Page 23 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

“Some rearrangement of the furnishings. And she has requested fresh flowers daily from the cutting garden. The boys have been permitted to take their reading in the morning room rather than the nursery, and the curtains in the east corridor have been opened.”

Kenneth rose from his desk. “Which curtains?”

“The ones covering the tall windows. They have been drawn since…”

Kenneth let out a short breath. The curtains had been drawn since Theresa’s death, and no one in the household had ever seen fit to question the arrangement.

Until now, it would seem.

He moved past Mrs. Finch without another word. He could hear the twins before he reached the drawing room: Freddie’s voice raised in some enthusiastic exposition, punctuated by the softer, measured responses that belonged to Charlie. The sound of children in the drawing room alone was a change, for that room had been reserved for formal calls and silent contemplation for longer than either boy had been alive.

He paused at the threshold.

At the center of the transformed space stood his wife, her back to the door, adjusting the placement of a porcelain bowl on the side table.

“Duchess,” he breathed out. “What is going on?”

Alice turned to face him. “Good morning, Your Grace.” She set the bowl down. “I trust you slept well.”

“I see you’re making changes around here.”

“I have opened the curtains,” she said simply. “And moved the furniture approximately four feet toward the fireplace. The room receives considerably more light now, and the arrangement is more conducive to conversation. The boys agree.”

Kenneth’s gaze shifted to the window seat, where Freddie and Charlie sat with books open on their laps.

Alice was close enough now that he could breathe in the flowery scent that clung to her.

“Papa!” Freddie’s voice shattered the silence. “Can we ride today? The Duchess says the weather is perfect for it, and Mr. Briggs has the horses ready, and Charlie wants to try the bay pony again because last time he almost stayed on for a full minute before falling off, which is practically a record, and…”

Kenneth turned. “Riding lessons are scheduled for Tuesday, as they have been for the past six months. Mr. Briggs has other duties today.”

“Actually,” Alice interjected, and the single word carried a weight that he felt settle across his shoulders like a physical thing, “I spoke with Mr. Briggs this morning. He was amenable to adjusting the schedule, given the weather. The boys have been looking forward to it all week, and I saw no reason to delay their enjoyment when the opportunity presented itself.”

The room went very quiet. Charlie had closed his book. Freddie had gone still, his enthusiasm suspended in the sudden, charged silence.

“You spoke with my stable master,” Kenneth said in confusion. “Without consulting me.”

“I did.” Alice held his gaze without flinching. “The stables fall under the management of the household. As the Duchess, I have some latitude in matters of scheduling. I judged this to be within that latitude.”

The twins were watching them with expressions that had shifted from fascination to something closer to apprehension.

He moved closer to her, close enough that the flowery scent intensified, close enough that he could see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, close enough that the warmth of her body reached him through the layers of wool and silk between them.

The space between them had contracted to inches. Kenneth could feel the heat of her, could count the individual lashes that framed those impossible eyes, could see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat where his wedding ring would rest if he were to reach out and⁠—

He stepped back. The movement was abrupt, involuntary, driven by something he refused to name.

“The boys may ride,” he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Tell Briggs I approved it.”

He turned and left the drawing room without another word. He did not look back to see the expression on his wife’s face as the distance between them widened with each step.

Kenneth rode hard through the afternoon, letting the stallion have its head on the open stretch of road that led away from Bearmoor. Each gallop carried him further from the transformed drawing room, from the open curtains, rearranged furniture, and the woman who had stood at the center of it all.

He chased the horse with fervor, as though he could escape her memory if he hurried enough.

Soon, the village appeared ahead. He slowed the stallion to a walk, nodding to a farmer who raised a hand in recognition, and made for the tavern at the far end of the high street.

The Fox and Hound occupied the same building it had occupied since his grandfather’s time: low-ceilinged, timbered, smelling of wood smoke and spilled ale and the yeasty warmth of bread rising in the kitchen behind.