Page 36 of Tamed By her Duke

Caleb had been amused when the local baronet and his increasing wife had been alarmed by his sudden appearance, though that amusement had largely arisen from Grace’s pinched-face fury. He had been beside himself—more entertained than he’d been in years—when he’d needled her to the point of throwing that pillow at him.

This, though, felt less entertaining. He wasn’t insulted, of course—what did he care if an elderly farmer didn’t like him? But it did not tempt him to laugh, not in the slightest.

He gave the man a nod. “Of course. Please, go on.”

The man nodded, though not in a way that suggested that this was because Caleb had successfully put him at ease—instead, it seemed more that he was too terrified to do anything other than obey. As he gave his report to Nicholas, his voice, thick with the local accent, positively quavered, and he kept shooting anxious glances in Caleb’s direction.

“I don’t mean to criticize your methods,” Nicholas said as they rode away, even though this was precisely what he did nearly every time he saw Caleb. “But might you consider glowering a bit less at the next place? That took me twice as long as usual.”

Foolishly, Caleb thought of his wife asking him to blaspheme “a bit less” so as not to bother the maids. Why did everyone seem suddenly so insistent on whether or not he was likeable?

“Fine,” he said flatly.

It didn’t really work. At the next field, the farmer was just as terrified, just as obsequious. Nicholas was beginning to look irritated, like he regretting demanding Caleb come along, which Caleb might have enjoyed, if he wasn’t noticing how many things were amiss on his lands…things he should have already known about.

He thought about Grace accusing him ofneglecting his duties as a duke. He thought about his foolish promise that he would investigate matters with his tenants.

Well, he was looking. And there were problems. More than there should have been.

When they finally rode back to the house (after stopping at the brewery where, mercifully, the young man running things didn’t recognize Caleb—which was, Caleb supposed its own indictment), he glared at Nicholas.

“Why did ye nae tell me how bad things were?” he demanded.

It was unfair, and he knew it, and because Nicholas was Nicholas, he didn’t let it go unsaid.

“I assume,” he said in his dryest tone, “that this is some witty ducal quip that I, a mere younger son, am not sufficiently elevated to understand. Because if it was not, I might remind you that Ihavetold you how bad things were, many times, for many years. You have ignored me so you can ride around and whack people with swords.”

They hadn’t usedswordsas a primary weapon in the British army for several centuries, as far as Caleb knew, but as Nicholas’ overall point was fair, he decided to let this detail go.

“If you had read my letters,Your Grace,you would know I’ve been applying to you for funds for various things for ages.”

“Well, ye’ve my approval now. We’ve the funds. Do whatever it takes. Get it all done—as quickly as can be done.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas said primly.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Without his solicitor’s chatter to fill his ears, Caleb found himself dwelling on a most frustrating topic—what would his wife think, when she learned that he’d fixed all the problems she’d wanted handled? And how might she see fit to thank him?

Grace was getting good at reading a book with one hand and eating with another. She was even starting to not entirely hate the idea of eating alone, meal after meal, day after day. She was just getting to a good part, in which the somewhat witless heroine was starting to realize that perhaps not all was well in the spooky old manor house full of odd characters (Grace made a mental note to recommend this book to Diana; she’d no doubt adore the melodramatics), when her husband entered the room, sank into his chair, filled his plate, and began eating as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

All without saying a word.

She resisted the urge to stare at him though—really? Honestly? He was just going to sit here, like it was normal, like he had been doing so all along?

And he was going to do itwithout even mentioning it?

Caleb glanced up at her and arched a brow. Grace busied herself with her plate, though she cast her book aside. Her husband might be a strong competitor for the single most irksome person Grace had ever met in her life—and shehad been kidnapped—but it simply felt too rude to read while he sat with her at the table.

She fiddled with her fork. It was a bit boring to just sit and eat without even the barest attempt at conversation. But she wasn’t going to be the one to break the silence.

No. Certainly not. She would not break. Not a chance.

“It’s a week today,” she blurted.

Drat!

With deliberate slowness, her husband set down his fork. Then, with similarly careful movements, he smirked at her.

As he did so, Grace discovered that she had a very serious problem: it was much harder to get annoyed at him for smirking now that she knew what he looked like when he smiled.

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