The Grace of a Duke by Linda Rae Sande

to the duchy even if he didn’t marry her. She was a beauty, an excellent rider, well-versed in matters of the ton , and educated as if she’d been preparing to be a duchess her entire life. Which was true, he realized, remembering she had mentioned being three years of age when their fathers had arranged their marriage. Had he actually been looking for a wife, he could do far worse in the Marriage Mart, he thought. But given the circumstances, he still wasn’t convinced he should even be considering matrimony.
    But Charlotte didn’t seem the least bit bothered by his scars. She had probably seen all of them – she had been at hospital for the entire month he was there, apparently overseeing his care. Perhaps she knew of the ropy scars that spanned the side of his ribs down to the top of his hip, of the ghastly, angry red one that covered his entire left shoulder and made it nearly impossible for him to raise his arm over his head, made lifting anything, especially a saddle onto a horse, a struggle. And if she did know, she didn’t seem to regard his infirmity as a detriment to their arranged union. Perhaps ...
    He reached the bedchamber door, knocked a couple of times and entered when he heard what sounded like an invitation to enter. A chorus of feminine gasps could be heard as he strode into the bedchamber, his attention immediately drawn to the opening to the bathroom and beyond. A suddenly nervous maid, eyes wide, curtsied from next to the copper tub, in which stood a very naked Charlotte, her back to him and only her lower limbs hidden by bubble-topped water. Embarrassed, his first thought was to excuse himself and leave, but his eyes were fixed on the image of Charlotte’s back, indeed, of her entire backside. The bright red gash, starting at one shoulder blade and then ending just below the other one, was at odds with the perfection of her creamy white skin, her elegant coiffed blonde hair, her long neck that curved into slightly sloped shoulders, the curves that defined her small waist and her perfectly proportioned bottom and the thighs that promised beautiful calves and who knew what else below the water line. The red streak must just be a length of red ribbon stuck to her skin , he thought as he moved toward the tub. But as he got closer, he remembered how she had winced when she had remounted her horse earlier. The red gash really was a wound! And she didn’t cry out, he thought suddenly. 
    “Leave us,” he instructed, his voice louder than he intended, his attention on Charlotte’s maid, Parma, immediately next to the tub. The maid dared a glance at Charlotte before lowering her eyes. Parma curtsied before hurrying around the duke and out of the room.
    Another maid, one he recognized from his own staff, also exited the bath as Charlotte’s body suddenly went rigid. She was about to sit down into the tub, and now found herself wondering, of all things, about protocol.
    What does one do when a duke enters a lady’s rooms and she is nude and standing in knee-deep water?
    Should she face him and then curtsy? Cover herself first and then curtsy? But cover herself with ... what?
    One part of her brain reminded her that her dressing gown was draped over a vanity chair well out of her reach. Another part of her brain suddenly realized just what Joshua must be seeing, and all thoughts of proper protocol flew out of her head.
    Joshua reached for a towel from a pile on the vanity, intending to wrap her in it, but as he stepped even closer to the tub, he saw just how deep the cut in her back was, how raw the edges appeared, and how a few drops of fresh blood seeped from several wider areas along the gash. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice so husky he didn’t recognize it as his own. When Charlotte didn’t answer right away, he moved to stand by her side, noting that she had at least covered her breasts with her crossed arms. He allowed the towel to unfurl, and he held it up in front of her while keeping