Page 47 of The Duchess Games

Matthew grinned. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that.”

She threw the cloth at his head. Callum stood stiff and formal, hands held behind his back as though he were in the army. He knew he looked unapproachable. But he felt as though he’d swallowed the entire sun and he didn’t know what to do with his face. This was the Cat he knew, the Cat he remembered from that summer. Laughing, irreverent, spirited. He hated the cold etiquette of his house and title, and he hated them even more when they strangled her. She was too good for the disdain and the power plays. The gossip. The pranks.

That, at the very least, had been dealt with.

While he yearned and called himself ten times a fool for being here when he should stay far, far away, Cat interrogated Matthew about her dogs. If they were eating, if they had tried to take over the butcher shop again. About her goat. And what he thought might be a one-winged parrot in a cage covered over with cloth. His language was not proper. “Bollocks to you!”

Mathew choked on a laugh. Cat poked him with her elbow, also trying not to laugh. He wanted his mouth on hers again, to feel that curve against his lips. The way her breath trembled against him. “Apologies,” Cat said. “Your Grace.”

“Bollocks to Your Grace!”

His mouth twitched against a smile when she snorted a laugh. She stared at him, as if transfixed, then looked hastily away.

“Percival breaks out at least three times a day no matter what I do,” Matthew complained. “He keeps looking for you.”

Cat ruffled his fur. “Poor fellow,” she said as he pressed against her adoringly. “He’s still a bit young,” she explained to Callum. “And he was the skinniest when we found him.”

“He sleeps under the blankets with her,” Matthew added. “And he hasn’t left her side since.”

“He’s a good boy.”

“He’s a menace when he doesn’t know where you are,” he grumbled. “He ate my left boot.”

“And what have you eaten since I left? And ale doesn’t count as food.”

“Alice brought me a stargazy pie last night.” Matthew nodded to the dish tucked against the stones where it would stay cool. It was a pie made with eggs and potatoes, with sardines kept whole, their heads poking up through the crust. “Would you like a piece?” he asked politely.

“I don’t think a duke wants stargazy pie,” Cat said dubiously.

“I disagree,” Callum said, forcing his posture to relax. To not be menacing. He was probably only half successful. “I happen to like stargazy pie.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“I do.” When he was nineteen, the Huer’s wife had brought it to him for months, to thank him for taking over for her husband when he had to rush home when her birthtime came early. All he’d done was stand on the cliff and wave gorse branches and shout. It was meant to let the village know that a shoal of pilchard had been spotted. He’d tried to refuse the gift of the pie, and she’d looked so crestfallen that instead he’d eaten the whole thing standing right there. It tasted better than all the lobster sauce and white soup his mother insisted they eat.

That was before his father died. Before he became a duke. Before everything changed.

It tasted better still at Cat’s worn and dented kitchen table while sitting in a chair with a slightly frayed wicker back that kept poking him in the kidney.

“I’ve got a Figgy ’Obbin too,” Matthew offered.

“Who brought you that?” Cat asked.

“The baker’s daughter.”

“Of course, she did. She thinks you hung the moon.” She turned to Callum. “Have you tried it? It’s like a sweet pasty stuffed with raisins.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t suppose there’s a lot of Figgy ’Obbin in London.”

“Figgy ’Obbin is my favorite.” He knew the exact moment she recalled the first time he’d ever had it. Straight from her hand while they sat in the tide pool and licked sugar off each other’s lips. Her cheeks went pink. “Well, second favorite.”

She didn’t ask him what his favorite was.

Just as well.

He couldn’t very well tell her she was his favorite sweet.

He could still taste her, from that long ago summer, from this morning by the garden wall. Taste her skin, her moans. He ate another mouthful of pastry to keep his hands from reaching for her. His hands didn’t belong to a duke. They didn’t care about propriety.

When it was time to return to Penhallow, Cat hugged her brother. “Be careful,” she murmured pointedly.