Page 43 of The Trouble With Her Duke
Naomi gritted her teeth. “No, the young woman in the back is a friend I haven’t seen in some time. I only wanted to say hello.”
“I see. Wait here, please,” the woman said.
Stupid woman. If she tells them, it won’t be a surprise. Naomi knew she’d regret these actions around the duke’s children, but ignored her instincts and followed the woman to the table. The conversation stopped as they all looked up to see her standing there.
One of the older women stood and glared at her. She recognized her as the Dowager Duchess of Glanville.
“I’ll have a word with you, Lady Withers,” the duchess demanded. “Up front.”
“But Your Grace. I must speak to . . .” Naomi began.
“No.” The dowager leaned in and whispered, “Since you’ve refused to move to the front of the store as I requested, let me make something clear. If you approach her again, I swear by all that’s holy, you will live to regret it. Those are my nephew’s children and I’ll not have them exposed to your temperament.”
“My temperament?” fumed Naomi.
“Know this. I’ve not said anything about the stories you’ve planted in The Ton Tattler when everyone knows he dumped you over six months ago.”
“He did not dump me!” Naomi spat.
The dowager duchess held up her forefinger and slowly backed her up several feet. “Liar,” she whispered. “If you want to be accepted in this town after today, you will leave and never show yourself near my family members again.”
Naomi snorted. “Or you will do what?” She took another step back as the duchess advanced.
“That’s my family. I’ll make your life in England a living hell.”
“Are you threatening me?” Naomi demanded.
“No. You asked what would happen. I told you.”
Infuriated, Naomi looked past her, slowly recognizing three other duchesses sitting at the table—all looking her way. How is this governess—if that’s who she is—so well connected? “I’ll leave,” she seethed. “Tell her to mind her business. He is mine, and I am not the sharing type.” With that, Naomi left.
Rosalind returned to the table and sat down next to Lydia. “Watch your back with that one,” she whispered. “The Widow Withers is off her head since the duke ended their association. You must tell my nephew about today’s incidents.”
Lydia nodded. “I will speak to the duke tomorrow.”
Chapter 15
The next morning
Lydia needed time to think. She discovered the walk to the stable in the morning provided a soothing backdrop for her thoughts. Reaching into her pockets, she felt for the apples she had taken from the kitchen. Treats for her new friends.
She was fond of the duke’s recent purchase, a dappled grey mare. While the duke hadn’t named her, Lydia called her Sunshine. Sometimes Rosie accompanied her to the stable. However, Jeffrey had already taken the dog out this morning.
The weather was mild, and the sun was already spreading its warmth. And yet, Lydia could not help the chill that crept up her back whenever she thought about Lady Withers. For reasons Lydia couldn’t fathom, Lady Withers perceived her as a threat. It made no sense. Even so, the widow’s theatrics had revealed she was faking the pregnancy—something Lydia needed to tell the duke. But was it overstepping her bounds to inform the duke?
“Here you go, Sunshine,” she said, handing the mare an apple. The horse chewed it heartily and nudged her for another. She laughed. “Don’t worry. I brought you two.” Holding out her hand, the dappled grey took the second apple. A whinny drew her attention. “I’ve brought one for you, as well.” She chuckled, handing the apple to the duke’s stallion in the next stall. “I need you both to help me decide what to do. Is it my business to tell him what I saw?”
The mare flapped her lips and nickered.
“That might depend on what it was you saw,” a deep male voice said from behind.
Lydia gasped and spun around, finding herself staring into the captivating green eyes of the duke. “Heavens! You startled me, Your Grace.” The man has the most incredible sense of timing.
“Please, call me Damon when we’re alone,” he said in his rich baritone, walking closer. Stepping over to his stallion’s stall, he fished a carrot from his pocket. “I see you’ve met Hero.”
The familiar scent of citrus, bergamot, and sandalwood enveloped her, and she breathed it in slowly. “It fits his thunderous look—solid black with moss-green eyes.” His horse’s eyes match his. “Forgive me. But I’m not comfortable calling you Damon. You’re my”—his arm barely brushed hers and she faltered as delightful, tingling pulses of awareness shot up her arms and down her spine—“Employer,” she squeaked out.
“Yes, but I’ve given you leave to do so,” he said, holding her gaze.
