“I hadn’t realized you’d been paying such close attention.” He paused. “Did you just refer to the gentlemen staying here asmyguests?”
“Of course, they areyourguests. And, at this rate, to keep them fed, you will soon need beg pork frommyhome farm.”
“Yourhome farm. Ah, yes. The codicil. I have my doubts about that, you know.”
Inner bells clanged alarm. Sternly, she reminded herself she had the loyalty of Cheverley’s friends.
“Are your doubts strong enough to challenge the Duke of Ashbey and the Duke of Hurtheven in court?” she asked.
Anthony’s grin vanished. “Lord Thomas believes you are harmless. But I warned him you had a cunning little mind. Did you think you had me fooled?”
“I haven’t any idea what you mean. In no way have I been trying to fool—”
“If anyone will beg,” Anthony interrupted, “it will be you.” He plucked a carefully folded gazette out from beneath his waistcoat. “I am afraid,my lady,your reputation, or what little you had, anyway, is in tatters.”
The newspaper crackled as it unraveled. Bold, black letters shouted, “Captain’s Widow Ready to Set Sail.”
“Try running to your late husband’s friends, now,” Anthony taunted with a curled-lip sneer. “Let us see how your would-be lover Hurtheven responds.”
She met his gaze, furious. “Why on earth would you do this?”
“I’vedone nothing.” Anthony raised his brows. “You, my dear, left your little cottage and your noble naval charity scheme and willfully joined a household full of eligible gentlemen mere weeks after your husband was declared dead. Clearly, even the papers comprehend the nature of your stay.”
“I spend my time caring for the duke andweaving!I wouldn’t know your gentlemen friends one from another.”
“Please,” Anthony scoffed. His inhale whistled in his nose. “Did you really think we believed you were here to weave a shroud? That you are driven by duty and devotion to care for a duke who tried to ruin you?”
With a huff, she wrestled the newspaper from his grip and then threw the it on the floor. “That is what I think of your attempt to besmirch my name.”
“Ah.” His smile returned. “Thereis the impudent little miss with the audacity to marry a duke’s son.”
“I beg your—” She shut her mouth. She’d never beg anything from Anthony, figure of speech or no.
“Such an odd wedding, too,” Anthony mused. “An anvil marriage in the dead of night. The duke, as I recall, was more than a little displeased. Isn’t that how Lord Cheverley ended up a midshipman despite being the rather advanced age of sixteen?”
The salted wound stung. But she owned Pensteague, now. There was nothing Anthony could do. “Ifmy marriage could have been disproved,” she replied, “the duke would have done so long ago.”
“Who said anything about disproving your marriage? Such a wild imagination you have.” His scent enveloped her as he leaned in. “It makes me wonder how wild you are in—”
She smacked him without thought—jerking back as an angry, red blotch appeared on his cheek.
Anthony plucked her hand from the air and ran his thumb over the still-burning flesh. Then, he kissed her palm.
“Settle, sweet.”
Nauseating. Indecent. “Let me go.”
“Poor dear—first the loss of your husband, then the spectacle of a trial, and then the duke’s devastating illness. Perhaps Lord Thomas is right. Perhaps all of this has made you too overwrought to properly care for the duke and the ducal heir. Perhaps we should, as Thomas wishes, send Thaddeus to school and you...to a place where you could properly convalesce.”
Breathe in.Evenly.“Are you threatening me?”
“Me? I do not make threats.” His gaze swept her person. “I devise solutions. However,” he dangled his sentence like a lure, “I believe I could persuade Lord Thomas to forgo making arrangements...”
“If I abandon Ithwick and return to Pensteague House.”
Had she thought his gaze mouse-like? Rat-like would have been more apt.
“If you agree to marry me.”
