Needing something with which to busy herself. A way to hide her face until she could gather herself sufficiently that she wouldn’t turn into a watering pot.
Torrie hadn’t brought her just any gift. He had brought her a cat.
A tortoise shell cat.
Like Mince Pie.
But she had only told him about Mincey once, on the day he had told her the truth about her father and the trust which had been squandered without her knowledge. It hardly seemed likely that he would remember, and with such attention to detail. That he would intentionally seek out not just a cat for her as companion, but that he would find a cat which looked the same.
She dipped a clean strip of linen into the basin and then wrung the excess water from the cloth, tears blurring her vision. She sniffed, trying to keep them at bay.
“Bess?”
Torrie’s hand was on her shoulder. She jumped, flinging water everywhere.
“Yes?” She sniffed again.
“Have I upset you? You sound as if you’re weeping. Do you not want a cat? If not, I have no doubt Monty and Hattie will take her in. Hattie has always been tenderhearted where felines are concerned.”
She blinked furiously, trying to clear away her tears, and then turned to face her husband. He towered over her, all lean grace and effortless handsomeness. But it wasn’t his masculine beauty that struck her as she drank in the sight of him, the sunlight gleaming in his dark hair and his green eyes glittering into hers.
Rather, it was his heart.
The way he cared for her, in a way no one ever had. It was humbling, astonishing.
Breathtaking.
She couldn’t speak, so she dabbed at the scratches on his neck with her cloth, cleaning away the specks of blood. The scratches were shallow—merely the effect of the cat being desperate to escape a stranger.
“You’re not saying anything.” Torrie cupped her face, his palm a warm, reassuring touch that brought her back from her tumultuous thoughts. “I know she isn’t a replacement for Mince Pie. But she looks like her, and when Monty said he knew of a cat in the mews who had recently had a litter of kittens and I went to investigate and saw her, I thought she would be a perfect fit for you.”
“You remembered,” she blurted stupidly, still keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the scratches on his neck for fear she would burst into tears anew if she met his stare.
“Of course I did, Bess. I remember everything you tell me.”
A tear rolled down her cheek.
She finished her task and forced herself to look back up at him at last.
“Thank you,” she whispered, grateful for far more than the feline presently hiding under her bed.
Grateful for him, for the caring he continually showed her. Grateful that fate had somehow chosen for her to be in the library at Lord and Lady Worthing’s town house at the wrong time. Which had somehow, impossibly, become the right time.
“You don’t want the cat?” he asked again, his brow furrowed, vibrant gaze searching.
“Idowant the cat,” she reassured him, voice still thick with suppressed emotions. “Of course, I do. Does she have a name?”
“Evildoer?” he suggested wryly. “Furred Assassin? Demon With Claws?”
She laughed. “I think she’s fearful.”
“Understandable. I wouldn’t wish to be stuffed inside a basket and escorted through Mayfair by a stranger either,” Torrie drawled. “Shall I attempt to lure her out from under the bed for you now?”
He fully intended to crawl on his hands and knees and try to cozen a terrified cat from under the bed.
“I think that perhaps we should ring for my lady’s maid and ask that some meat scraps from the kitchen be found,” she suggested. “That will likely help.”
“Ah, bribery.” He grinned and kissed her soundly. “I like the way you think, Lady Torrington.”
