Page 6 of The Duchess Games

“Truly. Go.”

Viola darted away, relief clear in every line of her body. She didn’t care for embarrassment or awkwardness. She liked things in their place. Cat’s place was generally in a pond or a cave or up a tree after a cat. Being a Sparrow was not always easy for Viola. Cat was used to it. It did not bother her overmuch. Still, she’d rather not have been caught half-drowned and talking to a turtle inside the duke’s very formal stone monstrosity by the duke himself.

His Grace came around the leaping stone dolphins.

Chapter Three

Cat had not spoken to him in years. She used to see him walking the beach with his pants rolled up. Most un-dukelike. Most Callum-like. She looked for that familiar walk for weeks, months even, before sternly reminding herself that he was not for the likes of her. Fate had reminded her of that very clearly when he abruptly left for London after his father died. He had stopped talking to her after that. He had stopped talking to everyone. A duke was a duke was a duke, after all.

Trust that same Fate to deliver this as their first proper conversation. With her standing in a pond.

At his marriage tournament.

What if he thought she was here for him?

She was, of course. Just not like that. She wasn’t seventeen anymore. She’d given up her infatuation and he had never had one in the first place. She had been a convenient diversion, a stolen kiss. A cliché.

She briefly contemplated hurling herself into the hedges after her sister.

Too late.

Callum stopped very abruptly. No doubt wondering why there was a madwoman in his fountain. “Miss Sparrow. What the hell are you doing?”

She absolutely would not be distracted by the fact that he remembered her name. Little Crumpet was a small village and no doubt her mother had marched up his driveway to check on the happiness of his horses, dogs, and chickens. More than once. The Sparrow family was not…subtle.

There was no chance that he remembered walking with her along the beach, or that kiss in the tidepool. It was more than ten years ago.

“I’ve got a turtle,” she blurted out.

Nor were the Sparrows particularly eloquent, it seemed.

She was glad, once more, not to be part of the games. If scintillating conversation was on the agenda, she would have already failed.

“He does not appear to appreciate it,” Callum remarked.

“Well spotted.”

“What are you doing exactly?” His voice was quieter than she remembered, and lower. Threaded through with command. It ghosted pleasantly over the skin. She fervently hoped he would attribute her flushed face to the heat of the day.

“He’s stuck.”

He just looked at her.

And then he took off his coat.

And his shoes.

“What are you doing?” she asked, sounding far more panicked than was likely warranted.

“I’m freeing a turtle. Before you do yourself an injury and bleed all over the fountain. My mother’s aesthetic tastes do not run to the ghoulish.” He stepped closer.

She held out a hand, as if she was stopping a goat from headbutting a fence. “But you’re a duke!” He’d always been a duke and it had never stopped him before. He’d also been a young man, practically a boy.

Not any longer.

“I assure you I won’t melt.”

“Neither will I. You should stay over there.” Don’t come any closer. She absolutely did not need to know if he smelled like sandalwood soap or cedar or salt. Or the ocean. He would smell like a storm over the ocean. He always had.