Page 29 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

The distance between them had calcified into something that felt permanent, a wall built of his avoidance and her pride and the memory of a kiss that neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge.

It was easier not to think about it. Easier to focus on Freddie’s marbles and Charlie’s maps and the growing pile of mending that accumulated each week because Bearmoor’s young masters treated their clothing with the same respectful attention that hurricanes brought to coastal settlements.

Until the letter arrived.

It came on a Tuesday afternoon. Alice was in the morning room, reviewing Cook’s proposed menus for the following week, when the footman appeared with the letter on a salver, his expression arranged into the careful neutrality the staff reserved for deliveries that might contain either invitations or calamities.

“From the Earl of Peltbury, Your Grace.”

She broke the seal while standing at the window, where the afternoon light fell across the page in a long golden rectangle that made the black ink gleam.

Mary looked at her curiously. “Do you want me to leave, Your Grace?”

Alice shook her head. “No, thank you, Mary. It… is from my father.”

She ran her eyes across the page, then dropped her hand to her waist.

“Is there… anything I can do for you, Your Grace?”

“I would like some tea, thank you.”

The maid nodded, then disappeared. When she returned, Alice had read the letter a second time.

“Mary, I suppose you know why… why I married His Grace?”

The maid blushed and nodded. “I do, Your Grace.”

“This letter is from my father,” Alice revealed. “They have not found my sister yet.”

Mary remained close, uncomfortably so.

“His Grace,” Alice continued. “Do you believe him to be a man of honor?”

“Oh, indeed, he is,” Mary replied at once. “They say that His Grace always keeps his promises and does more than expected. But…” She blushed. “He is a good man, Your Grace,” she finished, choosing not to ask the question Alice could see in her eyes.

“He promised he would find my sister.” Alice took a deep breath. “Rachel… I know what you must think—what the servants and the entire ton must think—but she would not run without cause. Never. I do not believe it for even a second.”

Mary merely looked at her.

Alice rose. “I… would like to speak to my husband, Mary.” She lifted her chin. “If you will excuse me.”

Her gown rustled behind her as she made her way out of the morning room and toward the study.

She knocked firmly, and the scratching stopped. A pause, just long enough to register as consideration, and then his voice, low and clipped: “Enter.”

She turned the handle and stepped into the study.

Kenneth sat behind the desk, one hand resting on an open ledger, the other holding a pen above the page. The lamplight caught the angles of his face and hollowed the spaces beneath his cheekbones, turning what had been merely severe into something that approached austerity.

He wore no coat. His waistcoat was unbuttoned at the throat, his cravat loosened to the point of informality, and the rolled sleeves revealed forearms that Alice had not, until this moment, permitted herself to notice. They were corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, and the sight of them did nothing to improve the coherence of the speech she had rehearsed on her walk down the corridor.

“Duchess.” He set the pen down. “What is the matter?”

Alice closed the door behind her and took two steps into the room.

“My father wrote to me.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew the letter, holding it out without offering it. “He has stopped searching for Rachel. He believes she has ‘made her choice,’ and that further public agitation would be… inconvenient.”

Kenneth’s expression did not change. His eyes moved from the letter to her face, assessing, and then back to the ledger as though the figures there held more interest than the crisis she had just laid at his feet.