Tamed by her Duke (Seductive Mysteries #4)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

K illing a peer was a hanging offense, even for a duke’s daughter—or, goodness, she was a duchess in her own right now, wasn’t she? Being a woman might save her from a public execution—decorum and all that—but her rank wouldn’t spare her neck. The late Duke of Hawkins was evidence aplenty of that.

This was the main reason Grace did not murder her husband after his numerous sins—and only a day and a half into their marriage! Sending her away the night prior had been the greatest, of course, but the bit about their not being headed to Scotland had cut like a knife. They were headed north.

North.

And then he’d had the nerve to ask where she’d been in the north. She had been, of course, unable to answer him. The Packards had not mentioned their locality in between snapping orders for Grace to scrub this or scour that, and Grace had been so distracted by her sudden reversal in fortunes that she’d not paid attention during the journey home with Evan and Frances.

Naturally her rude, taciturn, awful Scottish husband had used this as a reason to assume she was some sheltered, missish piece of fluff who was terrified of anything outside of Mayfair’s borders.

Grace was sufficiently offended by this that it took her a few minutes to realize what this meant.

Her husband didn’t know her past—the kidnapping, the presumed death, none of it.

She wasn’t sure what this meant for the dynamic between them, but it felt like power.

Which made her feel that it wasn’t a loss when she was first to break the silence.

“So, Northumberland.”

“Northumberland,” he agreed unhelpfully.

“But you are Scottish.”

This time he just grunted. It took Grace considerable effort not to kick him. Judging by his size, however, she’d just end up hurting her toes and he wouldn’t even notice.

“Are you really this obtuse or are you just being purposefully difficult?” she demanded.

To her unending irritation, this comment did not seem to bother him.

“The latter,” he said.

Grace mentally recited all the foul oaths she’d overheard while trapped with the Packards—which was a lot.

“What I meant to say is,” she said with deliberate sweetness, for damn his eyes, this man would not break her, “how did it come to be that you, a Scot, became heir to an English title.”

“English father,” he said with no variation in his tone.

She frowned. “But that would make you En?—”

“No,” he interrupted. “It wouldn’t.”

Well, well. That was clearly a sensitive topic—which made it another weapon in Grace’s arsenal, not that she yet knew how to best use it. To keep him on the back foot—a term she’d overheard her brother once use about boxing and which she felt reasonably certain she was deploying correctly—she switched topics.

“Tell me about Montgomery Estate,” she commanded.

A misstep. She knew that even before he spoke, for a flash of glee—or whatever passed for glee among stodgy, rude Scots—flickered through her husband’s eyes.

“See for yourself,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the window in a gesture more suitable to a fishmonger than a duke. “We’re here.”

Grace couldn’t even be annoyed at herself for the conversational opening she’d given him, because at his gesture, she turned and looked.

“That’s a castle ,” she said, voice hushed with shock.

“It’s bloody old, if that’s what you mean,” her husband commented in the voice of a man determined to be unimpressed.

“It’s not and you know it.” Grace didn’t even care. Let him be ironic and unflappable.

This was a castle .

And she was going to live in it .

Oh, yes, Grace knew the impracticalities of ancient stone keeps like this one. They were impossible to keep warm—an issue that would strike twice as hard this far north, certainly—and for each century they’d stood, they offered another problem or five that was in perpetual need of fixing. Many families, even ancient ones, were left with no choice but to let the buildings crumble around their ears, given the incalculable expense of maintaining them. Grace supposed that could have been why the duke had married her, his crude comments about seeking a broodmare aside. Her dowry, substantial as it was, could fund a great number of improvements around a place like this.

She dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, however. Though the building was rough around the edges, Grace could see even from a distance that there had been effort put in to modernize it. The low stone wall that surrounded the larger property, for example, looked new and in good condition. A large stable yard was midway through being constructed—which would be a foolish way to apply funds if there were other parts of the building in desperate need.

Grace might have already formed several opinions about her husband thus far, and few of them flattering. Even so, nothing had told her that he was a fool.

Which meant, of course, that she had to be careful. She guarded her expression, not eager to show how much she was impressed by the massive square stone keep, nor the windmill whose blades floated lazily in the sea breeze.

Nor, she told herself, was she impressed by the sight of the North Sea, its powerful, dreary gray waves pounding against a slice of shoreline.

She might have stared at it a bit, though. Just a bit. She was, after all, only human.

“You must spend a fortune in firewood,” was all she said.

“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 even more disapproving 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. She wouldn’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— slightly less 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 much did 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.

It was why, after all, Mrs. Packard had never assigned Grace cooking duty. Grace would have poisoned her captors in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.

“Well,” she said decisively. “I’m so glad you all came out to greet me—and the duke, of course.” She let that hang. Mrs. Bradley, at least, heard the censure in the words. At a ducal house, for the arrival of a new duchess, the entire staff would normally have been present, not just three members of senior staff. Adding her husband to the end of her statement merely indicated that he, too, was complicit in this lapse of decorum.

Not that he seemed to care, of course. For, as soon as she was finished saying, “Now, shall we head inside? It’s been quite a long journey,” he swept past her, again failing to offer his arm.

Instead, he waited until he was all the way up the steps before looking back at her.

“By the by,” he said, “I might warn ye that there are two other dogs inside. Daenae let Shona and Sorcha scare ye to death. As I said, it’d be mighty inconvenient to have ye dead on yer very first day.”