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His breath quickened and he cursed under his breath, hating how much control she had over him without even trying. His realization of her power only made her more dangerously appealing, because the more he learned about her, the more he found himself drawn to her.

Frederick took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his emotions. He couldn’t afford to care for Gemma in this way. He had seen what caring for someone—what love—could do. It destroyed lives. It had destroyed his sister and it had ruined her beloved Peter.

No. He wouldn’t let himself fall into that trap again.

Despite his resolution, Gemma’s lips against his continued to haunt him. Frederick knew that no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he was already losing control.

CHAPTER 11

“Miss,” Daisy whispered to Gemma, rousing her from sleep. “Her Grace would like to speak with you over breakfast. Fortunately, she wakes late, but we must make haste.”

“Oh,” she rubbed her eyes. “I suppose we will have to hurry then.”

By twenty past the hour, she had braided her hair into a neat bun and was dressed in a plain blue gown that the Duke had procured for her. She entered the small breakfast room where she had been informed that the Dowager Duchess was already waiting for her.

The parlor was medium sized with a wide bow window that let in copious amount of cheerful light that warmed the light blue damask on the walls.

The Dowager was seated at the far end of an oval breakfast table, sipping tea from a delicate Sèvres cup and eating small, flat biscuits that lay on a nearby plate.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Gemma curtsied. “How are you?”

“Hmm?” the older lady smiled. “Appreciating the benefits of aging and using such advantages to gently guide my grandson into greener pastures.”

Gemma laughed softly as she seated herself. “Forgive my forwardness, but I do not think His Grace would appreciate anyone meddling in his affairs.”

“Oh no, it is quite the contrary. It is the job of a grandmother to interfere,” the Dowager smiled slyly. “By a certain age we have all developed a sixth sense that turns us into oracles.”

Gemma smiled, and looked around. “Does His Grace eat breakfast?”

“When he remembers,” she replied, while topping up her tea.

“I think you mean when he is summoned,” the Duke said dryly as he entered the parlor.

His hair was a damp, dark mane around his collar, and he was in shirt sleeves, his white cravat tied in an elegant knot beneath his chin. His navy waistcoat hugged his lean torso and the darktrousers he wore followed the sinewy lines of his legs, and were tucked into tall, polished boots.

She ducked her head away, trying to smother the surge of butterflies that had awoken in her chest.

Gemma rose from her chair and curtsied. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

He nodded. “And to you too, Miss Bradford. How are you faring this morning?”

“Very well,” she replied. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Dusting her fingers off, the Dowager inclined her head. “I have been told that a nun from St. Catherine’s came by yestermorn. What happened there?”

“A travesty of human construct,” the Duke replied while reaching for his cup of coffee. “And that is all I shall say about that.”

Gemma bit her lip. She did not know what to say about the convent and its nuns that hadn’t already been said.

The Dowager buttered a croissant and nibbled at it, then added, “you have heeded my words on that, have you not?”

“Yes, Grandmother, I have,” Frederick said, and his curt enigmatic words had Gemma wondering what they meant.

Gemma shook her head, “I hope she does not come back. Sister Agnes is not… she is not a genial woman by any stretch of the term.”

“How harsh was she?” Frederick asked.

Withholding the urge to touch her shoulder where the healing welt of the lashes still burned, Gemma sipped her tea. “She was unrelenting.”