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“I can afford it.”

Her calm composure lasted her through the remainder of the drive. The carriage rolled through the estate’s imposing inner walls to reveal a main house that looked relatively modern, as far as these things went—which was to say that it was likely only about three centuries old, instead of seven or eight. Three staff members filed to wait politely on the front stoop as the carriage drew closer, the wheels crunching merrily on the limestone gravel.

They pulled to a stop and the duke stepped nimbly down—not even stopping to offer her a hand, the lout. Grace pretended not to notice as she hopped to the ground, legs slightly wobbly after the long hours in the carriage.

She thought that the three dour-faced staff members might have become evenmoredisapproving at the sight of her. Grace did not spend much time worrying over their wrinkled frowns, however.

For, as she looked up, she saw that she was being chased by one of the hounds of hell.

With a muffled cry, she stumbled backward, falling directly onto her bum on the gravel as the all-black beast charged at her. In a shockingly gallant move, her husband stepped in front of her prone form, offering her the protection of his body.

Or so she thought, until the hound drew up short, reared up on his back legs, and placed his forelegs on the duke’s chest to try and give him exuberant, delighted licks.

“Go on, now, Duff,” her husband told the dog with far more affection in his tone than he’d ever shown Grace. “Mind yer manners, eh?”

The dog—because yes, it was just a dog, albeit a very large one—dropped back down to all four legs and gave its master a happy smile, complete with tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Duff looked at Grace with hopeful interest but was halted by a command from the duke.

“Nay, Duff. Pounce on the wee English lassie and you’ll likely scare her to death. Then I’ll have to find another bride. T'will be quite the inconvenience. The next one might have an even weaker spine, too, and then where will I be?”

Her husband shot her a smirk over his shoulder that made it very clear this joke was at her expense; she was not invited to laugh along.

She clambered to her feet, dusting off her skirts, willing herself not to blush. He clearly wanted to embarrass her, wanted to make her feel small and stupid in this place she was now to call her home. She wouldn’t allow it. Shewouldn’t.

So she summoned every ounce of courage she had, channeled every lecture her father had ever given her on the glory of the Graham legacy. She lifted her chin and approached the staff, bypassing her husband entirely. Let him play with dogs if he wished. She was to be mistress of this place, and she would not be denied her due.

“Good afternoon,” she said grandly. “I am Lady Grace Gulliver, His Grace’s wife. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

If her new name sounded strange on her lips, she did not let it show.

Even so, the trio of servants looked unmoved. There was a pause that bordered before insubordination before the woman in the middle spoke.

“I’m Mrs. O’Mailey, housekeeper here at Montgomery Estate,” she said, her voice designating her as Scottish as clearly as did her name. “I’m in charge of running the day-to-day operations of the house, keep, and any other buildings that are in use.”

Grace did not need the role of a housekeeper explained to her, so she saw this comment as it was: a challenge. Mrs. O’Mailey might as well have said, “And I’ve no interest working with a new duchess, so don’t even try it.”

Grace decided it would be better to lead with politeness rather than aristocratic hauteur. She was, after all, the newcomer here. She did not need to make enemies before she even step foot in the building.

“A pleasure, Mrs. O’Mailey,” she said with a regal nod. “I look forward to working with you.” She turned an expectant look to the sole man in the group of three.

He was, like the women, on the far side of fifty. The craggy lines of his face made it seem that he’d seen a bit of sun and hard work in his day, though his crisp jacket and trousers were the uniform of a servant who worked primarily indoors.

“Mr. O’Mailey,” he said shortly. “The butler.”

Another deliberate show of rudeness, this time in a different register. His gimlet eye dared her to demand more information or to try any other high-handed tactics with him. Grace instead offered the same unbothered smile she’d given the man’s wife.

“Pleasure,” she said before turning to the third. Of the three, this woman looked—perhaps, if Grace squinted—slightlyless hostile than the other two.

“Mrs. Bradley,” the woman mumbled. “I’m the cook.”

Grace pounced on the woman’s seeming reluctance to be as outright rude as the other two.

“Wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Bradley,” she said, with all the charm a politician’s daughter had to offer. “I confess that I am not well-versed in Northumbrian or Scottish food—” This was, unless one counted the sad, stew-like sludge that Mrs. Packard had offered most evenings for supper, which Grace very muchdid not. “—so I look forward to learning from you about local offerings, when you have time to lend your wisdom.”

The woman gave half a smile at that, though she quickly dropped the expression and her gaze when she glanced over at the other two.

Perfect, Grace thought. If there was to be a soft spot in this battlement of belligerence, she was pleased that it came from the cook. It was one thing to battle a housekeeper, who might have her baths delivered cold or the maids perpetually diverted way from Grace’s chambers. It was another thing entirely to battle the person who prepared her food.