Page 18 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

“Miss Leyton doesn’t do any of that,” he admitted. “She… makes sure we behave, but that’s more Freddie than me.”

“What would you like a mother to do, Charlie?”

He looked at her, his head tilted, as though he had never considered the question. “I never thought about it.”

Those words felt like a dagger to her heart.

He paused, then added, “You can read again.”

Alice read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. Her finger began tapping against the arm of her chair. She caught it after the second tap and pressed her palm flat against the leather.

Charlie did not comment, but she felt his attention nonetheless.

The library door burst open with the sudden violence that Freddie brought to all entrances, regardless of the room’s prevailing atmosphere. He skidded to a halt on the Persian carpet, his shoes leaving faint streaks, and surveyed them with the bright, assessing gaze of a general reviewing his troops.

“Tea,” he announced, before a maid bearing a tray stepped inside. A pot steamed gently beside two cups, a sugar bowl, and a plate of biscuits that had suffered significant depletion during transit. “Cook said you might want some. Actually, Cook said no such thing, but I interpreted her silence as approval, which is practically the same as permission, if you think about it.”

Alice set her book aside. “That was very thoughtful of you, Freddie. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I brought a biscuit too! I ate the chocolate off the top, but the rest is still very good.” Freddie grinned.

After the maid set the tray down, he poured with a concentration that transformed the simple act into a performance of barely controlled chaos. Tea splashed over the rim of the first cup, onto the saucer, onto the tray. Freddie mopped the spill with his sleeve, which achieved nothing except the transfer of liquid from tray to fabric.

“Here!” He swung the cup toward Alice with a flourish that sent a splash onto her skirt. “For the Duchess! It has a surprise attached, which makes it far better than just plain tea.”

Alice accepted the cup. It was almost lukewarm, which was her least favorite temperature for tea. Still, she raised it to her lips. But then stopped. Because a lizard regarded her from the surface of the liquid.

It was small, barely the length of her thumb, and a vivid green that contrasted sharply with the amber of the tea. Its feet paddled gently, creating tiny ripples that radiated outward toward the rim of the cup.

Alice lowered the cup. She arranged her features into an expression of suitable horror: eyes wide, lips parted, one hand pressed against her chest.

“Frederick Stafford!” she gasped, trying her best to suppress a giggle. “There is a lizard in my tea!”

Freddie’s face lit up with the pure joy of an artist receiving confirmation that his masterpiece had achieved its intended effect. Charlie still did not look up from his book, but the corner of his mouth twitched once, briefly, a movement so small that Alice might have missed it if she had not been watching for precisely that reaction.

She rose from her chair. The performance required a retreat. “I believe it better to return to my chamber and have my tea there. I do prefer it without amphibians.”

She left the library with her spine straight and her pace measured, and did not allow herself to smile until the door had closed behind her.

The smile lasted all the way to her bedchamber. It warmed her through the corridor, up the staircase, and past the morning room where Mrs. Finch was telling a footman about the day’s arrangements. It lingered as she closed her chamber door and leaned against it, before she pressed one hand to her mouth and allowed the laughter to escape in quiet, muffled bursts.

They were testing her. Freddie with his open-handed mischief, Charlie with his watchful silence. She hoped that she would pass whatever test they had in store for her.

The twins, at least, she might win over.

Their father was a far more formidable challenge.

Chapter Six

The east-wing writing nook had become her refuge in the weeks since her arrival at Bearmoor Castle.

She sat there now, quill in hand, the inkwell open beside a sheet of cream paper that bore the beginnings of a letter she had rewritten three times. She had absolutely no idea how she would even begin to get it to her sister, but she had to try.

She paused. The quill hovered above the paper, dripping a small dark bead that she blotted with the edge of her sleeve.

What came next? Assurance that she was safe? Questions about Rachel’s safety that would only ratchet up her own anxiety?

The copper kettle hit the marble floor with a thud loud enough to make her jump. Ink leaped from its pot in a dark fountain, arcing across the letter, painting black over each word.