Page 84 of The Duchess Games

Much.

There was a certain comfort to the soft fur and the sharp inquisitive teeth. To the tiny meows as they clambered over him, searching for mischief. And treats. He caught one in his palm—Egg, he thought—before he tumbled off his knee and was rewarded with an instant rumble of purr. Egg was asleep before Callum had finished scooping him out of the air.

The kitchen was warm and smelled of bread and roast meats. A lamp burned on the grate, touching iron pans, jars of herbs, pots of salted butter. He had spent many hours here as a child when he was supposed to be sleeping. It always sorted him out. The warmth of it, the constancy. Cook’s kindness under a layer of good-natured grumbling.

Kittens in the quiet kitchen should have been a reliable cure.

But they reminded him of Cat.

As did the entire kitchen. Setting raisins on fire for entertainment tended to stay with a person.

Everything reminded him of Caitriona Sparrow.

He needed to get out of this house. Out of Cornwall. Possibly England, altogether.

The sharp stab of pain had settled into an ache that would not be ignored. She had lied to him, had used his status for her own gain. Secretly. Flattering him like all of the others.

Truthfully, if he cared to think past the ache in his chest, she had never flattered him. She had practically pushed him into a pond. Had thrown kittens into his arms without permission. Had challenged him to a footrace, and then led him to a mess of rotted fish to challenge his ideas.

Had it all been a ruse?

The hours in his bed? In the library. He wouldn’t believe that. His brain knew better. His heart wasn’t so sure.

Frustration woke a growl in his throat. Egg batted him in reprimand.

Didn’t she know he would have written a hundred letters with his ducal seal if she had just asked him?

He had lost her once when they were young. He didn’t know if he could survive losing her again. Not now. Not like this.

Candlelight moved outside the door and there was a yelp. “Oh, you startled me, Your Grace!” Cook exclaimed. “What are you doing down here?”

He would never admit that his sister had sent him to the kitchen, much like a parent sending a troublesome child to bed early to sort out his manners.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Shall I warm you up some milky tea with honey?” She had made it for him often growing up, especially after another scolding lecture from his mother enumerating his faults as a future duke. At eight years old he had only wanted cake and maybe a paper boat to race in the fountain against his sister. Lessons on proper address, proper facial expressions, proper bows were hardly entertaining. Particularly as he appeared to do them all wrong.

“No, don’t trouble yourself.”

“Bah, won’t take a minute.” She bustled towards the kettle, filling it with water. “I was coming to fetch the wee beasties for their evening goat milk. Miss Sparrow was spot on with her suggestion to add gelatin. They’ve taken right to it. Don’t mind telling you I wasn’t sure Egg would get on but he’s already proving himself a little warrior.”

Egg, hearing her voice and the hiss of the kettle, lifted his head. One ear flopped. It was hard work being a kitten. Cook cooed and had all three kittens in her pockets and a mug of hot tea in Callum’s hand before he could blink.

It was not as late as he’d hoped but the majority of the guests had gone home, and it was probably safe enough to hurry up the stairs. Dignified ducal walk be damned. He hadn’t slept since the night of the ball, not for more than a few hours before he woke up disoriented, hard with want for Cat and miserable.

Definitely not ducal of him.

He’d never hated his title as much as he did right now.

His mother, of course, was furious. She had spent considerable time and money trying to force his hand, trying to find a duchess she approved. And he had wasted it. And that was before he’d even fallen in love with Cat.

In love with a girl from a fishing village with problematic ties to smuggling.

Armstrong was a lot of things, but he wasn’t an idiot. If he’d suspected her, there was cause. More cause than he would ever know, having already dismissed most of the evidence due to her gender. He was tripping himself up and Callum had every intention of letting him. He might be furious with her, but no one put Cat in danger. No one. Not ever.

He would make sure it was very, very clear before he returned to London.

Glittering, crowded London with its never-ending parade of entertainment and diversions. With his cold empty house where all he could hear were carriage wheels on the cobbles and parties overflowing Grosvenor Square. He missed the sound of the sea when he was away. But he could not see himself staying here or returning often to be tortured. Nor could he imagine staying away.