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And if he happened to know where she was some of the time, and if he happened to be elsewhere, that was merely because he was a very busy man.

For example, he had those roofs to fix because—damn her eyes—Grace had been right about that. He’d seen at least three houses in a shocking state of disrepair, and then he’d had to send all the way to bloody Edinburgh for someone to come fix things, because the local man had gone off anddied.

“It is, of course, very sad to have lost such a valuable member of our community,” the vicar had informed him solemnly, looking only mildly alarmed to speak to the duke. “Though Edgar hadlived to the ripe old age of ninety-four, so at least he has a good life. We shall remember him fondly.”

When Caleb had demanded to know why, given the old roofer’s age, nobody had thought anewroofer might soon be needed, he’d been met with an uncomprehending look.

“He was healthy as a horse, Edgar was,” the vicar had told him. “Until he wasn’t, of course.”

Caleb’s only consolation was that at least he’d be able to give the business to a Scotsman. Though likely his wife would whine at him that this was not local patronage.

Not, Caleb reiterated to himself, that he was avoiding her so that he didn’t have to listen to said complaints. Not at all.

And he was, moreover, not avoiding her so that they did not find themselves kissing again.

Because he was not avoiding her at all. Clearly.

Even though he hadn’t seen much of Grace,signsof her presence were increasingly obvious throughout the house. She had taken to redecorating, which she was apparently doing with things already to be found around the house, since she’d not applied to him for any funds. Still, he could scarcely turn around without finding that a settee that had once lived in the front parlor was now in the library, or that the maids had swappedabout wall hangings, or that the ugly rug from the entrance hall had disappeared (to be burned, Caleb hoped).

Worse, the staff seemed to be oddly cheerful about this.

Caleb decided he didn’t care. If Grace was happy and not underfoot, well, good. That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

So he ignored it all.

Right up until he saw the portrait gallery.

“What in Christ’s name is going on here?” he seethed as his wife directed footmen to re-hang the portrait of Caleb’s grandfather.

The footmen exchanged a look, gently lowered the portrait, and beat a hasty retreat. Smart men. Caleb would need to give them an increase in their wages.

“Hello,” the little termagant said cheerfully, as if he had not last seen her fleeing like prey from a wolf. “If you could not terrorize the staff while they go about their business, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

To hell with that. She’d not earned any bloody favors from him. He glowered.

She ignored it.

“And, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could we blasphemeslightlyless? I myself am not terribly religious, I confess, but I did recently catch one of the maids praying rather feverishly over a crucifix, and I think they might be fretting over your immortal soul.”

“Ye are not,” he said tersely, “in any position to be making demands.”

She propped a hand on her hip, which had the irksome effect of reminding Caleb how luscious the soft curve had felt under his hand that night in the library.

“As a point of order, I did not make any demands,” she pointed out. “But fine. I’ll be happy to get back to what I was doing. Have a good afternoon.”

She turned her back on him.

In another situation, with another woman, Caleb would have thought her the most unforgiveable idiot. She would have to be, to think she could get away with dismissing him like that.

But Caleb was starting to think that his little wife knewexactlywhat she was up to. Which meant, instead of an idiot, she might actually be a bloody genius.

An impossible, frustrating little witch of a genius, but a genius, nonetheless.

“Grace!” he snapped.

She looked over her shoulder at him like she’d quite forgotten he was there. “Yes?”

“The portraits. Take them back down.”