Page 8 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“No, this one…well…” Grace’s eyes flicked up in exasperation. How was it her life had come to this? “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”

“A painting.”

She nodded.

“From the gallery.”

She nodded again.

“I don’t suppose she’s asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”

“With the bowls of fruit?”

He nodded.

“No.” When he did not comment, she added, “She wants the portrait of your uncle.”

“Which one?”

“John.”

He nodded, smiling slightly, but without any humor. “He was always her favorite.”

“But you never knew him,” Grace said, because the way he’d said it—it almost sounded as if he’d witnessed her favoritism.

“No, of course not. He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”

It was clear from his expression that he did not wish to discuss the matter further. Grace could not think of anything more to say, however, so she just stood there, waiting for him to collect his thoughts.

Which apparently he did, because he turned to her and asked, “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”

Grace pictured herself wrestling it from the wall. “I’m afraid so.”

For a moment it looked as if he might turn toward the gallery, but then his jaw squared and he was once again every inch the forbidding duke. “No,” he said firmly. “You will not get that for her this evening. If she wants the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”

Grace wanted to smile at his protectiveness, but by this point she was far too weary. And besides that, when it came to the dowager, she had long since learned to follow the road of least resistance. “I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” he said imperiously, and without waiting, he turned and marched up the stairs. Grace watched him for a moment, and then, with a shrug, headed off to the gallery. It couldn’t be that difficult to take a painting off a wall, could it?

But she made it only ten paces before she heard Thomas bark her name.

She sighed, stopping in her tracks. She should have known better. The man was as stubborn as his grandmother, not that he would appreciate the comparison.

She turned and retraced her steps, hurrying along when she heard him call out for her again. “I’m right here,” she said irritably. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were going to get the painting by yourself.”

“If I don’t, she will ring for me all night, and then I will never get any sleep.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”

“Watch you what?” she asked, baffled.

“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed determination.

“Dismantle her…Thomas!” She ran up behind him, but of course could not keep up. “Thomas, you can’t!”

He turned. Grinned even, which she found somewhat alarming. “It’s my house,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”

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