Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle

aren’t you?”
    “Yes, and a pity he hadn’t another,” Gareth returned.
    She looked at him with curiosity, but no anger. “What is that supposed to mean?”
    “Never mind,” he answered. “Forgive me.” Gareth cleared his throat a little sharply, then realized with yet another flash of discomfort that he had not invited her to sit. This was, after all, his house, not hers. She realized it, too.
    With a motion of his arm, he gestured toward a pair of chairs by the window. “I see you have a fondness for that particular view of Selsdon’s garden,” he said somewhat drolly. “And we have got off to a rather awkward start. Will you have a seat, ma’am?”
    The duchess recognized his command, tempered though it was. She returned to the bank of windows, her spine rigid beneath the dark purple silk. She sat down almost regally and adjusted her skirts.
    Gareth forced his eyes from her and glanced out at the magnificent view beyond; at the verdant sweep of perfectly manicured boxwoods, at the pea-gravel paths which were doubtless still raked with a comb every morning, and at the ostentatious fountain which spewed streams of water some ten feet into the air. The “fish fountain” they had called it, he and Cyril, since the water spouted from the mouths of the mythological creatures which surrounded a sculpture of Triton. They had loved to play in it on warm summer days.
    It reminded him yet again that all of this should have been Cyril’s. He had been born to it. Prepared for it. Expected it. Gareth had not. No, not in his wildest dreams. But he settled himself into the chair opposite the duchess and forced himself to look at her again. This time, their eyes met, causing his breath to oddly catch. But what nonsense. He did not know her. And she clearly had no wish to know him.
    “What plans have you made for your future, ma’am?” he stiffly enquired. “And how may I expedite them?”
    “I have made no plans as yet,” she answered. “Mr. Cavendish said I might not, until your permission was sought.”
    “My permission?” Impatiently, Gareth tapped the edge of the file against his thigh. “Not my advice? Or my guidance, perhaps? You have a dower right, have you not?”
    “I have been granted one-twentieth of the income from the ducal holdings,” she replied. “I will not starve.”
    “One- twentieth ?” Gareth looked at her incredulously. “Good God, what possessed you to agree to such a thing?”
    Again, the gently arched eyebrows rose. “You must have been abroad a great many years indeed, Your Grace,” she murmured. “England is still a patriarchal society.”
    She was right, of course. Gareth had become too accustomed to Xanthia’s independence. Most women had not the privilege of living her sort of life.
    “My father handled the marriage settlements,” the duchess continued. “I knew nothing of them until the solicitors came down after the funeral. Cavendish has likely provided you a copy. But one-twentieth of the income of Selsdon alone could keep a frugal family of ten in comfort. As I said, Your Grace, I shan’t starve.”
    “Your father was either a fool, or in one hell of a hurry to marry you off,” he muttered, sorting through the papers in the file. “English common law would have given you a third, wouldn’t it?”
    When she did not answer, he lifted his head to look at her. A stricken look was upon her face, and much of her color had gone. Gareth felt instantly ashamed.
    “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “My remark was inappropriate, given your grief.”
    But she did not look precisely grief stricken. She looked…well, just stricken. But her color was swiftly returning. She squared her shoulders and said, “It was a carefully negotiated marriage, Your Grace. My father felt I should be grateful for Warneham’s offer, as my prospects were few.”
    What utter nonsense she spoke. The duchess was the sort of woman who could reasonably expect men to fall at her feet.