Chapter 8

Lucien's valet waited outside. The valet asked whether the future duchess had any objections to the color gray. Mabel objected to gray: Mabel shook her head. "It makes people look like boiled mushrooms."Lucien looked at his valet. "You heard her."The valet, Mr. Grieve, had served the Duke for twelve years; he was not easily surprised. Mr. Grieve bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."At Caldermir House, the staff gathered in the passage to inspect their temporary duchess. Mabel inspected them back. The butler was tall and angular; the housekeeper was small and dangerous. The cook from Lady Fenwick's house had been hired that morning: she had announced that she would rather work for a duke than continue feeding people who believed soup required a curtain.Lucien gestured toward the cook. "This is Mrs. Crest. She manages the household."Mrs. Crest looked Mabel up and down. "Can you sew?"Mabel shook her head. "Badly."Mrs. Crest narrowed her eyes. "Can you arrange flowers?"Mabel grimaced. "Worse."Mrs. Crest folded her arms. "Can you manage His Grace?"Mabel glanced at Lucien. "I have not yet been given the instructions."Mrs. Crest's mouth twitched. Lucien saw it; he became suddenly suspicious that the entire household had been waiting for someone to say this.His first rule began to fail that evening. He had written that they would not fall in love; he had not written that he would not become fascinated by Mabel.She moved through his house as if it were a puzzle designed for her amusement. She spent the first night in the library reading his grandmother's household ledgers. She made notes in the margin: she discovered that the estate had paid for forty-seven dozen lemons in one month. The orchard produced lemons; nobody in the household had seen a single one.Lucien found her at midnight with a candle, three ledgers, and a plate of cold meat. Lucien leaned against the doorframe. "You are awake."Mabel did not look up. "So are you."Lucien walked into the room. "I own the house."Mabel turned a page. "I am beginning to suspect that ownership is not the same as awareness."Lucien walked to the desk. "What are you doing?"Mabel kept reading. "Looking at the accounts."Lucien pointed at the ledger. "You may inspect them. You may not accuse my staff of theft on your first night."Mabel looked up. "I have not accused anyone. I have only written a question mark beside forty-seven dozen lemons."Lucien frowned. "Perhaps the household likes lemons."Mabel tapped the page. "Then why did the kitchen buy vinegar instead of sugar?"Lucien leaned over the ledger. Mabel shifted aside to give him room; her shoulder brushed his sleeve. Lucien looked at the figures. "The steward handles the purchases."Mabel pointed at a column. "The steward is either stealing from you or being stolen from. In both cases, he should not be handling purchases."Lucien straightened. "You have known him for five minutes."Mabel met his gaze. "I have known the numbers for an hour."Lucien studied her notes: they were neat, sharp, and merciless. Lucien looked at her. "You are not what society says you are."Mabel took a piece of meat. "Society says I am what?"Lucien kept his voice quiet. "A pleasant young lady with a generous appetite."

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