Tamed by her Duke (Seductive Mysteries #4)

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

C aleb was no stranger to hate. It was, in part, his birthright, was written into his blood and bones, had been inherited right along with his title, lands, and name.

So he felt confident in the emotion when he decided he hated Grace’s family.

“These so-called ‘reformers’ are little more than radicals, agitating for the mere sport of the thing,” the Duke of Graham pontificated over dinner. “The government should take decisive action and quelch the rabble once and for all. They think they can lead? Preposterous. There is a reason we have the House of Lords to head us up. Blood will out.”

Caleb, whose maternal birthright, by contrast, was an inborn Scottish distrust of anything the English government thought up, let alone when that had to do with ‘quelching the rabble,’ wanted very much to throw something. He resisted. Barely.

Grace, seated across from him, had a distant look in her eye, like she was mentally far, far away from here. The practiced nature of this look suggested that the duke was prone to such dinnertime diatribes.

The Duchess of Graham, meanwhile, gazed up at her husband with meek, trained devotion. She would periodically murmur something that was clearly agreement, though the sounds never fully manifested as words. Caleb got the impression that the woman felt that words—even of approbation—would be considered an unforgivable interruption.

“We do also have the House of Commons,” Oackley, Grace’s brother, added dryly. “You can hardly blame the commons, so to speak, to therefore agitate for ‘one man, one vote.’”

Caleb decided that maybe he didn’t hate the brother. Grace clearly adored him, after all; she’d embraced him with joy when they’d reunited earlier in the day.

And Caleb didn’t have any true reason for despising the man…except that when he’d greeted Grace, he’d said “welcome home.”

As if Grace’s home was London. And not Montgomery Estate. With him.

It was the disrespect that bothered him, he told himself. Oackley might be Grace’s brother, but Caleb was her husband. Her home was with him—and the other man would do well to remember it.

Caleb was generous enough to admit that he admired the way the marquess didn’t back down in the face of his father’s blustering, however.

The Duke of Graham looked at his son coldly.

“Radicals,” he said, spitting the word like an oath, “are a scourge on order. Or perhaps you’d like to see heads rolling in the streets, like in France? I’d have thought you preferred your wife’s neck intact, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

Caleb, who had fought the French on too many blood-soaked battlefields to have any love lost for their continental neighbors, felt this went a bit far.

Evan felt it went extremely far. He surged to his feet. “Now, see here?—”

But his father was already extending a hand of apology, a conciliatory smile that held a hint of smugness on his face.

“I apologize; I apologize. I see how that comment went too far. I am merely a passionate defender of my nation’s sanctity, you see. I lost my temper.”

Caleb was fairly certain that the duke had planned this attack with precision—with the aim of getting his son to lose his temper, which the duke seemed to treat as some sort of victory. From the way Evan’s eyes narrowed, he felt the same.

But, British civility being what it was, he could do little in the face of an apology. He sank slowly back into his seat.

“Mind that you do not lose your temper as pertains to my wife,” he said coldly. “Or else you shall find that mere apology does not suffice.”

Lady Oackley’s cheeks blazed as her husband sat—though whether this was because she disliked being the center of attention or because she, too, was furious, Caleb could not tell.

“Naturally,” the duke said smoothly. “Shall we talk of more pleasant things?”

“Oh yes, let’s,” the duchess said, acting as though she had merely been waiting for her husband to give her something to agree with and was now simply delighted to have fulfilled her duty. “How has business been, dear?”

The duke looked down at his wife the way one might look at a sweet, if somewhat irritating child.

“It is not really the matter of ladies, of course,” said the duke, an air of weary tolerance coloring his voice. His wife went crimson to her hair, and Caleb didn’t think he imagined the flicker of satisfaction on the man’s expression before he spoke again. “But we have seen so little of Evan of late—” His eyes darted ever so briefly to Frances who also blushed. “—that perhaps we ought to acquaint him with the workings of the dukedom in the scant time he can spare us in his busy schedule.”

Caleb had known men like this, men who got twisted satisfaction out of embarrassing others. There had been plenty of officers in the army, particularly those who felt a bought commission made them better than enlisted men, who behaved like this.

But, more than anything else, the duke reminded Caleb of his own father.

