Page 44 of My Demanding Duke

“It might be the company he keeps,” Hugh scowled, recalling Lewisham’s connection to Lord Gravesend.

“Look at us, two old men, disapproving of the younger set,” Thorncastle laughed, as he signalled for the footman to top-up their glasses. “We have both been domesticated, old friend.”

“I didn’t want to say, but now that you mention it, you have gone a little soft around the middle since you leg-shackled yourself,” Hugh quipped.

This was a lie; Thorncastle remained as fit and trim as ever. Though, something about him had fundamentally changed since he had married his duchess less than a month ago. The rakish edge that had defined him for years had mellowed into something Hugh couldn't quite name. Contentment, perhaps.

“They do say men fall into love and into fat at the same time,” Thorncastle was entirely nonplussed by Hugh’s ribbing—in fact, he looked rather pleased with himself.

Hugh blinked at the casual ease with which his old friend—who the ton had once dubbed The Devil of Thorncastle due to his rakish ways—mentioned the word love.

“How fares married life for you?” Thorncastle queried, perhaps sensing Hugh’s unease.

Hugh looked down at the glass, swirling the amber liquid inside thoughtfully.

“I would say it is not what I had anticipated, but that would make it sound like I put some thought into the act,” he confessed, ruefully.

“Yes, Bartie informed me that he was there when Cupid’s arrow struck,” Thorncastle raised his brows in amusement. “You did always like to act first and think later—even during our Eton days.”

“My wife is less impressed by my decisiveness,” Hugh returned his gaze to his glass, despondent.

“Marriage is a partnership,” Thorncastle advised, his tone gentle. “Decisions must be made together.”

“Even when I know best?” Hugh countered, a little indignant.

“Lud,” Thorncastle pressed a hand to his brow as though pained. “We will be burying another duke soon enough, if you attempt to tell your wife you know what’s best for her.”

“I merely worry about her safety and wellbeing,” Hugh groused—what was wrong with a husband wishing to protect his wife?

“Then tell her that, that at least sounds romantic,” Thorncastle cast him a look of half-despair, though his expression softened as he took in Hugh’s irritable state.

“Love does funny things to a man,” he noted. Then he raised his glass in toast, his eyes dancing with devilment.

“You should spend less time with your cousin,” Hugh retorted, pushing back his chair to leave. “Bartie is filling your head with romantic tosh. Enjoy the rest of the brandy, Thorncastle.”

With a stiff nod, Hugh left his—highly amused—friend to finish the decanter alone. He swept from the club to his carriage, instructing his driver to take him home.

Inside Falconbridge House, Hugh was greeted by bustling activity and noise, instead of its usual austere silence.

One of the maids hurried past, bearing a vase of fresh flowers, followed by another maid headed in the opposite direction, also bearing a floral arrangement.

“Reeves,” Hugh called in a slight panicked voice, as he spotted the underbutler descending the stairs, bearing a painting in a gilt frame. “Has someone died?”

“No one is dead, Your Grace,” Reeves answered breathlessly, as he reached the bottom step. “It’s just Her Grace rearranging a few things around the house. She asked us to move some of the paintings.”

Hugh raised his brows in disbelief; what was wrong with the paintings? The walls had always been adorned with depictions of horses, ships, hunting scenes, and naval battles—respectable, expensive, and masculine paintings. He had never given them a second thought; they were simply there.

Like a lightskirt to a redcoat, Hugh followed the sound of Anna’s lilting voice to the parlour room. He paused at the threshold of the door, watching unseen as his wife directed two footmen on the placement of a landscape where a particularly gruesome depiction of the Battle of Blenheim had once hung.

She was radiant; her cheeks pink from exertion, her hair escaping its pins as she gestured animatedly. She looked so at home in this space that Hugh felt almost like an interloper. Sensing his gaze, she turned, her blue eyes wary.

“It looks well,” Hugh offered, gesturing to the new painting.

“I decided to make a few changes,” she replied, tilting her chin defiantly, as though she expected an argument.

The two footmen departed swiftly, anticipating an awkward exchange. Guilt prickled Hugh’s conscience; did she expect to battle with him at every turn? Did she think that he was so controlling that he would argue with her over a few aesthetic changes?

He glanced around the room, his eyes taking in the few new feminine touches she had added. New cushions adorned the couches, a pile of periodicals and books rested on the end table, a basket of sewing sat on the Queen Anne chair beside the fireplace; the long disused parlour now looked homely.

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