Page 68 of The Duchess Games

“That is no concern of mine.”

“No one would acknowledge her, Tremaine. They would snicker behind their fans, make jokes at your expense. At the expense of the title. You’ll ruin us all.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That seems dramatic.”

“I thought you finally understood what it means to be the duke,” she huffed with disgust before storming out. “Your father would be ashamed.”

“You can go now, Mother,” he said wearily. “Back to London if I am such a disappointment. I am not your creature. I’m a man grown, for God’s sake. Enough. I will have kindness in this house.”

“Be realistic.”

He was sick to death of it.

“No.”

The worst part was that his own mother was proving to him that he had been right to protect Cat from his world for all of those years. But surely he could protect her and be happy at the same time. She was the one who reminded him that he had so much power he could wield in better, more creative ways. He had let fear rule his every action for too long now.

They had thirteen wasted years between them. No more.

He crumpled up his mother’s list and tossed it into the grate.

He felt immediately lighter.

“I heard every word,” Summer announced, poking her head in. She was smiling from ear to ear, like a naughty child in the sweet’s pantry. In fact, she held a small crystal bowl of marzipan birds in her hand. “Bravo, little brother. You deserve a sweet.” She set the dish down with a flourish. “I nicked these from the tray of a passing footman. Pascoe, I think. The one with the red hair. Mother nearly made him cry. Again.” She bit the head off a dove. “Have one. I am inclined to share since I have never heard you put Mother in her place quite like that.”

“I hate marzipan,” he pointed out.

“Good. More for me.” She ate a canary. “I do like her, you know. I will enjoy having her as a sister-in-law.”

“I haven’t proposed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t use the family heirlooms. They are hideous.”

“Noted.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Since Cat could not get the image of the arrow nearly stabbing Callum in the chest, she walked down to the village. Percival accompanied her, tearing happily through the tall grass.

Cat marched like she was on her way to join the militia.

Fury built inside her, coal upon coal upon coal.

It paused, briefly, when she noticed Granny Goodwin’s new window, glass shining like silver. She sat proudly underneath it, showing it to all who dared glance her way. Cat knew instantly that Callum had sent someone down to replace it. Quietly, without fanfare. Simply because it needed to be done.

And then she heard Juro’s shout of laughter from inside the pub and the fury returned, lit from an internal fuse that would not die.

Juro might though. And at her hand.

She pushed inside the smoky pub with enough force that the clatter of cutlery and tankards died momentarily. Ambrose looked up from his stool behind the bar where he was wiping cups dry. He noticed her expression and set the cloth down with a sigh.

Cat found Juro immediately, posturing and bragging in the corner.

She skirted around the others, most of whom leapt out of her way. They did not usually see her fuming quite so ferociously unless an animal was involved, but they had long ago learned to get out of the way. Percival, sensing the change in the atmosphere, showed his teeth.

Juro sneered.

Cat punched him right in the face.