The man was a bully, one who was taking advantage of rules of civility that others didn’t dare transgress. Caleb wanted to object, but he knew how it would go; suddenly Caleb would be the one in the wrong, accused of the crime of disrupting the so-called genial atmosphere of this family dinner.

And because Caleb was not a man who wished to bring shame upon those who did not deserve it—because he did not want to hurt Grace—he was not prepared to make that move, take that risk.

The duke knew it, so he made his little insinuations with impunity, trusting his power and his position—and his cleverness with words, yes—to protect him from criticism.

He was good, Caleb admitted. Caleb’s father had been clumsier at this game than the Duke of Graham.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t the same game.

Evan knew it, too, from the way his shoulders looked so stiff that they might shatter. Yes, Caleb’s brother-by-marriage was all right, he decided. He would probably forgive him for calling London Grace’s home.

Eventually.

“Let’s not discuss business,” the Marquess of Oackley said through gritted teeth. “We’re here to enjoy Grace’s return—and to welcome Montgomery into the family.”

From the way Oackley darted a glance at Caleb, one that suggested that this welcome was coming a bit late, was also a criticism, but one that didn’t feel as though it was intended to prick Caleb in a way beyond what was friendly.

It was almost…brotherly, that look. Caleb struggled not to let his breath catch. He hadn’t felt that kind of connection in a long, long time.

Caleb might have appreciated the sidelong glance, but it was clear that Graham did not appreciate the idea that anyone beside himself might be in control of this dinner.

The duke’s voice grew noticeably frosty.

“No, no,” he said, steely and straight-backed. “Since you have seen fit to grace us with your presence, for once, we might as well make good use of the time.”

At his side, the duchess looked like she was prepared to shrink in on herself, as if she was melting from the force of her husband’s displeasure.

Grace looked annoyed in a bored sort of way, as if she’d expected the evening to go precisely this way. Somehow this was the part that Caleb hated the most—the idea that this casual, everyday cruelty was, indeed, part of everyday life in Graham House.

“Very well,” Evan said tersely. His arm moved slightly, and Caleb thought he was gripping his wife’s hand under the table. The flush faded from Frances’ cheeks.

Graham settled back into his seat, smug in his victory.

“Well,” he said, magnanimous now that he’d won. “Things have been rather slower this year than I might have liked. Why, I’ve been compelled to sell of property, of all things.”

Evan’s expression betrayed a quick flicker of surprise, though he looked suspicious. Caleb felt similarly on edge. He did not think Graham the kind of man to admit to any failure, no matter how minor, unless it set him up for some greater position of success.

“Are we offloading the country seat onto some wealthy Americans?” Evan asked, a hint of edge in his tone. “I’ve heard that’s all the rage these days for aristocrats who find they’ve spent beyond their means.”

It was an arrow aimed at Graham’s pride. Caleb watched with satisfaction as it landed. Graham’s composure even flickered.

“That is not ,” he hissed while his wife shrunk back even further into her seat, “why I am forced to sell the property in the north, Evan. If you must know—” The duke’s eye gleamed with vindictiveness and Caleb realized that this was why he’d admitted to slow business, this poison barb he was loading as they all watched. “—it is because your sister was so reckless with her reputation that I have suffered such losses. So if you wonder why your inheritance is diminished, I encourage you to ask her .”

Later, Caleb would be able to think logically through why this claim was absurd. Grace hadn’t kissed someone she oughtn’t or gotten too drunk at a Society event. She’d been abducted, for Christ’s sake. And if the fucking ton then turned around and blamed her for it, as if she should have managed to secure a suitable chaperone while she’d been dragged away from her life and family by a vile criminal, then Caleb felt the entire lot of them could go to hell.

This, however, came later. At the moment, at that dinner, all he registered was that his wife’s cheeks pinkened at the accusation.

And Caleb’s world went red.

It was only years of military precision that kept him steady as he rose to his feet, kept his movements controlled. Lunging at his father by marriage would do him no good, no matter how much Caleb found the man to be an utter arse.

Besides, he thought with grim satisfaction, controlled violence so often seemed the more effective threat, when one confronted a bully.

Indeed, he thought he saw a flicker of alarm in the duke’s eyes as he drew himself up to his full height, even if Graham did quickly cover it up with his usual superciliousness.

