What the Duke Wants by Amy Quinton

forgot. It seems she has a peculiar tendency toward clumsiness.”
    “Don’t I know it,” murmured the duke.
    “What was that, Your Grace?”
    “Nothing. That will be all.”
    “Very good, Your Grace. I shall inquire further without betraying your interest.”
    The duke ignored the impudence and left without another word, slamming the door behind him.
    Stonebridge reentered his bedchamber and walked over to the windows overlooking the west side gardens. Thankfully, he didn’t have a view over the back lawn, though the formal and colorless style of the side garden wasn’t much of an improvement.
    He leaned his hands against the window frame, tapping his fingers in his habitual staccato rhythm, and stared out across the expanse of gardens, forcing his thoughts on to his soon-to-be betrothed. He was surprised she hadn’t been in attendance when he arrived, though he had to admit he had probably arrived earlier than expected and he was glad for the respite.
    He clasped his hands behind his back as he realized he was tapping the window with enough force to rattle the frame. He paced the floor instead and allowed his thoughts to wander where they would. They headed unerringly to Miss Radclyffe, of course.
    He had never met her before today, despite knowing the Beckett family for many years. I would have remembered her. And she had not been living in the earl’s house above a year ago. Surely, I would have known of it.
    Things had obviously changed in the last year, and when this house party came about, the situation must have forced Swindon’s hand. He couldn’t very well hide her from his guests, now could he?
    He had no idea why Miss Radclyffe had not taken part in the little season with the rest of her family. She was respectable enough through her relationship to the earl to attend, and if she had attended, he would have known about it. They would have been introduced. In different circumstances. At a different time. At least he wasn’t caught unawares after he had married Beatryce.
    And why in the hell would it matter if I had met her after my marriage? It wouldn’t change a damn thing.
    He shut the door to further thoughts of the Mud Goddess and turned toward his dressing room. What was keeping his valet?
    “Bryans!” he bellowed.
    * * * *
    Grace’s Room…
    At the same time…
    Phew. Grace was familiar with all access points to her room, including the route through the servants’ stairs, just in case a hasty retreat was required. More than once, she had been thankful for this knowledge and today was no exception. She made it back to her room without anyone bearing witness to her less than flawless attire.
    While she took a moment to catch her breath, she noticed a change of clothes laid out on her bed. Bessie. Ah, bless her. And if she knew her maid, and she did, or rather if her maid knew her, and she did, then, there was also a copper bathing tub, filled with hot water, awaiting her behind the screen. Grace could smell the lavender oil already.
    Someone scratched at the door. At Grace’s “enter,” Bessie, her lady’s maid and pretty-much-second mother, entered the room. Bessie was round and petite and in her early fifties with a kind face and ginger hair. She had been with the Radclyffes as a helper, maid, child-minder, cook—everything and anything—for many, many years. Bessie was a real mothering sort, despite having no family of her own.
    Grace and her mother (when she was living) had always helped Bessie with the daily chores. Their life had been too modest to require a full staff, as they danced on the edges of the gentry. Now, in this new life, Grace was closer to Bessie than anyone, in truth.
    “How did you know?” queried Grace as Bessie hurried across the room to help her undress.
    “Well, you took a wee bit longer than usual on your morning walk, and weel, based on past experience…weel, I just assumed…”
    Bessie’s gentle Scottish brogue trailed off. The maid looked pointedly