The Duke's Disaster (R) by Grace Burrowes Page B

duke and passed him his own half-full cup.
    “The door was closed, Your Grace, and Mr. Erikson is a comely fellow, intelligent, vigorous, and possessed of humor and a certain passion.”
    “For posies,” Anselm said, passing her the unsweetened cup. “I don’t care for the flowers so much as I do the money they can make me.”
    Anselm cared for the flowers because they reminded him of his grandparents. “My point, sir, is that you didn’t challenge Mr. Erikson to pistols at dawn.”
    The duke wrinkled his nose, a splendid, aristocratic feature. “You’d have me believe a failure to issue a challenge is a step in the direction of marital trust?”
    Of course it was. Thea held her peace rather than argue with her husband.
    “Not a step back,” he allowed, popping a strawberry into the ducal maw. “I suppose that’s encouraging.”
    They fell into an entirely different kind of silence over their next cup of tea, until the duke took a thoughtful nibble of a slice of golden cheddar.
    “I’d not challenge a man of lesser station to meet me on the field of honor,” he said, passing Thea the butter knife. “The rules of honor forbid it, though I suppose a round of fisticuffs might be permitted. Perhaps I ought to remind Benjamin of this. Pour me a spot more tea, please, and don’t take that last slice of bread.”
    Thea poured the duke’s tea and cut the last slice of bread exactly in half.

Seven

    In addition to eschewing formal tea, Noah was also disinclined to stand on ceremony at dinner. He and Thea dined à la française, that is, serving themselves, though this informality was clearly not what his bride had been expecting.
    “You’re used to a more formal meal?” he asked.
    “As companion to two elderly ladies, and as Marliss’s companion, yes. Those households were prone to formality.”
    “What about your household?” Noah asked, because they had to converse about something . “Was your mama a high stickler?”
    “My papa was more the stickling kind. Mama was the type to tuck us in when we were too old to merit such coddling, and to read us stories on the nights when it stormed.”
    An image of Thea surrounded by sleepy children, reading to them as thunder boomed, came to Noah’s mind’s eye. The picture was sweet, and he resented it even as it drew him.
    “You loved your mother,” he said, pouring Thea more wine. “What of your father?”
    “I’ve come to see that he wasn’t stern so much as serious,” Thea said. “He and Mama were not a love match, but they came to love each other fiercely. I saw that much before he died.”
    Would that Noah’s parents had come to love each other at all . “How old were you?”
    “Fourteen when he died, and sixteen when Mama died.” Thea picked up her wineglass but didn’t drink. “Then we were in mourning, and when I might have made a come-out, there was no money, and no one to present me. Tims was being a regular brat, and Nonie not much better.”
    “Siblings can be a challenge.” What little Thea had told Noah grated. She’d been sheltered as an earl’s daughter should be, completely unprepared to take on the raising of her siblings, and without the means or appropriate gender to do so.
    And yet, she’d hesitated to accept his proposal?
    “How did you become a companion?” Noah asked.
    “Lady Bransom had been a friend of my maternal grandmother, and she saw the situation upon Mama’s death. She shooed Tim back to school, found a governess for Nonie, and said my salary as a companion would be adequate to cover the expense of the governess. She was being charitable.”
    She’d apparently let Thea know that too. “How old were you?”
    “Eighteen by then and out of mourning,” Thea replied, tracing her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I felt awful, leaving Tims and Nonie, though it was necessary.”
    Noah took a sip of his wine, lest he opine that it had not been necessary, not if the trustees had been minding their duties.