The Duke Married Her for Money and Planned to Keep His Distance—But Six Hours After Their Wedding, His “Gentle” Bride Fought Three Armed Highwaymen to Protect Him, and He Realized He Could No Longer Imagine a Life Without Her

 PART 2

The thugs were taken to the old tack room under guard. The footman was carried to the servants’ hall. Mrs. Pennock tried to send for smelling salts.

Varity asked for hot water, clean cloths, vinegar, thread, and soup.

“Soup, Your Grace?” Mrs. Pennock repeated.

“For the injured footman,” Varity said. “For me, of course. And perhaps for the men tied in the tack room. Criminals answer questions better when they are not fainting from hunger.”

Gareth stared at her. “Do you often feed men after defeating them?”

“Only if I need them conscious.”

“A practical distinction.”

“I try.”

He should have taken charge at once. It was his house, his attack, his problem. Instead, he watched his bride remove her ruined gloves and direct the hall with calm precision. She sent the coachman to eat. She checked the footman’s shoulder and bound it more neatly than the housekeeper. Then she looked down at her torn hem.

“I like this gown.”

“I will replace it.”

“No. I will repair it. Replacement encourages surrender.”

Gareth followed her into the small morning room because he needed answers, and because for the first time since the wedding contract was signed, he did not want distance.

The room was still prepared for a new duchess who supposedly loved quiet things. Cream flowers on the table. A sewing basket. A ridiculous number of porcelain birds on the mantel. Varity looked at them.

“Are those always watching?”

“My aunt thought you would like them.”

“Why? You embroider?”

“So do prison chaplains, perhaps. One must not generalize.”

“Close the door,” she said. “Who taught you to fight?”

“My mother.”

He had not expected that. “Lady Crowley faints when dogs bark.”

“Only in public. In private, she trained three daughters to disable a man with household objects.” Her sisters, Cecily and Anora, had received the same lessons — one preferred a hairpin, the other a prayer book, apparently with excellent aim.

“Why?”

“Her first husband struck her once. She was seventeen. No one helped. She decided the next generation would not wait for rescue.”

Gareth’s anger rose, cold and useless, at a dead man he had never met.

“My mother’s first husband. My father was her second. He thought the lessons excessive — until my sister broke a kidnapper’s nose with a prayer book.”

“A family tradition,” Gareth said. “Devotional.”

He almost laughed. Then he remembered the lane.

“You should have told me. Before today.”

“You did not ask what I could do. You asked how little I would interfere.”

That landed fairly. He deserved it. Gareth stood and crossed to the window. The rain had returned in a fine grey sheet over the lawns.

“I misjudged you,” he said.

“Yes.”

No soft denial. No graceful excuse for him. “Does that please you?”

“Not particularly. Being underestimated is sometimes useful. Rarely flattering.”

He turned back. Varity met his eyes. For the first time, he saw not gentleness hiding strength, but strength choosing gentleness where it could.

“I hated this marriage,” he said.

“I noticed.”

“I thought you were sent to watch me. For my father. For your father, my creditors, my aunt, society, possibly God.”

“God has better methods.”

The smile escaped him then. Small. Unwanted. Real.

Varity saw it. She did not gloat. That made him want to smile more, which was inconvenient.

Mrs. Pennock knocked and entered with soup. Behind her came Gareth’s aunt, Lady Ma Rookmir, wrapped in violet silk and alarm.

“Gareth!” Lady Ma cried. “I heard ruffians attacked the carriage — and your bride fought them with a parasol!”