Page 33 of The Duchess Games

The guests shifted in their seats, looking at each other. The dowager pursed her lips. She had very possibly never heard a work song in her entire life. Callum’s foot tapped discretely and perfectly on beat. No one else noticed.

She noticed.

“For the voyage is long and the winds don’t blow.”

No one stood up to demand she leave, which she considered a personal triumph.

Better yet, another voice joined her for the next line: “And it’s time for us to leave her.”

She might have imagined it as the next line was reserved for the lead voice and she was alone again. “Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high.”

But sure as the tide, a deep voice joined her again for the next: “Leave her, Johnny, leave her.”

Cold, reserved Callum was singing along with her, clearly familiar with the old sea shanty. He stood and the scornful glances tossed her way withered into surprise. They bloomed into something far less pleasant when they realized the duke was not just singing along, but he had risen to stand beside her like any courting beau.

She absolutely would not read anything into it.

Oh, but a soft and secret part of her was desperate to hold on to the moment. The flush of pleasure, the surprise of being seen and admired, if only for the sake of courtesy.

Yes, courtesy. Surely that was it.

Never mind that the duke was hardly known for this kind of courtesy. He was better known for taciturn, clipped responses to the softest of questions. And this new “courtesy” would absolutely backfire on her the moment she was alone with any of the ladies. Or their fathers, hoping to trade their daughters for access to power.

For now, it was enough to feel the warmth of him at her side, to hear the way their voices wove together, like roses climbing a trellis. “And it’s time for us to leave her; Leave her, Johnny, leave her; Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her; For the voyage is long and the winds don’t blow; And it’s time for us to leave her.”

As the last of the song died away and the spoons went still in her hand there was a charged, uncertain silence. Callum was so close she could have leaned against him. She didn’t, of course. But she wanted to.

He returned to his seat without a single glance in her direction.

“Do play something a little more genteel, Lady Malborough,” the dowager suggested coolly.

One thing was certain.

Cat would not be sitting next to Callum at dinner tomorrow.

Chapter Twelve

Cat could not sleep.

That was nothing new. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since before her father was lost at sea. When her mother died a few years later, sleep had all but fled. It was up to her to take care of her family. Sleep was too busy counting how much flour cost or wondering if the oncoming storm would cross Matthew’s path when he was out on the boat. Or trying to figure out where the revenue men were lurking and how to avoid them. Last year, it had not been much of a problem. She had figured out their routes and their schedules in less than two weeks. But this year, they seemed to be everywhere. And so, sleep had no use for her. Even here in the softest bed this side of an actual cloud.

It was too quiet. She couldn’t hear dogs snuffling, cats chasing each other through the yard or Mrs. Mckinnon who liked to sing naked in her front yard when the moon was full. She claimed it was good luck (no one who heard her could say the same). She couldn’t even hear the sea from up here on the cliff.

At home she would have started the bread or gone for a wander with Percival, who was always up for a walk as long as he could trot by her side. Someone had dropped a giant wolfhound and her two puppies on their doorstep just a few months ago. It wasn’t even anyone from Little Crumpet—word had traveled as far as Tintagel that the Sparrow cottage would not turn away an animal.

Wolfhounds were not cheap to feed. They ate more than Matthew, and that was saying something.

Worry continued to nibble at her, and she knew from long experience that lying in the dark would only make it worse. She sighed and kicked free of the coverlet. A short walk would sort her out.

She tucked the key into her palm and moved through the dark house, not bothering with a candle. She took the back stairs all the way down to the kitchens. She may as well check on the kittens while she was awake. She found them tumbling over each other in the lap of Cook who fed them from a small bladder. She wore a shawl which offered endless entertainment to them, batting the fringes and the knots.

“Up late, ye are,” she said. “Can I fetch you some tea?” Cat shook her head and Cook paused. “Beg your pardon,” she added, with a crisp London accent, all trace of Cornwall wiped from her speech. She sat up straighter. “How about some bread and cheese?”

“No, thank you.” Cat tilted her head. “You don’t have to do that on my account.”

Cook sighed. “The duchess prefers it. Cornish accents are not fine enough.”

“I’m hardly the duchess,” Cat pointed out wryly. She leaned forward to scratch a soft ear, a milk-full belly. “I was coming to feed them but I see you have it all in hand.”