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“I didn’t know I had to take your permission before feeling a certain way,” she replied almost immediately and glared at him.

“I know that you certainly don’t like to,” he smirked. “But it’s in your best interest.”

“Oh, please explain why that is,” she said, crossing her arms out in front of her. “You must think that you know better than I do.”

“On most matters, yes.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure you know a great deal, since you’ve seen more of the world than I have. But I’m sure I have something to offer, as well. It would make both of our life easier if we come to accept that.”

She didn’t know where she got the courage to say those words to him, but at the same time, it felt freeing to speak to him like this.

Openly, and without holding back. It had become easier to do, somehow and she wasn’t sure when the switch happened exactly.

“Easy is boring, don’t you think?” He seemed to be challenging her now, and to her annoyance, she took the bait.

“I think there are better ways to keep oneself from getting bored,” she replied. “Getting into an argument with your wife is not one of them.”

“I would call it... playful sparring if anything,” he said with a wink. “Arguing is too strong of a word.”

She glared at him again, but this time, heat crept up onto her cheeks.

“We can agree to disagree there.”

There was a short moment of silence between the two of them, but never once did the duke stop looking at her. Finally, he spoke again.

“Smug is an excellent color on you, Duchess.” He said it lightly, but his eyes, when they met hers, held something warmer than the teasing alone accounted for.

Phillipa found herself smiling back at him with an ease that had been rare enough between them these last difficult weeks that she noticed it, gratefully, for the small gift it was.

CHAPTER 12

“The Dowager Lady Pembury, Your Grace.”

The butler made the announcement swiftly. Phillipa, who had been informed only that morning that the Dowager was Gregory’s great-aunt on his mother’s side, rose from her chair with considerably more calm than she felt.

The Dowager Lady Pembury proved to be a tiny, upright woman of perhaps seventy-six.

Phillipa wanted to make a good impression.

“So,” said the Dowager, once she had settled herself and accepted a cup of tea, “You are the girl who found my great-nephew’s nephew in a library and married him for her trouble.”

At first, Phillipa was surprised by how direct she was being. But then reminded herself that older people often could be, and that she must not show a reaction.

“I am, my lady, though I might put it rather differently myself,” she said with a smile.

“I daresay you would. Everyone puts everything differently when it is their own foolishness under discussion.” The Dowager’s dark eyes, moved over Phillipa with an assessing thoroughness that made her grateful for twelve years of careful posture training. “You do not simper. I am relieved.”

“I shall endeavor not to simper, my lady.”

“See that you don’t.” A small, unexpected gleam of approval crossed the old woman’s face. “Tell me about the boy.”

Ah. Finally, they had arrived at a topic of conversation in which she could contribute without hesitating.

“He’s a darling,” she admitted earnestly. “Not fussy, and doesn’t give us a lot of trouble.’

“Do you have any prior experience with children of this age?”

“Not extensively.”