Dusk With a Dangerous Duke by Alexandra Hawkins

and he will see you home.”
    Lady Netherley seemed reluctant to leave her in the duke’s care. She also appeared to be sorely vexed at the man she thought of as a son. “Hunter.”
    “I think you have done enough this evening, Lady Netherley,” he said coldly.
    At the elderly woman’s gasp, the duke scowled at Grace—as if she were responsible for his harsh outburst—then shoved his hand through his hair. “Forgive me, Lady Netherley. It is not my intention to lash you with my temper. Go home. You have known me for most of my life. No harm will come to Grace. You have my word on it.”
    Grace was not convinced, but his words appeared to mollify Lady Netherley.
    “Very well.” She sighed. “However, I expect to see you tomorrow afternoon in my drawing room. I wish to discuss your recent actions and propensity to be—oh, what is the phrase my son has often used of late—yes, a boorish arse.”
    To her amazement, the duke winced and gave the marchioness an apologetic look. “I will be happy to call on you, my lady.”
    “See that you do,” Lady Netherley said crisply. “Grace, I will leave you my walking stick, if you require it.”
    “I do not believe that will be necessary, my lady.” If she needed to defend her virtue, there was enough marble and pottery on hand to crack a man’s skull.
    Guessing the lady’s thoughts, the Duke of Huntsley’s gaze narrowed.
    “Good evening, then.” Lady Netherley took her leave.
    Rosemary glared at the duke’s back. “I have polishing to do just beyond the door. If you need anything, my lady, just call out my name.”
    “Thank you, Rosemary.”
    Huntsley glanced at the doors after Rosemary shut them. “She polishes silver in the middle of the night?”
    Grace shrugged. “I suppose it’s as plausible as you desiring a congenial conversation after you bullied your way into my residence.”
    He jammed his fists into his hips and stared down at her. “Nineteen years have passed, and my opinion hasn’t changed. You were put on this earth to torment me, Lady Grace Kearley.”
    *   *   *
    Grace might have been sitting, but she did not have a submissive bone in her slender body. Dry-eyed, she stared up at him with defiance and something else he couldn’t quite define.
    “What a dreadful thing to say!” She pointed a finger at him. “Not five minutes in my presence and you lose all civility.”
    “You would provoke the devil himself to violence,” he grumbled, walking to the table against the wall and picking up the oil lamp.
    “What are you about, Your Grace?”
    “As my betrothed, you are permitted to call me Huntsley, though I prefer Hunter.” He placed the lamp on the table next to the sofa. “As to what I am doing … I thought it was obvious. You dashed out of the Lovelaces’ house so quickly I never got a good look at you.”
    “Why are you suddenly curious? You’ve had nineteen years to study me and could not be troubled to send me a single letter.”
    Unhappy with the sudden brightness, Grace shifted a few inches away from the end of the sofa. He thought about sitting next to her on the sofa. It would be the easiest way to make certain she remained seated. Instead, he chose one of the chairs directly across from her. It bordered on rudeness, but he wanted an unfettered perusal of this woman.
    “You were a beautiful child,” he said absently. “My grandmother predicted your beauty would garner the envy of queens.”
    “And what would she say of you, Your Grace?”
    “Hunter.”
    She ignored his prompting. “If she were alive, would she be proud of the man you have become?”
    Hunter might have been angry when he had arrived, but her efforts to provoke him were amusing. She assumed erroneously that he had little control of his emotions. On the contrary, he excelled at tethering his feelings. He prided himself in his ability to not allow his emotion to rule his actions. If he did not, Grace’s rash attempt to incite a fight between him