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“What’s this, now?” Arthur pulled back the door and nearly tore it from its hinges. “Remove it,” he growled at the sly creature.
“I cannot be seen to deface the property of the peerage.” Bloody foxes. Always had a slippery way with a phrase.
“Are you not our factotum, Mr. Todd?” the duchess—would he truly call her “the duchess”?—inquired. Regardless of what Arthur called her, she was Lady Frost through and through. “Is His Grace’s order not to be obeyed?”
“I walk a fine line,” Todd replied, deferential. “As we are still on royal ground, I fear my fealty is spoken for, Madam.” He smiled in apology, hazel eyes glittering, and joined the baggage carts that Arthur assumed, in his general factotum-ness, Todd had organized.
Madam.Hmm.
A footman handed her into the vehicle, and she settled on the bench facing the horses, as was only correct. Arthur sighed and heaved his great bulk into what had been a spacious interior until he put himself into it. There was nowhere to set his feet but to each side of—of Madam, a posture implying an intimacy they did not enjoy.
Nor would ever enjoy. How did one go about proposing a white marriage so soon after the legal fact? Small wonder the humans employed solicitors to negotiate contracts and such in advance of the ceremonies. Although…he recalled the Countess of Liverford had taken out notices in the broadsheets declaring her agreements null and void after ten years of marriage and due to the earl’s profligacy and suspected pox. She had retired to the Continent in high spirits and with full pockets, a cicisbeo on each arm.
That juicy scrap of gossip did not elevate his spirits as it ought. Would Arthur live out his days in company with a stranger? He suspected there was a marked contrast between the chosen solitude of his last several decades and the purposeful evasion of another who lived in close proximity. It did not bode well for a comfortable existence.
He hoped Arcadia’s wood had not been razed. He would take it for his sanctuary.
Hiding place, scoffed his bear.
Ah, it’s you, is it?His bear had been oddly quiet throughout the morning.Done with your brown study?
The bear ignored his query.Why has she no scent?
Arthur’s nostrils flared. Nothing.She is not our mate; there is nothing to scent.
There is nothing to scent, and thus we do not know if she is our mate.With that, his bear retreated once more.
“Thus,” was it? Arthur sniffed again. It was odd, now that he was alerted to it. From flowers in a hedgerow to clothes in a press, everything had a fragrance signature, and Madam had none, or at least nothing that betrayed her true essence. He remembered Ben’s being astringent and healthful and Charlotte’s heavily influenced by sealing wax and ink.
Madam’s clothes smelled of lavender, likely due to the sachets ladies used in their wardrobes, but there was nothing he found common with a human of her age and station, nothing that spoke to pursuits with paints or embroidery (yes, even thread had a signature), nothing of a lapdog or a house cat or a—
“You may have ridden if you wished.” The coach turned out of the city gate and headed south.
Madam opened the slats covering one of the windows and fixed her gaze outward as they tooled past the first instance of pastoral terrain to be found so close to Town. “Horseback does not appeal,” she said, every sinew of her body conveying dismissiveness.
“Ladies of your station are known to be avid equestriennes.”
She glanced at him the way she might at a cushion. “There is no love lost between myself and such beasts.”
“All” beasts, implied. He experienced reluctant admiration for her gift in making statements imbued with layers of meaning. Whereas he—
“I prefer plain speaking, Madam.” Yes,Madamwould do very well.
“Shall we speak plainly?” Her cool tone dared him to do so; her composure was combative, in the same way her curtsy to Georgie was the height of defiance. In contrast to this fierce control, she was so small and so delicately blond she looked like a confection, like a little cake. A confection soberly iced, it was true, and full of salt, it had to be said, but her severe traveling costume only served to set off her youthful looks—
What age was she? When had she wed that mephitic wolf? Had she done so directly after she came out, she could not be more than two and twenty. He discerned from her presence and dress at that infernal ball she was no longer in mourning. Had she mourned Castleton? Thoughts of her come-out led to those of the sister Georgie had promised to destroy. Had she other siblings?
“I am one of only two,” he said.
“Two?” The eyebrow facing him arched like a swallow on the wing.
“I have one. Sibling.” She turned and blinked at him once. The judgment rendered in that gesture! It was her version of claws or a swat with a paw. She was a salty little cake with claws. His bear threw off his sulk to howl with laughter. “I was merely… We know nothing about one another. I thought to myself, has Mada—have you any siblings.”
“I am the middle child of nine.”
“Brothers? Or sisters?”
“Four elder boys, myself, three more boys, and the youngest, my sister.”
