“That merely signifies I am a trifle warm, Your Grace.”
How challenging Southby sounded. James recalled the first time he had smelled the fetidness of a bear’s breath, the wildness of oakmoss, the murky, elusive fragrance of a rotted tree, the decay of death, and the crispness of new life. The fragrance emanating from this person was indeed something wonderful and different. That uniqueness repelled his senses yet also drew him dangerously closer.
“There is a softness to that scent in your sweat…a hint of musk that is not derived from soaps or perfumes. A scent that seems to be natural to all women I have encountered.” And James’s sharpened sense of smell had not failed him in years.
Southby’s eyes widened slightly before those lashes lowered. The pencil scratched over the notebook, and he glanced down to read what the creature had written.
The duke must learn to not smell people in public or even in private. He mustabsolutelylearn this.
“Your sense of perception is astounding, Your Grace. Would you say this was a skill you had before you became lost?”
“I spent several weeks in a cave bereft of even a sliver of light. I relied on…” He stilled. James did not share how he had lived with anyone, and he had just done so effortlessly.
Southby’s head snapped up from the notebook. “You must have suffered.”
Those soft words were filled with deep empathy, and he did not understand why it made him feel…discomfited. “Everyone suffers, Southby.”
“I am truly sorry, Your Grace.”
James went over to the windows and stared out into the woodlands.
“Would you tell me about that experience, Your Grace?”
His sense of smell was what he had learned to survive with first. Not sight or touch or even hearing, though those had been sharpened by circumstances. Those experiences would never be available for someone to dissect.
At his silence, Southby murmured, “I implore you to share only what you are comfortable with.”
Suddenly, James was damn annoyed. “I have no plans to share anything. My lived experiences will not be fodder for drawing-room gossips. It is simply the past, and it will stay there. Do you understand?”
The words came out on a growl, and he hissed in a sharp breath, tempering himself.
“I hear your words, Your Grace.”
Yet this was not an acknowledgment they would be heeded. That dark restlessness surged through his veins once more. James turned around to stare at Southby. “You are an unexpected mystery. I do not like things that are unexpected.”
The pencil scratched over the pages. “I daresay we share similar sentiments, Your Grace.”
They stared at each other for a silent minute, the air cracking with an odd sort of challenge.
“Why are you here in my home, Southby? Only the truth.”
Those eyes glinted for a moment and then were swiftly veiled.
“The duchess hired my father to speak with you. I am here to assist my father to the best of my capabilities.”
“What does your father want of me?”
“Mere conversation, Your Grace.”
He arched a brow. “What would you and your father like to talk about?”
“You, of course.” This was said with a small smile. “The duchess…your mother is very worried about you.”
Those words dug into his gut and twisted. “She does not need to be. I am home and I know my duty.”
If I am capable of doing that duty in the time she needs is only my damn business.
“You are home; however, you are different to the son she recalls. I believe it causes some distress for her.”
