Page 10 of His Duchess to Remember

“Is that nae what I call ye?” He searched her face, his green eyes almost twinkly. “Do I call ye something else? Sweetling? Bumblebee? My cherry blossom? Mon Coeur?”

Overwhelmed by this insanity, she pushed on his chest again, a slight jolt of pain ricocheting up her wrists. She had no hope of actually shoving him away, when his chest—and the rest of him—was as sturdy as granite, but he did release his hold on her and took a half step back.

“You do not call my any of those things,” she replied, moving away from him.

To her surprise, he followed.

“Do I have to keep guessing?” he asked. “We might be here a while. My blue-eyed beauty? Angel? Mo bheatha? Darling?”

She squinted at him as if that might help her solve whatever was going on. “Is this a game?”

Clearly, something was amiss. Was it a trick to get her to break the deal? Had he decided he wanted to be part of his son’s life after all, and was trying to pretend to be a doting husband? It did not seem like Malcolm’s character, but then again, she did not know him. There had been no need to know him beyond the terms of their arrangement.

“That depends. Are you having fun?” he replied, his smile faltering slightly.

“No, Your Grace, I daresay I am not having fun.” She moved again, a vain attempt to put the settee between them, but there he was, just a few steps behind her.

Rather like a pup, albeit a giant, scarred, warrior-like one.

“You should not be here,” she added, frowning.

He smiled again. “Where else would I be but with my dear wife?”

“Stop that!” she gasped, utterly bewildered.

“Stop what?”

She exhaled sharply. “Stop… saying such things. Stop following me around the room like a dog. Just… keep your distance, although it seems you have already decided to deny me that.”

When she moved again, coming around to the other side of the settee, he stayed where he was. Confusion, far greater than her own, clouded his green eyes, a line appearing between his eyebrows, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-grimace, as if he were in pain.

“What have I done to offend ye, wife?” he asked a moment later, his tone unnervingly gentle.

“Well, you are here, for one thing,” she said, shocking herself with her boldness. “You mentioned nothing of coming here. If you had written first, that might have been courteous. After all, this was not our agreement. I did not agree to you suddenly turning up here.”

His eyes scrunched, as if whatever pain had made him grimace had now doubled. “I must ask permission to visit my wife and my manor?”

“My manor,” she shot back. “You gave it to me as a gift. You said it would be mine and mine alone, just as you said that you would stay away from me and my son.”

Malcolm’s eyes shot open. “A son? We have a son?”

He leaped the settee in one smooth jump, a bright and breathtaking grin spreading across his face, even bigger than before. Standing before her, he did not attempt to touch her; he just whispered, his voice laced with awe, “Where is my boy? Take me to him.”

Octavia’s brain faltered, and she stared at him with renewed unease. It was one thing for him to come here and play foolish games that went entirely against his character. It was quite another for him to stand there and behave as if he did not know they had a son. This was not a jest or a jape; this was terribly, unnervingly wrong.

He was all wrong.

“What is the matter with you?” she rasped, searching his face for answers.

Before any could present themselves, the drawing room door burst open for a second time. A stranger ran in, closely followed by the very harried butler.

“Your Grace, this is… unwise,” the stranger wheezed, bending slightly at the waist to catch his breath.

Octavia shot a look at the butler, Mr. Lincoln, who shook his head. Evidently, he did not know who this newcomer was either.

“Stanforth, ye mustn’t worry so much,” Malcolm said cheerily, his green eyes so twinkly they looked as if they had stars within them. “I am at home. What is there to fret about?”

The stranger grimaced, sweeping a hand through thick, dark gray hair. “Your Grace, we have spoken about this.”