Page 13 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

He had avoided his wife successfully for two days. After all, she knew what was expected of her, and communication was hardly necessary. It was better to stay out of each other’s way.

The moment when she had stood in her nightgown with her hand pressed to her chest flashed in his mind unbidden. A flush of heat ignited in the pit of his stomach. He’d had no choice but to close the door back then. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from touching her soft skin, tasting her full lips, pressing his lips to all those delicious curves…

He pushed those thoughts away.

“Very well, inform her I shall attend.”

Mrs. Finch departed.

Kenneth returned to his letter and found that the figures, which had been perfectly coherent three minutes ago, had now arranged themselves into patterns that conveyed nothing useful.

At ten minutes to seven, Kenneth made his way to the dining room.

Candles burned in the branched silver holders that had been polished to a finish that caught the flame and multiplied it across the walls. The long table, which on ordinary evenings hosted nothing but dust covers and the occasional exploratory footprint from Freddie’s illicit nocturnal excursions, had been set for four.

Alice stood at the far end, adjusting the placement of a water glass attentively. She wore a gown of deep green that he had not seen before. The color made her hair brighter than any flame he’d seen. As much as he wanted to look away, he could not manage to do so.

She looked up. Their eyes met across the length of the table, and her cheeks reddened.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “Thank you for joining us.”

“I was informed my attendance was required.” He moved to his accustomed place at the head of the table, sat down, and surveyed the table.

Roast chicken, golden-skinned and fragrant, occupied the center of the arrangement. A dish of buttered carrots sat beside it. Potatoes roasted with rosemary. Bread still warm from the oven, its crust crackling when he broke a piece between his fingers. And at the far end, arranged on a porcelain plate with the care of a jeweler setting stones, a row of poached pears glazed with honey and cinnamon.

“The boys will be down momentarily,” she said. She had taken her seat to his right, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap with composed stillness. “Freddie required assistance with his cravat. Charlie was reading and lost track of time.”

“As is customary.” Kenneth reached for his wine.

The dining room door burst open as though the boys had heard their names. Freddie entered at a velocity that suggested he had been launched from the top of the staircase.

“Chicken!” He skidded to a halt beside his chair and gripped the carved back with both hands. “Is that all for me? The whole bird?”

“Portions exist for a reason, Frederick.” Kenneth did not raise his voice.

“But it’s a whole chicken. A whole one.” Freddie climbed into his chair and leaned forward, inhaling the steam rising from the platter. “It smells like heaven. Did Cook make the bread too? The crusty kind, with the bits on top?”

“I believe she did.” Alice’s voice carried a warmth that Kenneth had not heard directed at anyone in this house, including himself. She reached for the serving spoon and began transferring carrots to Freddie’s plate. “And there are potatoes with rosemary, which I’m told you enjoy, and⁠—”

“Rosemary’s a weed,” Freddie announced, reaching for a drumstick. “We have it all over the garden. Charlie and I pulled some last week, and Cook yelled at us because, apparently, weeds are valuable if they’re in the right place, which makes no sense, because if they’re weeds, they should be⁠—”

“Freddie.” Kenneth set down his glass. “Eat. The monologue on horticultural philosophy can wait.”

Freddie subsided, but only to the extent that his mouth became occupied with chicken rather than speech. The reduction in volume was marginal.

Charlie noticed the pears in the middle of the table. “Oh!” he exclaimed with a shy grin.

“Your favorite, I’m told.” Alice smiled at him. “I hope Cook prepared them to your liking.”

Charlie did not reach for the pears immediately. He observed them for a long moment, as though verifying their authenticity, before selecting one with the tongs and placing it beside his chicken with the reverence of a scholar handling a rare text.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible.

The meal progressed with a civility that Kenneth found both unexpected and vaguely unsettling. Freddie consumed chicken at a rate that suggested he had been sustaining himself on air for the previous fortnight, while Charlie ate steadily, his movements precise, his eyes occasionally lifting to Alice’s face with a look Kenneth could not quite decipher.

Alice ate little. She served the boys and refilled their glasses before they asked.

“Did you always want to be a duchess?” Freddie asked around a mouthful of potato. Crumbs clung to the corner of his mouth. “When you were little, I mean. Was it your dream? Because Charlie says most ladies want to marry dukes, or marquesses, or someone with a title, but I think that’s boring. I’m going to be an explorer. Or a pirate. Pirates have better hats!”