Page 67 of The Duchess Games

She rubbed the spot over his heart. “And what did you do for that family?”

He didn’t say anything. She lifted an eyebrow. She knew him better than that, however he might have lost his way then. He glanced away, embarrassed. “I got their shop back and I wrote a letter in the Times about how I only drank tea from their establishment.”

“There’s the Callum I know.”

“They deserved more.”

It was tempting to tell him the truth, but she knew what he thought about smugglers. He could forgive a little theft, but not that kind of dedication to law-breaking. Not her lying to his face, using his name for her own purposes, like so many others did. He’d doubt every word between them, every touch. And she could not have that.

“And that, siren, is why I am the Scowling Duke or Terrifying Tremaine, or whatever it is they are calling me this week in the papers.”

“Terrifying Tremaine,” she chuckled. “How very gothic of you. Should I be very frightened?”

He rubbed his beard over her throat, startling a giggle from her, then a moan.

“Very.”

She grinned. “Promise?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

His duchess was lying through her pretty little teeth.

He didn’t know about what, only that something was swirling and boiling behind her nonchalant smiles. He might not choose a smile as his weapon, but he knew all about hiding behind an unyielding demeanour. She was distracted, worried.

He wanted to find every worry and decimate it.

She would never admit to worrying in the first place, never mind conveniently enumerate them for him. He’d removed Lady Siddal. He’d sent a proper bed and a thick new mattress to her cottage. He’d send his entire household to her cottage if it helped.

Better yet, he’d move her here. He wanted her in his bed, in his breakfast room, his library. Racing up the stairs with her pack of dogs. He would build the damn turtle his own indoor pool if she asked him.

“You cannot be serious, Tremaine,” his mother snapped from the doorway.

He stifled a groan. He did not look away from the hawk nest. “I’m really not in the mood, Mother.”

She sucked in a breath. “You will mind your manners and remember that you are a duke,” she snapped.

“How could I forget?”

She exuded the chill of a winter morning. Cat thought his mother was trying to make him into a marble statue. She had already made of herself an ice sculpture. He was years passed tying to melt her defenses.

She sailed forward, slapping a piece of parchment on the table in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asked, reluctantly turning around.

“This is a list of the suitable candidates for the future duchess in the order that appeals to me the most.”

“I wish you all felicity on your betrothal.”

“Don’t be smart with me, boy.” The lines around her mouth tightened with withering disdain. “And please do not tell me that you are harboring a tendre for that village girl.”

“Careful, Mother.”

“She is deeply unsuitable. Make her your mistress, if you must, but do not delude yourself.”

Anger floored him, swift as the hawk Cat liked to watch outside his window. “That’s enough.”

“Don’t be childish. I am only speaking the truth. I would never acknowledge her.”