Page 7 of A Duchess Disciplined (Dukes of Dominance #1)

CHAPTER 6

C atherine did not best Elias at pall mall, much to her disappointment. Her brother was not as obnoxious as he might have been, given his victory, but he did continue to cast Catherine smug smiles across the table at dinner. She silently fumed and might have accused him of cheating—had she any proof that he had done such, which she did not.

A bowl of chestnut soup was placed before her. The brown of the nuts might have made the dish appear dreary, but the cook had added sprigs of parsley and shredded carrots to brighten its appearance. Catherine ate a spoonful, savoring the explosion of flavor on her tongue.

“Mr. Davies is to arrive this evening. My solicitor,” Elias added, likely for His Grace’s benefit.

“Very good. We may finally have this matter settled,” the duke replied. “I am sure your solicitor will be adequate for writing a marriage contract.’

“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 would not make 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 really detested him. 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 to behave . 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.”

Dorothy laughed. “And where are all these princes pretending to be cooks?”

Bridget’s face brightened. “I was thinking about Sir Thomas Malory’s The Tale of Sir Gareth of Orkney . He was a prince and disguised himself as a kitchen page.”

Catherine’s lips twitched in amusement, and she tilted her head towards the Duke of Sarsen. “And how many princes dwell in your kitchens, Your Grace? I do not wish for just any cook.”

His Grace narrowed his eyes. “I must confess that there is no prince in my kitchens. I fear that having a prince in my kitchens would make me feel territorial.”

“Oh? Would you be anticipating a violent overthrow of your household?” Catherine asked.

“No, because I would put that down,” His Grace replied. “I take pride in how orderly my household is, and I would never let anyone disturb it.”

Although the duke spoke of a hypothetical prince, Catherine felt as though the words were a warning meant for her. But what could she possibly do? She might be improper, but she was nonetheless a lady. And it was well-known that people seldom listened to ladies. Why should she assume that her husband and his household would be different from all the rest?

“Who would dare dream of destroying your household, Your Grace?” Catherine teased. “I can scarcely imagine anyone bold enough to try.”

“I can think of one young miss,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

Catherine smiled and widened her eyes, affecting a look of mock innocence. She did not imagine that the Duke of Sarsen would go so far as to repeat some of their talk in the garden before her own family over dinner. Perhaps she had the advantage for the moment.

“Why, I would never dream of such a thing,” Catherine drawled, casting a sly look at her siblings.

Bridget grinned. Dorothy bit her lip, failing to hide her worry. Elias opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words emerged.

“I feel as though you would,” His Grace said. “I imagine that you are already planning on how you might manage the estate, how many gowns you will purchase, and how you will destroy my wealth and name.”

“Oh? Are you a psychic?” Catherine asked. “A prophet?”

“One does not need either to understand the whims of a woman who is soon to be wed,” His Grace replied.

“As you have doubtlessly noticed, I am unlike most women,” Catherine countered. “How do you know that I shall want the same things as the others? Perhaps, I have in mind a different design.”

He considered her for a long moment, and Catherine fought the urge to squirm in her seat beneath his intense stare. Only he had ever gazed at her that way, as though he saw all the way to the innermost depths of her soul and found a challenge there. He looked as though he anticipated a challenge, welcomed one even.

“I doubt you can surprise me,” His Grace said dismissively, “though you will obviously try. Stubborn women always do.”

“It is fortunate that I am not a stubborn woman,” Catherine replied, smiling brightly.

Elias snorted. “ Cat .”

“What?” Catherine asked. “I am not!”

“You are the very picture of stubbornness,” he said.

“There is a kinder way to say it,” Dorothy said. “Resolute, perhaps.”

“Mulish,” added Bridget. “Contrary.”

“Those are significantly less kind!” Catherine exclaimed. “Bridget, how could you say such inconsiderate things about your own sister? I fear that you have cause incomparable harm to our family with your harsh words. His Grace will not wish to marry me, knowing that he is to have such a cold sister.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” the Duke of Sarsen replied. “On the contrary, I think His Grace continues to insist on marrying.”

“Perhaps you are a man who makes poor choices,” Catherine said, shaking her head. “Alas!”

His Grace ate a piece of mutton, his eyes fixed upon Catherine’s face as though she was someone that he needed to watch very carefully. Or maybe something , like she was a deer, and he was a particularly hungry wolf.

“I am not a man who makes poor choices,” he replied. “My every move is carefully calculated.”

What calculations had he made in asking her to be his bride? Catherine’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her initial thought was that he had made none, but she recalled suddenly their rendezvous in the corridor outside Dorothy’s room, where he had suggested that she offer herself in her sister’s place. Perhaps she had become part of his design, although Catherine could not fathom why any man might choose her over Dorothy.

“I do not know if I believe you,” Catherine replied. “Maybe you are merely a man who wishes to present himself as strategic when you are not, for I can imagine no man who would wish to be perceived as foolish.”

His Grace’s jaw clenched, and a surge of satisfaction went through Catherine at having successfully vexed him. She was forced to concede that his stormy nature was a little amusing. Catherine had a penchant for saying things which upset men on occasion; that was true. She had never seen one react quite like this, however, and she found that she liked it.

“I suppose not, but I find that fools reveal themselves quite readily,” the duke said. “By their nature, they are unable to conceal their folly.”

“A good point,” Elias interrupted, as though reminding them that there were other people present at the table.

Catherine smiled sharply at her brother. “I disagree.”

“Do you?” he asked.

Dorothy looked at Catherine with an expression that might have been faint concern, while Bridget’s eyes gleamed with that sort of dreamy expression that she often had when thinking of something romantic.

“Indeed. I can think of many foolish men, who others believe to be clever,” Catherine replied. “Therefore, your initial assumption is incorrect, Your Grace. Foolish men do not always reveal themselves.”

“Foolish men reveal themselves readily enough to reasonable men,” His Grace countered. “The men you speak of have found even more foolish men.”

“I wonder what that says about parliament, then,” Catherine mused.

The Duke of Sarsen snorted. “Plenty, I assure you.”

“Indeed,” Elias agreed.

“You seem to be in good humor, Your Grace,” Dorothy said, her eyes fixing on Catherine’s face.

“Why should I not be?” he asked. “I am soon to have a wife.”

“We shall see,” Catherine teased. “If Mr. Davies disagrees, you may soon find that you are forced to court me like a proper gentleman.”

From the gleam in his piercing, green eyes, Catherine suspected that His Grace was more likely to throw her over his shoulder and storm away with her as his captive bride than he was to court her.

Admittedly, the image of his hulking form and stern expression softening in the expected ritual of courting and simpering was immensely amusing. Catherine’s lips twitched into a small smile.

No, she could not imagine this man courting anyone. Maybe that was why he was willing to accept her. No other woman would have him. Still, it was thrilling to be chosen—the improper lord and the improper lady. What a pair they would make! The more Catherine thought about it, the more she began to think that being the Duchess of Sarsen might just be a well-deserved fate.