Page 10 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

The observation hung between them.

Alice felt the warmth of his leg against hers, the proximity of his broad frame, and the peculiar fluttering sensation that had taken up residence beneath her breast whenever he fixed her with that dark, assessing gaze.

“What did you expect?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the carriage slowed, stopping him. “Ah,” he said instead. “We’ve reached Bearmoor Castle.”

Alice glanced out the window.

Bearmoor Castle rose against the spring sky like a monument to ducal consequence: stone and slate and windows beyond counting, set amid grounds that stretched toward a distant line of trees with the confident expansiveness of property that had never needed to justify its existence.

“Oh,” Alice gasped, her eyes wide.

She had grown up in an earl’s residence, which was by no means modest, but Peltbury House would have fit into Bearmoor’s east wing with room to spare for a ballroom. Even Bearmoor House had in no way prepared her for the opulence that stood before her.

The Duke descended first and offered his hand. Alice took it, feeling the strength in his fingers as they closed around hers, and stepped down onto gravel that crunched beneath her borrowed slippers.

The housekeeper materialized at the top of the steps and curtsied with the fluid precision of long practice.

“Your Graces. Welcome home.”

Home. The word settled over Alice like an ill-fitting garment.

“Mrs. Finch.” The Duke inclined his head. “The Duchess will require a thorough orientation. The household accounts, the daily schedule, the⁠—”

The front door burst open. Freddie and Charlie bolted into the entrance hall with the velocity of projectiles, followed closely by their governess.

“Papa, I must ask you an important question!” Freddie skidded to a halt on the polished marble, his shoes leaving faint streaks. “Did you bring cakes?”

“Frederick.” The Duke’s voice did not change volume.

Freddie straightened, his grin dimming but not disappearing.

Charlie, standing half a step behind his brother, executed a formal bow. “Father. Duchess. Welcome home.”

Alice’s lip curved at the young gentleman.

“Boys.” The Duke placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is the new Duchess of Bearmoor. Your stepmother. You will listen to her as you listen to me, is that understood?”

The twins studied her with great interest. She had expected to get to know them at Bearmoor House, but the Duke had sent them back before she could spend so much as a luncheon with them.

And now they were her stepsons.

Freddie looked at her directly. “Can you climb trees?”

“I…”

“Can you ride? Papa says ladies aren’t supposed to ride astride,” Freddie went on. “And can you read stories? Real ones, not the boring ones with morals. I don’t want to know the last one, I don’t care for stories, but Charlie⁠—”

“Frederick.” The Duke’s voice carried a warning. “That is enough.”

“But I only asked⁠—”

“The Duchess needs to rest first. You’ll speak with her afterwards. Upstairs. Both of you. Now.”

The twins fell silent.

Charlie’s face did not change, but something in his posture suggested a child familiar with the topography of paternal displeasure.