Page 6 of The Duke’s Godsend Bride

Anthony rubbed the bridge of his nose, staring down at the black cat that was currently batting lazily at the corner of an important estate ledger on his desk.

This was the third time this week.

He could not count the exact number of times he had asked his grandmother, Marian, to ensure her menagerie stayed confined to her own wing of Glenhaven. He did not particularly hate cats, but he certainly did not care to share his workspace with them, especially when he was trying to review tenant accounts and maintain some semblance of order in his daily life.

The door to the study creaked open, and Marian drifted in, her silver hair catching the morning light as she peered around the room with a pleasant smile.

“Oh, there they are,” she murmured, wringing her hands lightly. “I have been looking everywhere for them.”

Anthony let out a slow breath, gesturing toward the desk. “Grandmother, you really cannot let them roam into my office. It disrupts my work.”

Marian frowned, her gaze shifting between Anthony and the cat on the desk. “I only have eight cats, Anthony. Where did this one come from?”

Anthony closed his eyes for a long, silent moment, feeling the familiar frustration settle in his chest. “Grandmother, you acquired that one just last month.”

“Did I?” She blinked, genuinely puzzled. “How extraordinary.”

Dealing with her failing memory had never been easy. While she still recognized him most of the time, her mind frequently slipped backward, erasing entire seasons and leaving her confused about her surroundings. It was why he kept a dedicated maid on staff to watch over her constantly. Yet, no matter how many times he asked, her cats always seemed to find a way past the closed doors and into his sanctuary, treating his study as their personal lounging ground.

He forced his shoulders to relax, taking a small breath before trying again. “The cats should not be roaming the main halls at all, Grandmother. It is quite enough that you keep them in your private quarters.”

Marian drew herself up, her spine stiffening as she glared at him. “I do not like your tone, Anthony. You speak to me as though I were a tenant falling behind on rent rather than the woman who practically raised you.”

Anthony resisted the urge to rub his temples again. In her mind, he was still the headstrong boy running through these corridors after his father passed away, needing a firm hand to keep him in line. She frequently forgot he was now a grown duke managing an entire estate. He could never stay truly angry with her, of course, she was the only family he had left, and the affection beneath her stubbornness was entirely real. But her forgetfulness did create endless practical hurdles for a man who dearly loved his peace and quiet.

“I did not mean to sound harsh, Grandmother,” he said. “Only that my desk is not a suitable bed for a stray.”

“A stray?” she repeated, looking deeply offended. “That is Barnaby, and he is a remarkably distinguished gentleman, which is more than I can say for some people in this room.”

Anthony let out a dry, disbelieving huff. “He was chewing on my papers five minutes ago.”

“Nonsense,” she waved a hand dismissively. “You always were far too rigid, Anthony. When you were ten, you spent three entire days organizing your marbles by size and shade. It was deeply unnatural. A boy should be out getting muddy, not sitting indoors looking like a solemn little judge.”

“I was a very organised child,” Anthony muttered.

“You were a fussy child,” she corrected instantly. “Now you are a fussy man. If you spent half as much time finding a nice young lady to settle down with as you do glaring at poor Barnaby, we would all be much happier.”

“We have discussed this —”

“I will hear none of it,” she interrupted, waving him off. “You need a wife to soften those edges of yours. Someone lively, someone who will not simply agree with every tedious thing you say.”

Anthony watched her go, a genuine, fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He adored her. He was not a man who let people easily into his inner circle, nor was he someone who tolerated interference or allowed others to influence his well-ordered life. Yet his grandmother was the singular exception to every rule he set for himself. He would quietly endure a dozen stray cats in his study just to see her vibrant spirit hold its ground against the fading edges of her mind.

“What are you smirking at?” Marian demanded, squinting at him suspiciously. “You have that dreadful look on your face.”

“Dreadful?” Anthony scoffed.

“Yes. Very dreadful.”

Before his grandmother could launch into another lecture on his domestic failings, a young maid hurried into the study, breathless.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” the maid said, dipping a quick curtsy as she scooped Barnaby up into her arms. “I turned my back for a single moment, and the cats slipped right past me.” She turned to Marian, offering a gentle, guiding arm. “Come along, Your Grace. Let us go see if the others want their breakfast in the conservatory.”

“They will be fed in my chambers.”

“No, they will not,” Anthony countered her.

“Yes, they will. Alice, gather all my little ones for their breakfast.”