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he reached the chair opposite Geneva’s.
    When he went to settle into it, she arched a brow and tipped her head down toward the other end, where a footman stood beside his grandfather’s chair at the head of the table.
    His chair now.
    Oh, no . He wasn’t ready yet. Couldn’t he just put this off for a few more days…until he got used to the notion that his life—and freedom—were over?
    “Your Grace,” she said, “Staines has already set your place.”
    “Aunt Geneva, please call me Thatcher. Everyone else does.”
    “I shall not. Now take your place, Your Grace,” she said, scolding him as she had when he’d been the child no one would have ever thought stood to inherit the dukedom.
    “I won’t sit down there all alone,” he told her, folding his arms over his chest.
    “Don’t be so stubborn. It is your chair. Yours whether you want it or not.”
    Not . Life had been much simpler when he’d been merely Mr. Aubrey Sterling and his uncles, father, and elder brothers all stood between him and the esteemed title of Hollindrake.
    But even if he had told her so, she wouldn’t have heard him anyway, for she was still nattering on. “…you simply must sit there. Otherwise the servants will talk.”
    He eyed the distance between the ducal throne, because that’s what it was in comparison to the other chairs around the table, and her chair. “I’ll have to shout at you just to converse.”
    “I’m quite used to it,” she replied, taking a sip from her tea. “Father quite adored bellowing at all of us down here below the salt.”
    “I’ll go only if you come with me,” he insisted, holding his ground.
    She took a deep breath, then rose. “Staines,” she said, addressing their butler, “His Grace would like to make some changes to the seating arrangements for breakfast.”
    “Yes, my lady, Your Grace,” the man replied, his lips pursed with displeasure.
    Lady Geneva walked down the long row of chairs with the air of an early Christian martyr. Had she been born a Papist, he suspected she’d be a saint by now.
    “So now that we have all that settled,” he said. “Do explain poor Lady Bellinger’s predicament.”
    “Not until you tell me how you left Miss Langley. Is the poor dear broken-hearted?”
    He shook his head. “Ducal privilege. You have to tell me first.”
    “Well, if you hadn’t been in such an ill humor yesterday and had come home early enough to dine with me,” she replied, adjusting to her new chair and position at the table, “you would know that the Thames has frozen quite solid. Has been for over a week now.”
    “Like it was in ’95?” he asked, remembering his boyhood joy at such an event.
    “Yes, I daresay like it was then,” she replied. “A regular country fair—food stalls, trinkets, all sorts of entertainments, merchants ready to separate you from your coins. Why, they’ve even got a printing press down there and you can have your name printed on a pretty little engraving of it all.” She paused as she glanced over at his coat, having finally taken in the costume he’d chosen for today, and her brows furrowed. “Everyone is mad to go,” she finished, her gaze still fixed on his choice of jackets.
    “Have you?” he asked, ignoring her inquisitive glance.
    “Of course,” she replied, straightening in her seat. “Though the company is quite rough. Certainly not someplace you would go without a proper escort.”
    “And who did you go with?” he asked. “Apparently not your husband, since you are still living here. By the way, how is Pensford these days?”
    “Don’t be so rude,” she replied. “You know very well that subject isn’t spoken of in this house.”
    So the subject of Aunt Geneva’s scandalous marriage was still taboo. He wanted to point out that while that rule had been his grandfather’s edict, this was now his house, and the subject could damn well be broached whether she liked it or not. Then again, the last thing he needed was