“Why did being a duke stop you from owning a cat?” It was incongruent with what she understood of a duke’s life. They could do and have what they liked.
The duke unearthed another glass and took the bottle of gin from the table next to the sofa that Eleanor had collapsed onto. “According to my father’s man of business, I didn’t have time for a cat. My attention had to be on my estates. I was allowed to have a horse because I could use it to visit my tenants.”
She snorted. “Your father’s man of business sounds like a pillock.” Everyone deserved a cat. Even a duke. Poor Peter, the younger version anyhow.
Peter chuckled. “He was a pillock. Thank you for giving me the vocabulary with which to describe him.”
She probably shouldn’t swear around a duke. But then, why not? Wasn’t she the one who didn’t care about titles? “Did you get the blasted horse?”
“I did,” he said, suppressing a smile. “But one can’t curl up with a horse in their lap.”
A burst of eagerness sat her upright. “Did you know that miniature horses from Argentina are only thirty-eight inches tall? You might be able to curl up with one of those. They aren’t much bigger than a Great Dane.”
Peter raised a dukeish eyebrow and then looked to the dresser, where Baskerville was lying with his belly exposed. “I could just get a cat,” he replied.
She nodded. “You are a grown man who can have what he wants. You simply cannot havemycat, despite how much he’s taken to you.” A fact that made her frown. Baskerville wasn’t a mean cat, by any standard, but he also did not cuddle strangers so readily.
Peter smiled. “I like your cat. I would be very happy with your cat, but he belongs with you.” He poured a healthy serving of gin into his glass.
From this angle, she could not help but admire the cut of his jaw. It was strong. Determined. Serious. But a slight five o’clock shadow roughened his shininess, making him seem less picture-perfect and more human-perfect.
“How old were you when you became the duke?” Now thatthey were not enemies but acquaintances, she was curious about him. Before she’d known who he was, she’d rather liked him. Not that she could like him again. No, sir.
He winced, as though the conversation was not one he wanted to have. Still, he answered. “Thirteen. I was up an apple tree when my father’s man of business came to give me the news. I knew what had happened the moment he bowed and called me Your Grace. That was the last tree I climbed. Everything changed, and not for the better.”
“Because you couldn’t have a cat?”
“Because I ceased to be Peter and became the duke. Cooks who would scold me for snatching a biscuit now offered me the entire plate. My father’s friends, who had shown little interest in me as a boy, now became almost sycophantic. People traveled from all over with daughters in tow to express their sympathies for my parents’ demise. Inevitably, they had to spend a night or two to recover from the arduous journey and I had to host them while my siblings got to avoid guests and play by the stream.”
He tipped his head and gulped his drink, grimacing as he did. “That gin is something…”
A swirly, uncomfortable feeling snaked through her. “It might not be the quality you’re used to, but it’ll put hairs on your chest.”
Peter looked at her chest, and she flushed. “It didn’t… I mean… There are no hairs on my chest, thank you very much. It’s an idiom.”
Peter cleared his throat. “I have heard the phrase.” He dragged his eyes back up to meet hers. “Is there a system to this madness?” he asked, scanning the room. “Or are we to put everything in whichever trunk is closest?”
She sighed and slumped until her feet touched the table and she was staring at the ceiling. Dash it. Her skirt had bunched and her ankles were showing. Oh well. The duke was focused on the mess. It was not like he’d be interested in her stockings. He was here to help her move, apparently. “I need to sort through stuff and decide what to take to my boardinghouse room and what to sell. I cannot keep it all.”
He winced again. “I’m sorry.” He truly was. She could see it in the way his shoulders sagged as she gave him the news.
“It’s not your fault. It’s just progress, right?” She stabbed at the word. Stupid progress. Damnable progress. Unlucky-for-her progress. She still couldn’t quite believe it had happened, and just the thought of it made her stomach flop. For a moment, she’d forgotten the pickle she was in. Talking to Peter was easy. It was comfortable, which was a surprise, because who would have thoughthewould be a welcome distraction from her life?
He turned to the piles of books on the floor, and sighed. “You must sell yourbookstoo?”
“My books too.” She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told Lady Wharton her library had been a lifetime of curation. The books she had not finished because they were boring—and there was no time for boring books—hadn’t been kept. Which meant her shelves, which were so full that she’d had to stack books in front of books, held only stories she enjoyed.
Of course, her library was not as great as Agatha’s, because her lifetime was not as extensive. “Don’t call Agatha old, by the way.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You dared call the Dowager Countess of Wharton old?”
She wrinkled her nose and the skin on her cheeks protested. “I didn’t call her that on purpose, though she took it so.”
He laughed. But then he turned away, his gaze snagged on her books, and his expression changed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a lovely nose. Perfectly proportioned. “How many must you sell?”
She blew a raspberry at the universe, then remembered she had company and sat up, trying for a respectable demeanor but almost slipping off the seat. “Three quarters. And half of my wardrobe.” The words barely made it past the lump in her throat.
Peter sat on his haunches, picked up a book from the pile closest to him, and studied it. “A Gentleman Against the Elements. This one has to go, surely. It was a terrible book.”
