Page 22 of Tamed By her Duke

--and she stopped wondering.

She stepped back. Then again. She saw that flicker of surprise on his expression, again there and gone.

“I understand,” she said, answering the question he’d long since asked. “I appreciate the clarification. I suppose I shall see you in two weeks.”

She left, knowing that walking away was the only way she’d ever get the final word. At least she had enough freedom, this time around, to do that.

The scream woke Caleb. Leonard, he thought, half frantic, before he remembered no, of course it wasn’t Leonard. It was Grace. The scream cut off as quickly as it started, almost as if his wife, on the other side of the door that connected the duke and duchess’ chambers, had clapped a hand over her mouth.

Probably thought she saw a mouse—or a ghost,he told himself, urging himself to roll over and go back to sleep. She might be bonny, his little English wife, and she might have more spine than he’d initially given her credit for. But that didn’t mean that it was any of his business when she got to jumping at shadows. He didn’t want it to be his business—as he’d told her very explicitly that evening.

But even as he told himself this, even as he said he would regret losing his first good night’s sleep back in his own bed, somethingpricked at the back of his mind. Something that said this wasn’t right.

Caleb had learned that ignoring that voice was a mistake.

So even as he cursed Grace, women, and the entire country of England, he dragged himself out of bed, threw on a dressing gown so he didn’t freeze important bits off, and crossed the freezing flagstones of his bedchamber. He cursed his English wife for that, too. He wasn’t sure how it was her fault that he’d become such a weak-willed sot that he complained of cold feet whileindoorsin thespring, but he’d figure it out when it wasn’t the bloody middle of the night.

If he opened the connecting door between their rooms, he’d likely scare her half to death—and he didn’t want to trigger more screaming, not if he ever wanted to get asleep again.

So—again, cursing himself for his tender heart—he went to seek her via the corridor. He’d evenknock,that’s how bloody civilized he was.

Except…her door was already open.

“Christ and all the martyrs, Grace,” he muttered. Where in the nine hells had she gone?

He should go back to bed. He shouldreallyjust go back to bed. He’d learned many things during his time in the army, but one of them was the value of following through on his word, especiallywhen it wasn’t what a junior officer wanted to hear. If he wanted to be taken seriously, his actions needed to follow his words.

Grace, though, was no soldier. And he still had that feeling.

“Should have never married the chit,” he grumbled as he moved through the dark hallways. “Should have told the bleeding English with their bleeding concerns about lineage to go straight to hell. Married a bonny Scots girl.”

Things would have been easier if he’d done that, he thought with longing. Or if he’d just give it all up and died without an heir—that would have shown his father, eh? The successor to the title was currently an eight-year-old who had grown up in Italy with his diplomat father.Thatwould set the late duke to spinning in his grave.

He grumbled all the way through the upstairs corridor. By the time he headed downstairs, his heart was racing in his chest.

Worry. That was this feeling. He resented her for making him feel it. One day. It had taken her onedayto do something hairbrained enough to throw his calm, simple life into chaos. One goddamned, pox-ridden, thrice blightedday.

When he found her, he told himself, he was going to give her a piece of his mind. He’d give her the kind of lecture that made her ancestors cringe, ten generations back. At least.

The words died in his throat when he saw her, sitting cross legged on the floor in her nightgown, in the long, nearly empty portrait gallery. She wasn’t wearing the half-sheer thing she’d had on when she’d shown up at his door the night prior. Instead, the simple cotton gown covered her completely, though he knew the thin fabric wouldn’t be enough to keep her warm in this old, stone building. She showed no sign of the temperature bothering her, however. She was staring with a sort of detached curiosity at one of the few ancestors still hanging in place—someone so many generations back that Caleb couldn’t even recall the man’s name.

“What are you doing, lass?” he asked.

It was like he’d jabbed her with a pole. Though she’d been sitting levelly, she toppled, letting out a squeak of surprise that was—Caleb was simply furious to admit it—adorable.

And, that voice deep inside him whispered, it was a very different sound than the one that had woken him. If he’d startled her and she reacted like this, what had made her scream likethat?

She distracted him from this train of thought by puffing up like an outraged little bird, trying to fluff its feathers to seem bigger than it was.

Her dark braid slithered over her shoulder, thick as a rope, as she propped herself up to look back at him, her expression indignant.

“Don’tsneak up on me!” she said, pressing a hand against her chest. “Good Lord, don’t you think this place is unsettling enough without you creeping up on people in the dark?”

It was too absurd, frankly.

“Did ye never consider,” he asked conversationally, “that I couldnae sneak up on ye if ye weren’t creepin’ around the dark yerself?”

She scowled at him. “You said I could do whatever I wanted,” she retorted. “As long as I didn’t bother you. Well, I was just sitting here not bothering you. Therefore, I am well within my rights. Goodnight.”

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