“I will not,” he said, tone like ice, “stand here and allow ye to speak poorly of my wife —” He paused to let the reminder that Grace was his, now, not Graham’s, to oversee and safeguard and protect. “—and I find myself twice as disinclined to do so when ye foolishly attempt to blame her for something that ye and I both know is nae her fault in the least.”

“I beg your?—”

Caleb cut the other man off.

“Nae, I’ll not be repeating myself. Ye heard me perfectly well. And if I hear ye ever again breathe so much as a word that implies that my wife was responsible for the mistreatment that she suffered—if ye so much as indicate that she should be criticized because yon nattering hens of the ton cannot keep their tongues from wagging over things that don’t concern them—I will consider it a personal affront and will respond accordingly.”

The duke was like any other bully; he only wanted to scrap with those less powerful than him. Caleb was not that. Caleb was physically bigger, was stronger. He’d killed on battlefields. He’d survived a childhood that had felt more like hell than anything he’d seen at Waterloo.

And he, too, was a duke in his own right. The Duke of Graham had nothing to hold over him, nothing at all.

The man thus took the sole tactic remaining to him, the one beloved by lily-livered English milksops everywhere: he feigned outrage.

Or, Caleb allowed, maybe he was actually outraged. Caleb didn’t actually give a damn either way.

“I will not ,” Graham hissed in low, furious tones, “be threatened in my own home. I absolutely will not stand for such behavior.”

Caleb’s next lines were obvious. He was meant to apologize, to bow and scrape. Blame his actions on his Scottish ancestry, perhaps—didn’t all good Englishmen know that Scots were naught by brutes, driven by their tempers and their appetites?

Caleb, however, was a soldier, not an actor. He chose not to follow the script.

Instead, he shrugged.

“That’s fine, then. Grace, let’s go.”

He extended his hand to his wife.

This was the one moment when Caleb did not feel calm and in control. He didn’t know what he would do if Grace refused him, if she chose to stay at this awful dinner instead of going with him.

But she didn’t even hesitate. She stood, pausing only to dab politely at her mouth with her napkin, then crossed to him, head held high. When she slipped her fingers in his, he felt as though he could fight any foe.

Graham could not have looked more shocked if Caleb and Grace had sprouted second heads and started singing in Portuguese. Evan, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted.

“Do you know what, brother?” he said, and Caleb only felt the slightest pang at the term. “I think that’s a fine idea. Frances, let’s go.”

The redhead’s eyes were as wide as saucers, but she, too, quickly stood and took her husband’s hand in hers.

“Good evening,” Caleb said tightly to the gaping duke and the shrinking duchess.

And then he, his wife, her brother, and her friend, marched right out the front door of Graham House.

They did not, alas, go any further than directly out the front door. Leaving a dinner party hours earlier than might otherwise have been expected meant, of course, that the horses were not hitched and their carriages were not ready. The Duke and Duchess of Montgomery and the Marquess and Marchioness of Oackley, therefore, were obliged to stand patiently on the London sidewalk while servants hurried to prepare their vehicles.

They had only done so for about half a minute before Lady Oackley began to giggle. She tried to stifle the sound with her hand, but it was no use, especially not when, seeing her friend’s mirth, Grace joined in. Even Evan was biting his lip to hold in a smile.

“Oh my goodness,” Lady Oackley gasped, her head bent toward Grace’s conspiratorially. “Did you see his face?”

“Christ, it was magnificent,” Oackley agreed.

Caleb did not necessarily wish to limit their ebullience—he knew the relieved laughter of someone who had made a narrow escape—but he could not share it. He was still burning with anger. This bothered him. It wasn’t just that the duke was a bully, either, it was?—

A tug on his arm distracted him from his thoughts.

Grace was looking up at him, stars in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, voice quiet, “for standing up for me.”

The soft gratitude there broke his heart, just a little. Grace was a marvel; she shouldn’t need defending, because nobody should ever cast so much as an unflattering look in her direction. But the world was full of idiots and derelicts, alas. If Grace needed protecting from the world, he would be the one standing there to do it. Perhaps his shoulders were so broad for a reason, after all. Maybe it wasn’t just that he was a brute. Maybe it was so he could serve as her shield, no matter what came.

He felt his gaze soften as he looked down at her.

“Aye, leannan,” he said. “Always.”