Page 15 of Most Unusual Duke

“Wolves!” Morag exclaimed. “I am a moorhen, ma’am.” She puffed out her impressive chest.

Mrs. Porter proved to be a cow and the maids, mice.

“This is unexpected.” Beatrice took in the open faces before her. “All in Adolphus Place were wolves, from the marquess to the boot boy.”

“That is a very old-fashioned way of going about things,” Mr. Conlon said. “As the years have passed, many the like of us turtles and hens and pigs and mice have pledged our loyalty to a mightier species, and we are the safer for it.”

What then was the duke that he should reign as Alpha? She would not reveal her ignorance of his creature.

How embarrassing he had not deigned to tell her.

How frightening he may be more dangerous than a wolf.

Morag snorted, an unlikely sound to emit from a hen. “We’ll see to your education, ma’am, as it appears your husband has not. Not a surprise as he is loath to do what’s expected of him.”

“Morag, I do appreciate a dash of salt, but only when doled out with respect.” The hen was testing to see how far she may push; Beatrice determined it was exactly this far. “I do hope my meaning is clear.”

Against the odds, the housekeeper looked pleased to be put in her place. “Fair enough, ma’am, fair enough.”

“Now.” Beatrice accepted a serving of fresh biscuits frosted with lemony icing. “Have I anywhere to sleep this night?”

***

Some time later, Arthur found the kitchen empty, the remains of a plate of lemony biscuits among the detritus of tea things. Shameless, he licked a finger to clean up the crumbs. Hustle and bustle down the hall led him to what had once been the stillroom.

It was a hive of activity. Two royal postillions, unaccustomed to work inside the house, struggled with a table that Arthur could carry with one hand. Another followed with an upholstered chair, yet another with a jug and bowl. Todd brought up the rear carrying a small case.

“What goes on, Todd?” he demanded as the footmen swept past in a tottering phalanx.

“We are appointing the temporary ducal suite, Your Grace.” The fox preceded him over the threshold.

He could say with confidence he had never set foot in this room as a child. It had been Ben’s domain, and his brother considered Arthur little better than a bull in a china shop and banned him from the place. A wall of all-but-empty glass-fronted cases ranged down one side of the room, and a large hearth took up the other. It was not spacious and was rapidly becoming less so as another pair of royal footmen muscled in a variety of trunks. Conlon struggled to set a dressing screen in place, refusing the aid of the hovering Todd, while Morag shoved a table next to the hearth crossways and appeared satisfied with its placement.

“What is all this?” Arthur demanded. As if he didn’t know.

“What is required in a sleeping chamber, Duke,” Madam said. “It is the largest room and the only one unused for habitation. Thanks to the unflagging industry of your staff, it is clean and ready for our installment but for the—ah, thank you, over here, if you will.” Madam directed the placement of the bed near to the window.

The bed.

There was only one bed.

***

The duke had taken one look at the room, at the bed, and fled.

Morag had snarled, while Mr. Conlon made excuses for His Grace’s essential self likely needing release.

Morag mumbled something off-color, and Beatrice directed the rest of the room’s arrangement to her liking until she was left alone to assess her surroundings. The chair set by the window looked as well as she’d envisioned. A footman had wrestled the sash open at her direction; how pleasant to have a footman at her direction. How thrilling to have a say in where the overstuffed Chesterfield library chair would be put, a mismatched ottoman for her feet. She chose to be gratified she was left alone and not required to bed down with a stranger, no matter he was her husband now.

A nightingale warbled, perched on the lowest branch of a nearby tree. She had not heard a night bird’s song in years. Had Castleton’s presence frightened the natural wildlife? Would Osborn’s clear the lands of smaller creatures? Or what if…

“I don’t suppose that is you, Duke?” Imagine such a large male becoming such a small thing. And that a miscellany of creatures should follow the lead of a songbird. “Forgive me, I know I am not meant to ask. Would you whisper a word in the ear of His Grace and tell him that not knowing the species of his creature is worse than knowing?”

She pulled the collar of her dressing gown tight around her throat and curled her legs beneath her. “Shall I tell you how I came to be in possession of this dreadful secret? It was a scene taken from the pages of a novel by Mrs. Anchoretta Asquith. A young bride, an isolated, moldering keep, the night of a full moon.”

The bird chirped and flew to settle on the sill. A stirring in the underbrush near her window put her on guard. Perhaps His Grace was eavesdropping. What use his hearing this story was she did not know, but: “I had not received a marital visitation for the third night in a row. Not that I sought it out, not that I wanted that husband, but how I longed for a child. I was so timid, little bird, so innocent when I tapped upon his door. I heard him mumbling wildly, and if only I had turned away… I opened the door at the precise moment that he gave over his humanity to the creature. He was a man, a titled man, a marquess, and then he was…a wolf, a slavering, snarling wolf. He leaped for me, but his valet stopped him, his valet who was also a wolf.”

She did not remember shutting the door, only the sound of two animal bodies throwing themselves against it, one to keep it shut, one to pursue her. She was so shocked she didn’t even run but exited through the connecting room as cautiously as she had entered it and locked her bedchamber door behind her. She had the foresight to lock the one that gave onto the hall and shut her windows; she got under the covers and stared at the ceiling as she began to shake, uncontrollably, until dawn.

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