Page 52

“Not as such. Rather, he just dinnae mention that they’d shared young love until after we’d been wed long enough that I was assured of his affection.” Caleb apparently did not look sufficiently impressed by this wisdom, so she added, “Marriage is long. Let the lass have her secrets for now. It’ll give ye something to talk about when ye’re old and gray like me.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “She’smywife. She shouldnae have secrets fromme.”

Mrs. O’Mailey threw up her hands. “Why do I even try? Nae, tis my own fault for forgetting I’m talking to ye, nae Master Leonard.”

Caleb heard his brother’s name like a knife to the chest. One of the perils of returning home, after so many years fighting abroad, was the reminder of his own ghosts.

Which, he supposed, might have been Mrs. O’Mailey’s point in mentioning Caleb’s beloved brother. Caleb, too, had his secrets—ones he did not intend to share with his wife.

“She was walkin’ in her sleep last night,” he said quietly. “Near fell down the stairs. Could’ve broken her neck.”

The unspoken words hung in the air. He could not wait for time to smooth the rough edges of marital discord. Not when his bride could tumble to her death and rob them of any such future.

“Then,” said Mrs. O’Mailey, “ye need to give her a reason to look forward, not back. Take her somewhere. Distract her. Make her happy.”

This, too, struck like a blow. “That’s nae how it is,” he insisted. “Ours is a Society marriage. Arranged.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. O’Mailey.

“She can find her own amusements,” he added.

“I’m sure she can.”

Another argument sprung to his lips before he realized it was weakening his position, not arguing it. He was a duke, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t need to explain himself to his own bloody housekeeper, even if he had known her all his born days, and even if he knew, from long experience, that when she shot him a knowing look like the one that she now sported, he’d do best not to ignore it.

He returned his attention to his ledgers and steadfastly tried to make even simple sums add up until she left the room.

As afternoon drifted into evening, his frustration did not abate. And so, when he saw Grace scamper past on her way back to her bedchamber, he shot out of his chair and followed her.

“Grace!” he called.

She looked over at him, that polite look on her face. Christ and martyrs, hehatedthat look.

“Yes?”

“Ye’re going to town with me tomorrow,” he demanded.

She blinked. “I’m--?”

He huffed out a sigh. He understood, at long last, all the cads of London who gamboled about and did everything they could to avoid the altar. Marriage was a bloody battlefield as unsettling as any of the actual battlefields he’d stood upon.

“Will ye,” he said through gritted teeth, “go into town with me tomorrow?”

There was, he supposed, one reward for his half-hearted attempt at politeness: her own drawing-room look faded into a look of astonishment.

“I—yes,” she said, clearly taken aback.

“Good,” he grunted. Then he retreated into his study and slammed the door before he could do anything to make the situation any more snarled and troublesome—and before this headache that refused to abate could outright send him to his grave.

CHAPTER 15

Grace pinched herself surreptitiously as she rumbled along in the carriage, her husband across from her, toward the village, just to be extra certain that she wasn’t dreaming again.

Ow. No, apparently not.

In truth, this made things all the stranger. A dream didn’t need to follow logic, but reality ought to be at leastsomewhatconsistent, oughtn’t it?

And it was not the least bit consistent for her husband to suddenly invite her on an outing. Not an errand, not an event at which they might be asked to represent the dukedom. Just…an outing. Presumably for the mere sake of entertainment?