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“More than adequate,” Elias replied. “Mr. Davies is quite skilled at his trade.”

His Grace smiled thinly and said nothing, instead eating another spoonful of soup.

“So quickly!” Dorothy marveled, her brow furrowing in distress. “I had anticipated him taking longer to arrive.”

Catherine privately wondered if her sister had hoped that the solicitor wouldnotmake haste, for fear that the man might agree that the contract was legally binding. The longer it took for Mr. Davies to agree, the more time they had to free Catherine of her promise to wed His Grace.

But Catherine feared that no solution would be forthcoming. She would be forced to marry the Duke of Sarsen, but it was better that it was her rather than Dorothy.

“I told him the matter was urgent,” Elias said, clearing his throat. “I would not wish to keep His Grace waiting.”

“Of course not,” Dorothy murmured, her voice holding not even the slightest suggestion of sarcasm or rebellion.

Catherine felt a wash of affection and adoration for her sister, who tried so hard to be the perfect lady. It had always seemed so effortless to Catherine, but she watched as her sister slumped just a little. Maybe the pressure of being a lady weighed on her sister more heavily than she had assumed.

“Will you be departing once Mr. Davies delivers his decision?” Bridget asked.

“It depends on what that decision is,” His Grace replied, his voice brokering no room for disagreement.

Catherine strongly suspected that if the Duke of Sarsen was refused her hand, he would wish to fight and insist on claiming her as his bride. She supposed that she ought to detest such a thing with her whole being, but the more she interacted with the duke, the less she reallydetestedhim. It was not as though she held any measure of fondness or attraction for His Grace, but her interactions with him awakened something deep within her.

The memory of their recent kiss sent her blood pulsing more quickly through her veins, and everything inside her grew hot and ached. She had thought of that delicate place between her legs before, as most young ladies did—without admitting that they did, of course—but the sensations that swept through her when she remembered His Grace’s lips on hers were beyond words. She wanted to know if she could feel more, if it was possible that there were yet still many more glorious emotions that might unfold if she let His Grace kiss her or touch her. Already, it seemed to Catherine as though he set her blood ablaze.

“We must abide by it,” Elias said, “whatever it may be.”

“Of course,” His Grace replied. “If your lawyer disagrees with my claim, I shall employ my own solicitor to challenge yours, and I trust the matter will be settled in my favor. I will indulge you this once, but I will not be taken for a fool.”

Elias and the Duke of Sarsen meet one another’s gazes across the dinner table, the tension between them so thick and heavy that Catherine swore it must be a physical, tangible thing. At last, her brother looked askance, choosing to break His Grace’s stare.

The Duke of Sarsen smiled in grim satisfaction, as though he enjoyed wielding power over everyone else. Heat rose to Catherine’s face, indignation at the treatment of her brother warring with the duke’s stern warning in the garden that he would teach her tobehave. What had he meant? She had not the faintest idea, but she shivered with desire when she considered the possibilities.

“None of us would ever attempt to take you as a fool, Sarsen,” Elias said quietly.

“I am pleased to hear it,” His Grace said. “If you did wish to challenge me, I would wonder if you had taken leave of your senses.”

“Why would he take leave of his senses?” Catherine asked. “You have only arrived without warning, demanded my brother’s hospitality, and decided to marry his sister, seemingly without consideration for anyone’s desire but your own.”

“That is untrue.”

“Is it, Your Grace?”

She arched an eyebrow and took a dainty spoonful of soup. His Grace’s eyes narrowed, his expression as dark as London on a stormy day. Catherine’s chest fluttered in anticipation of his retort. It was sure to be as swift and bright as lightning.

The Duke of Sarsen only smiled and ate a spoonful of soup himself. Had he realized she was trying to coax some snide remark from him? Was this just another symptom of his domineering attitude? He would not let her have even a minor victory? The thought should not have been thrilling, but it was. Maybe that was because Catherine was not the usual, proper lady.

The next dish was roasted mutton, seasoned with springs of rosemary and tiny specks of paprika and served in a bed of butter-glazed asparagus. Catherine’s favorite.

“I shall miss our cook,” Catherine said, after swallowing a delectable piece of mutton.

“Mine is equal to this,” His Grace said.

“Impossible,” Catherine argued.

The Duke of Sarsen shook his head. “Entirely possible. True, actually.”

“I would imagine that your cook is quite excellent,” Elias said. “It would be most unbefitting for any duke to have a poor cook.”

“Unless the cook is secretly a prince in hiding or some such,” Bridget interjected. “Then, I suppose it would be permissible.”