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He wanted to make her happy, but the squeaky little boy inside him was protesting. He was a duke. He was supposed to be ducal.

Of course . . .

Being ducal to an eight-year-old boy had meant clean rooms with shining furniture, fireplaces without soot, meals that were served on time. All of which could be had in the Dower House far more comfortably than in the Grange.

“We can stay here,” he said, before Stella could answer. “My mother would be happy to continue living in the Grange. I notice that she has become protective of any room or object that reminds her of my father.”

“I would love that,” Stella said, leaning down to nip his lower lip. “Thank you. And no, you are not ripping out that paper. Guests will be dazzled by it.”

Silvester wound a hand into her hair and pulled her in for another kiss. “Harold cannot pay us a visit,” he said thickly sometime later. “I won’t have him ogling you while singing.”

She giggled at him. “You’re absurd.”

“No, I’m not. He wants you.”

“I’m married. And I’m hungry, husband. Since I do not want to dress and go down to the dining room, would you please reach over and pull that cord?”

“Would you like a boiled egg?” Silvester laughed at her confused expression, but he’d always fetched food for people he loved.

The thought made him blink.

Love?

People he was fond of. Living with. Family!

Yet Stella was his family now.

So he would always bring her boiled eggs and toast. But of course he didn’t love her. That would be absurd. He was fond of her. In time, he certainly would love her.

But not romantically, just in the warm, affectionate way that happy couples . . . loved each other.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Duke and Duchess of Huntington returned to London two weeks later. Specs traveled with them, since Silvester had managed to win back the kitty’s favor through frequent gifts of cheese. At the moment she was upside down in his lap, playing with the strings that laced his shirt at the neck. Since they would be traveling all day, Silvester was wearing a loose linen shirt and no cravat.

“She looks like an upside-down furry caterpillar,” Stella remarked. “When we first met, I thought you smelled like winter. Now we’re married, you smell like cheddar.”

“Not very ducal,” Silvester said, giving her that wry smile that she saw only in private. He ran a finger over Specs’s head, and the cat instantly turned and started wrestling with his hand. “She’s my favorite caterpillar.”

Stella cleared her throat. “So I gather that the townhouse was renovated fairly recently?”

He nodded. “Our chamber has an adjoining water closet with a separate Lewis Commode.”

“Is there a balcony for Specs?”

“There isn’t, but even if there was, we couldn’t allow her onto it. A large tree grows close by the window, and from there she could flee into Hyde Park, just across the road.”

Specs didn’t show any signs of wanting to escape. Right now she was purring as Silvester stroked her tail. “Where will we put her box?”

“In the fireplace for the moment,” Silvester said. “We’ll figure out a better location when it grows cold.”

Specs flicked her tail out of his hand, her eyes closing. “Perhaps we ought to put her down and amuse ourselves.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

In the end, the cat slept, nestled on a linen cravat, while the duke and duchess indulged in marital pleasures.

After spending the night at The Swan, the barouche arrived at the London townhouse in midmorning. Stella was ceremoniously introduced to each and every servant, including those who would be returning to the country, after which the housekeeper, Mrs. Briggs, gave her a tour of the townhouse, punctuating her commentary with useful information. Apparently, there was no keeping a housekeeper at the Grange.

“It’s the dowager’s fault,” Mrs. Briggs whispered, opening a floor-to-ceiling closet containing towering stacks of immaculate linens. “She won’t have it when they suggest changes, not even getting rid of tattered sheets. She won’t even take the nasty spit out of that huge fireplace in the entry, all because of some memory she has with the duke as was, her husband. Something about a wild hog, which speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”