As she descended the stairs, she heard voices coming from an open door, one of which sounded suspiciously like her new husband.
What should she say to him?
Would he even talk to her this morning? Grace wondered if he’d ever be able to give her a look that did not equate to a frown. Mayhap now was the time to find out.
She gently pushed the door wider, the faint smell of tobacco wafting out of the room as she did so. Her husband was seated behind a large desk, with a small man in one of the chairs in front, both men discussing the ledger that was open before them. “This cannot be accurate,” the Duke was stating, his long finger stabbing at the page before him. “I’ve done my own calculations. It is off by one hundred pounds.”
“I assure you, your grace,” the other man stammered. “I’ve transposed thenumbers correctly.”
“Then I will take it out of your funds, Mr. Thomas.”
“Y-your Grace,” Mr. Thomas pleaded as Grace slipped in the room without a sound. “You cannot.”
Grace watched as her husband’s expression became carefully blank. “I assure you I can. If I were you, Mr. Thomas, I would be going back and refiguring your numbers before I make my final decision.”
“Yes, your grace,” the small man said quickly, grabbing the ledger and standing. “I will have an answer by the end of the day.”
“See that you do,” the Duke muttered as the man moved past Grace to the door, his eyes respectfully downcast. Grace swallowed as she turned back to her husband, finding him staring at her. “What are you doing here?”
She cleared her throat, clenching her hands tightly together. “I’ve come to see if you wish to join me for breakfast.”
His jaw worked. “I’ve already eaten.”
Of course, he had. “Then perhaps I can join you in here?”
He stood, coming around the desk with a slight limp. Grace wondered what had happened to him. She’d heard he had been injured at Trafalgar, the papers that came from London had waxed lyrical about his bravery, his leadership and what a fine man he was fighting alongside Admiral Nelson, leading the British Fleet to a resounding victory against the French.
Was that why he’d returned? Not because of his father’s death but because his injuries had finished his naval career?
Grace started forward but felt the tip of her boot catch the edge of the rug, and with a small cry, she pitched forward, unable to catch herself.
Suddenly, she was hauled up against a warm surface, strong arms wrapped around her waist to steady her. The smell of sandalwood surrounded her as she lay her hands on his chest, feeling the strong, steady heartbeat under the palm of her hand. “You do not mimicyour namesake wife,” he murmured dryly.
“I’m afraid I never have,” she said breathlessly, trying to process his closeness. He hadn’t touched her yesterday save to place the ring on her finger and the chaste kiss on her cheek, but now he was, she felt the blood start to warm in her body, her heart racing wildly in her chest. “I fear it was a jest to name me as such.”
Grace looked up at his face, hoping to see evidence of a smile.
Instead, his stony gaze met hers, and she felt her heart sink as he set her back, his jaw tightly clenched. “I have work to do, wife.”
“Grace,” she stated, feeling the warmth starting to dissipate now she was no longer encircled in his arms. “My name is Grace. Shall I call you Nicholas or Blackmore?”
He moved toward the desk, his limp more pronounced than it had been before, and Grace was worried that her sudden movements had hurt him somehow. “Nicholas is fine,” he grated out, settling in the chair with a wince.
Grace opened her mouth to ask after his health, but something in his expression halted her. Her husband was very obviously a proud man and would likely not entertain her questions. “I see. Well, I shall leave you to your work then, Nicholas.”
He didn’t respond, and she carefully made her way out of the study, pressing herself against the wall to slow her heartbeat.
She had her answer.
Chapter Seven
Nicholas etched a number in the column before placing the pen down with a muttered oath. His eyes glanced towards the small clock on the desk, noting it was nearing luncheon. The morning had been a waste of his time as he’d been unable to prevent his mind from continuously returning to his wife’s unexpected visit to his study.
That and the way she’d felt in his arms.
What was she doing on her first official day as a married woman? Nicholas knew he was being an arse for not spending time with her. As a lowly clergyman’s daughter, she would have very little knowledge of the duties required of a duchess and would need some direction at the very least. But then, what the hell did it matter? Nicholas had no intention of entertaining. He had very few friends within theton,and those he did have, he’d long since lost touch with. There would be no social visits to Blackmore. His Duchess could sleep her days away underneath a hundred different trees. Nobody would be any the wiser.
Yet she was his wife and would be the mother of his heirs one day. She would need to comport herself in polite company at some point in the future. Perhaps he should consider employing a companion for her? Someone who could show her how to behave in polite society. And a lady’s maid. She would need someone to help her dress. And what about her clothes…?
