Page 10 of Gabriela and His Grace

Whatever response had been perched on his tongue was quickly swallowed in the face of Brodie’s words. Sebastian strategically surrounded himself with people who stood up to him. Who didn’t hold his title in such a high regard that they believed telling lies to his face was kinder than sharing the truth.

“That’s why you like her.”

Sebastian jerked his chin back. “I beg your pardon.”

“Miss Luna.” Brodie spread his palms, an exasperated note to his voice. “You’ve always had a soft spot for her because she doesn’t put up with your shit.”

Cotton seemed to fill his ears, and Sebastian stared back at his valet—his brazen, ludicrous valet. “I don’t have a soft spot for Miss Luna. Or any woman.”

“Well, now that’s bullshit.” Brodie snorted, picking up a stack of handkerchiefs and walking to the wardrobe. After wrestling them into their designated space, the valet pivoted to look at Sebastian. “How long have I worked for you?”

“Ten very long years,” Sebastian drawled, rubbing his brow. The beginnings of a megrim were already creeping along his scalp.

“And in those ten years, there is only one lass you’ve mentioned with regularity.” Brodie arched a brow in that annoying manner of his.

“Because she is a terror. Anytime I encounter her in public, we’re guaranteed to engage in a sparring match, and frankly it’s exhausting.” Sebastian sighed. “She’s exhausting.”

Except she hadn’t been that morning. She had been effervescent. While he had been feeling like the sludge stuck at the bottom of a Thames ferryboat, Gabriela had been pleasant and kind…and dangerous. Sebastian was used to her hostility. Her carefully veiled insults. The way her lip curled whenever she was forced to speak with him. Anything less than the full weight of her disgust felt foreign. Fake.

“Well, if I may speak plainly, Your Grace, you can be exhausting, too.”

Sliding his gaze to Brodie, Sebastian slowly arched a brow. “I doubt you’ve ever not spoken plainly to me.”

The older man nodded. “Well, there are very few people who can put up with you, Your Grace.”

Tipping his head back, Sebastian groaned. “You make me sound like an unfortunate, incurable malady.”

“No need for the dramatics,” Brodie said, laughing. “But you respect people who stand up to you. And so you respect Miss Luna.”

“Uhh,” Sebastian paused, his jaw working as he tried to decipher what the valet was on about. “I do respect Miss Luna, but I don’t understand why that matters.”

Brodie threw his hands up into the air. “Because I’ve never known you to respect a woman before.”

“That’s nonsense.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “I respect Mrs. Fox.”

“She’s married to your friend,” Brodie pointed out.

“Yes, well.” Sebastian ran his palms over his thighs as his mind churned. “I respect Mrs. Evers.”

“I should hope you’d respect old Mrs. Evers. She damn near raised you, or so she likes to claim.” Brodie crossed his arms over his chest. “The old biddy would whack the back of your head if you were to ever talk back to her.”

Mrs. Evers was the longtime housekeeper at Whitfield Manor, and had been a fixture in his life from the time he was a small boy. Sebastian had offered her a pension to retire more than a half dozen times, but Mrs. Evers always said she’d leave her post when a new Duchess of Whitfield arrived at the manor. He thought it an amusing declaration at one time, but now it filled him with guilt.

Until recently, Sebastian had been unable to afford to take a wife, thanks to his vile father. And even if he could, he could not think of a single woman he’d be willing to shackle himself to for the rest of his life. A night spent together in shared pleasure was one thing; a life lived together for eternity was quite another.

Brodie’s voice interrupted his memories. “Have you thought of anyone else who’d be willing to put up with you?”

Sebastian arched a severe brow. “I’m a duke. I’m sure there are multiple ladies who would be willing to put up with me, as you say, for a duchess coronet.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Brodie sorted through various soaps, salves, and colognes. “But how many of them are you willing to put up with?”

Zero. Sebastian leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “Why are we even talking about this, Brodie?”

“I have no notion, sir.” The valet shrugged. “I just assumed you wanted to talk about how every lass in the United Kingdom, and probably soon Mexico, will want to marry you because you’re a duke. And an impeccably dressed one at that.”

“You’re cracked,” Sebastian declared.

“I may be, but I also make sure you look the part of a dapper duke, so…” Brodie spread his palms, his teeth flashing with an impish grin.