“Begone, you beetle-headed gudgeon.” Oh, the look on his face. For as long as she lived, she would laugh whenever she recalled it. “Beetle-headed . . . ?” He huffed with offense, and his face turned purple with rage. “You will not speak to me that way, Emma Grace Gladstone.” “Emma Grace Gladstone,” she echoed. “No, Emma Grace Gladstone would not have dared to speak to you that way. But I’m Emma Grace Pembrooke now. The Duchess of Ashbury. And if you ever speak to me again, you will address me as Your Grace.”
