The footman shook his head. “Appetite is always the first to go when one suffers a depression of the spirits.”
Silkridge looked as though he might throttle the man.
“Has anyone else been summoned?” she asked. “A goat expert?”
With an exasperated sigh, the duke stalked over to where Tim lay, and placed the back of his hand to the goat’s furry forehead as if checking the temperature of a child. “How much has he been drinking?”
Noelle stared at the goat dubiously. At times like this, she wouldn’t mind a drink herself.
“Not a drop,” the footman assured him. “Of anything. We have even been adding bits of ice to his bucket to keep the water nice and cool.”
“Dump it out,” the duke said at once. “Goats require fresh, lukewarm water or they won’t drink.”
The footman turned wide eyes to Noelle. “Is that true?”
She had no idea, but it was as good a plan as any.
“His Grace has no reason to dissemble,” she told the footman. “Please fetch a fresh pail of water. Mind that it is not too cool.”
The footman nodded. “At once.”
The moment he was gone, she turned to Silkridge. “Is it true?”
“Of course it’s true,” he said. “I’ve better things to do than invent fake facts about pygmy goats. Nonetheless, you should have the footman send for an expert.”
“It sounds like you are one,” she admitted. “How else would you know Tim’s preferred temperature for drinking water?”
“One of my properties has goats,” Silkridge said dismissively, as if every land owner exhaustively researched all flora and fauna upon his property.
No wonder he was phenomenal when it came to crafting laws. He was likely the only member of the House of Lords that truly understood whatever subject they were discussing.
The footman not only returned with a pail of fresh water, but with three more footmen all bearing the same.
Silkridge raised his brows. “What’s this?”
“Wasn’t certain how lukewarm ‘lukewarm’ ought to be,” the footman admitted. “Brought four different varieties to ensure Tiny Tim received his preference.”
To her surprise, Silkridge did not scoff at this notion. Instead, he knelt next to the goat and offered water from first one pail, then another, until at last Tiny Tim’s parched tongue lapped up more than a few drops.
“He did it,” the footman breathed. “Tim’s cured!”
“I suspect it will take several days to recover from severe dehydration,” said the duke. “You should send for a proper veterinarian all the same.”
But he scratched behind Tiny Tim’s ears, rather than leaping to his feet and dusting the goat hair from his ducal breeches.
Noelle’s heart thumped. Silkridge wassofthearted, of all things.
Perhaps that was why she had almost kissed him. Not because he was arrogant and bullheaded and about to disappear from her life before she would get another chance. But because he constantly surprised her with proof that he was so muchmore.
She knew not to trust romantic emotions. Being kind to a goat, being nice to her, did not mean the duke was capable of falling in love with Cressmouth or anyone in it.
Even if he could, it wouldn’t be enough. Noelle was never enough. Her own parents had left her. Was it any wonder a London lord would do the same?
She knew this deep into her bones. Had sworn to never again put herself in a position to be abandoned. The very last person she should be gazing at with calf’s eyes was the Duke of Silkridge. He was destined to leave her. Danger incarnate.
And yet she couldn’t look away as he held a water pail to the lips of an exhausted goat and stroked its bristly hair in comfort.
The same skills he used to command Parliament were on display before her eyes. Smart and decisive, capable and compassionate. Silkridge’s ability to adapt to the moment was second to none. Anyone who chanced upon the duke engaged in such a selfless activity could be forgiven for believing him incapable of inflicting pain.
