His hand touched the side of her face. It was all she could do not to nuzzle her cheek into his palm. His hand was warm, his body too close and yet not close enough.
“I’m trying as hard as I can,” he whispered huskily, “not to kiss you.”
She did not move away.
Neither did he. “I beg you to slap me before I lose the battle.”
She could not break away. If she lifted her hand it would be to place it against his own, or perhaps to throw herself into his arms.
This was madness. He said as much himself. Yet if he was counting on her to stop him from indulging in a kiss they both knew far too dangerous to allow…
“Help!” called a footman from the stairwell. “Miss Pratchett, come quick! It’s Tiny Tim!”
She and Silkridge burst apart as if galvanized.
Noelle spun toward the open door.
Silkridge was already rushing over the threshold and down the stairs. “Where is he? His sickbed? The infirmary?”
“The menagerie,” the footman responded. “He lives there.”
The duke paused. “Lives there?”
“He’s our Christmas goat.” Noelle sidestepped the befuddled duke to follow the footman down the stairs.
“What?” The duke called down to her. “Wait,what?”
She did not elucidate until they had reached the foot of the stairs.
“Your grandfather brought a pygmy goat back from Africa,” she explained, “and declared—”
“That it was the town’s official Christmas goat?” the duke asked in disbelief.
“—that he should be called… Tim.” Noelle motioned for him to hurry. “This way to the menagerie.”
The duke was perhaps understandably hesitant. “What other beasts are in the menagerie? Bruce, the puma? Horatio, the puffin?”
“Just Tim,” she said as the footman swept open the door. “We didn’t feel it safe to introduce other animals. Tim jumps onto everything.”
“Rather, he doesn’t anymore,” the footman put in. “Tiny Tim arrived full of vim and vigor not a week before Mr. Marlowe took ill. At first we thought his weakened spirits were due to mourning his master.”
“You thought a goat was in mourning?” Silkridge repeated, incredulous. “Over a man he’d known less than a week?”
“Mr. Marlowe had a way of getting into one’s heart from the very first,” the footman said staunchly.
Noelle stepped between them. “What’s happening now?”
“Nothing’s happening.” The footman gestured at the small, white-and-black spotted goat lying listlessly in a shadowed corner. “He’s been doing this for a sennight.”
The duke frowned. “Why summon Miss Pratchett? She was my grandfather’s clerk, not his animal trainer.”
“She was his personal advisor. One of them, anyway.” The footman gave Noelle a commiserating glance. “We could have called Miss Underwood, but…”
“I understand,” she assured him. This was not the moment for Virginia’s eccentric aphorisms. This was the time for action.
She stared at the motionless goat.
“Has he been eating?” the duke demanded.
