emotion to Grace at all.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that, Your Grace,” she admitted, sounding mighty displeased about it.

Grace, meanwhile, was delighted. This was her first victory in their little war.

“Ah,” she said, not showing her pleasure. “Well, some rooms may only be used a few times a year—but need to be cleaned weekly, or more. If those rooms can’t be closed up—perhaps they’re important for heating the whole house, perhaps they’re too central to other rooms that are used more frequently—it is often best to rearrange things so that a neglected parlor becomes a more frequent spot for visitors. So that it merits being tended to that often,” she concluded.

Grace carefully did not react as she watched the housekeeper work though the logic of this comment—that when Grace alluded to a room being worth the upkeep, she meant in terms of the servants’ time. Which implied caring about the servants’ time, something that not all aristocrats ever thought about.

She instead watched Mrs. O’Mailey’s face carefully, so that when she saw a reason to argue occur to the woman and her mouth open to utter it, she could speak first.

“Even with such an efficient, well-staffed household as you seem to have here,” she added beneficently, “keeping up a house like this is no small task. So you mustn’t take this as an indictment of your processes, Mrs. O’Mailey. I merely ask to understand how we might best work together.”

The woman closed her mouth.

Grace put on her best innocent look as Mrs. O’Mailey thought that one through.

Grace knew thattellingthe woman that Grace was not here to ruin things would have no effect. People could make promises until they were blue in the face, but if they had no reason to keep to those promises, the words were naught but hot air. Grace had heard many promises that had gone unfulfilled; she knew the reality.

But if she showed Mrs. O’Mailey how she intended to go forth, if she acted well and then continued to do so…that might earn her a tiny bit of goodwill. And a little bit was all Grace needed, at least to start. She could work with that.

“Back parlor’s never used,” the woman said gruffly. “His Grace is typically found in his study—” Grace made a mental note to find herself frequentlynearhis study, to make this habit unpleasant for him. “—and we havenae had a duchess for some time, but themorning room, front parlor, and duchess’ receivin’ rooms are all more comfortable.”

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