Page 28 of The Duchess Games

“They need a bath, a meal, and a warm basket,” Cat explained. “Your cook and your housekeeper will be able to assist me.”

Except that the kitten had wrapped himself entirely around his arm and would not be moved. By the time they reached the kitchens, Cat was covered in little scratches. Callum frowned at her chest. She blinked. “What?” When she followed his gaze she added. “Oh, that’s fine. Hardly the first time.”

“You’ll wash those.”

“Obviously.”

“And apply a vinegar rinse.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t usually bother, to be honest.”

“Miss Sparrow, I may not know much about wrangling turtles but even I know that cat scratches can fester.” He sounded furious with her, but she thought it might actually be concern. She wasn’t sure what to do with either.

They set the kittens, still whimpering for food, inside a harvesting basket left by the rosemary bush. Cat went down into the kitchens and wrangled a basin, hot water, and soap, as well as goat milk and egg yolk with a bit of gelatin for the kittens. She washed her hands and arms first, and even wiped at her decolletage—mostly because Callum glowered at her.

By the time the kittens had been washed and were starting to feed, they had gathered an audience of Cook, three maids, two footmen and two gardeners. Competing advice was offered, sometimes rather forcefully. The kittens fell asleep in a pile in their basket, rounded bellies quivering with snores. She thought the Cook might snatch them into her apron. “Poor wee things,” she kept saying. She wouldn’t look at the duke, but she raised her voice. “We have a fierce mouse problem belowstairs. Can’t keep them from the larder. Hard to make blackberry tarts that way.”

By the way Callum sighed, Cat deduced that blackberry tarts were his favorite, and everyone knew it. “Set one of the scullery maids or the gardener’s boys in charge of the kittens until they’re old enough to mouse.”

Cat opened her mouth.

“And consult Miss Sparrow as to their proper care.”

Cat beamed at him, before remembering she shouldn’t beam at a duke. At Callum. “Thank you.”

He just grunted and walked away.

Chapter Ten

Dinner that night was held in the formal dining where a forest of candles burned clean, warming the air with the smell of honey. This house had never seen tallow. The light gleamed off the gilded frames of seascape paintings and portraits of Tremaine ancestors with their favorite cows. It glittered off the gold candelabras, the gold stitching of the tablecloth, the gold ribbons wound around centrepieces of hothouse flowers she’d never seen before and no less than three pineapples. It struck crystal drops from the chandeliers, diamond necklaces, silver cravat pins. It was dazzling.

And it threatened to give Cat a headache.

She knew her place and it was not in this room at this dinner. It was certainly not near the head of the table, sitting next to a duke. Covered in cat scratches.

Despite what the duke’s sister might have to say about it.

“Of course you’ll sit right here,” Summer said, personally showing her to the chair with its seat embroidered with oak leaves and the arms carved with acorns. “I’m sorry to hear your sister is not feeling well but as she won the challenge, you must take her place,” Summer announced cheerfully and quite loudly. She looked down at the seated guests, some of whom exchanged glances Cat chose not to decipher. The only people present who would dare contradict her were her mother and her brother.

The dowager duchess frowned, likely on principle. It was bad enough that Viola had charmed her, but her spinster sister might be too much to be borne. Before she could speak however, Callum drew Cat’s chair back. “Allow me, Miss Sparrow.”

A duke personally seating said spinster. Even the footman hovering behind them, whose job had just been usurped, was not sure what to do. A curious, gossipy silence thrummed.

Cat sat down, practically jumping into the chair, mostly because it afforded her less of the intense attention than would have any kind of refusal or demurral. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Callum nodded to the butler, who nodded to the footmen, who in turn leapt into action. A blur of movement surrounded them as the soup course was served. Ladies removed their gloves and placed them on their laps. Cat followed suit, never having worn gloves to dinner before. At least not all practicality had been tossed out of the window. Although even she knew the pineapples on gold trays were a display of wealth and privilege, not meant to be eaten, only admired. And often rented for parties such as this one before traveling on to other balls and suppers and betrothal announcements.

And as a fisherman’s daughter, Cat had never had previous cause to be introduced to the gentleman seated beside her. She knew he was the Earl of Blackpool, but she did not know if she was supposed to pretend not to know. Did they still need to be introduced by another party? What were the rules? She was confident she could eat her soup without slurping and comment on the weather with the best of them, but that was about it. She didn’t want to embarrass her sister.

She didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of Callum.

Which was absurd. Ridiculous. Neither here not there.

Also, uncomfortably true.

“Miss Sparrow, forgive my forwardness but I cannot abide a silent meal,” the earl said, all ease and smiles as the soup bowls were removed. “Allow me to introduce myself to you.” He tilted his head closer, whispering. “If you promise not to tattle on me to the duchess for my scandalous manners.”

Cat smiled. “I promise.”