Page 14 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

Marigold prayed that this day hadn’t piled a new disaster into her house before she had the chance to have her tea. She had few pleasures in her life, and she would really appreciate it if she could just enjoy her tea and then deal with any new problem.

“There is a caller for you, Lady Marigold,” Alfred said, still in total disbelief.

Marigold sighed in relief. She never had any callers.

“You must be mistaken, Alfred. I’m sure whoever he is, he’s calling upon my mother,” she replied and continued procuring the butter. “I believe she’s already down in the drawing room.”

“No, My Lady,” Alfred hastened to add. “He’s calling upon you specifically.”

Marigold went absolutely still as Alfred extended the calling card to her on a small tray. She looked upon that card, as if it were threatening her openly, then picked it up and read it.

Brandon Reeves, Duke of Voss.

It was pure luck that Marigold was not holding the tea kettle because it would have gone down on the floor, wasting one of the few good china pieces they had left and the perfectly brewed tea. But as she read the name on that card, tea was forgotten, the toast could burn, and the butter was left unattended.

“And where is this gentleman now?”

“I escorted him to the drawing room.”

“The... the drawing room.”

Her mother was in the drawing room, and the two of them together was a recipe meant for destruction. She didn’t know the Duke all that well, but she knew her mother. Plus, from the little she had interacted with the Duke, he didn’t seem the nice, civil gentleman. She wasn’t even sure he wouldn’t expose their nightly meetings.

So, running on pure survival instinct for everyone involved, she rushed to the drawing room. She stopped for one moment to compose herself, gathering her hair and looking at herself in the only mirror they had left in their house. While she was out in the hallway, she could hear her mother’s voice through the half-open door.

“It really seems impossible,” Marigold barely recognized her mother’s voice, “that you are still a bachelor.”

The little hairs on her neck stood up. There was a very specific reason why she couldn’t recognize her mother’s voice. It had gone deep and sultry, almost as if she was trying to⁠—

Marigold didn’t sit around to find exactly what her mother was intending, and she made her way to the room. She stopped right before she entered, peeking through the opening of the door, still unseen. This morning was determined to turn her world upside down because the Duke dominated her little drawing room just as she feared.

Marigold studied him and realized this was the third version of him she saw. First, it was the stranger in the alley, mysterious and decisive; then the relaxed Duke in his own residence, teasing and infuriating; and now him as a… suitor.

He was sitting on an armchair rather stiffly, and Marigold could see that there was more than just his general disposition that prompted him to do so. It was the mere fact that her mother was sitting on the couch quite close to him, one hand on his arm, leaning too much, revealing too much cleavage.

“It is quite an honor,” her mother was saying, “to be receiving such an esteemed guest in my house.”

Marigold shivered upon hearing her mother use a very particular low purr and the crystal giggle she employed only when she wanted to be charming. She was a beautiful woman even at her age, and Marigold was not so innocent as not to realize that men do not stay unaffected by charming women throwing themselves at them.

“You can withhold that honor,” his icy tone resonated throughout the whole house, “because I am calling upon your daughter, not you.”

Marigold decided that it was high time she interrupted that awkward situation, and she stepped inside the room.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Marigold said and didn’t even bother to curtsy.

His eyes turned on her, and they shifted quickly from extremely annoyed to partly relieved. He got up and bowed formally, tempting Marigold to comment on that like he did last night on her formality, but she remembered that they had an audience.

Marigold cast a glance at her mother, who was looking between them with a dark, annoyed look.

“Good morning, Lady Marigold.”

“If you were to allow me some time, I will prepare some tea and bring⁠—”

“There will be no need for that,” the Duke cut her off coldly. “I would hate to stay another moment in this room with your mother.”

Marigold gaped and then closed her mouth because there wasn’t an appropriate response to that declaration.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” her mother said, shock evident on her face.