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A cursory knock fell on the door, and they hurriedly released each other as it opened. Timothy took one look at them and smiled like a shark.
“Your Grace.” Her brother was capable of an exceptionally elegant leg. “I am pleased to find you here.”
“Are you?” the duke replied; how lucky he always sounded as if his voice were the presage of an earthquake, low and rumbling and gravelly.
Tabitha grabbed several bags of cheesecloth stuffed with red clover and thrust them into Llewellyn’s hands. “His Grace was only saying the other day how he was keen for some sachets.”
“Yes. Sachets.” The duke lifted them to his nose and blinked at her.
“Yes.” She turned and banked the fire and gathered heaven only knew what to keep her hands full, to stop her reaching out to the duke, or shoving Timothy out the door, or doing that in reverse order.
“Oh,sachets,” Timothy said. Out the door they would all go: she herded both men over the threshold and into the back garden. “I see. Is that how His Grace’s hair came to be so smooth and shiny?”
His blasted Grace waggled his godforsaken eyebrows, and Timothy, if it was at all possible, grinned with greater mischief. “Basil has recently been added to my kitchen,” he said. “Dare I presume it was a gift from you?” Llewellyn nodded. “I hope my sister has thanked you accordingly. There is a dish I learned in Italy that requires it. How I have longed to make it since returning home.”
“I have often enjoyed dishes made with basil,” His Grace mused.
Timothy laid a hand on his heart. “What a coincidence. I intended on making it for tomorrow’s evening meal.”
“HowIlong to try food from Italy,” Alwyn replied. “My travels did not take me there.”
“We would be most honored if you would join us, Your Grace.”
“I am pleased to accept your kind invitation if it is also the wish of your—oh.”
Tabitha, having slipped away during the disingenuous byplay between the two men, hid behind the cottage’s kitchen door.
Let her be the one to flee the scene for once.
Let him have a taste of his own medicine.
Twelve
Alwyn looked in the mirror, which he had kept covered with a cloth until that moment. His hair was no longer looking as well as it had, even one day after Miss Barrington had tended to it; he pawed at the tangles, snarling it further. Would it be that arduous to engage the services of a valet? His entire being rebelled. No, he would not allow anyone touching him, ordering him about, touching his hair.
Well. Not just anyone.
Looking at himself was worse than being looked at by others…or it had been. Even when less than perfect, his hair now did him justice. His ensemble for the evening made a change as well: the jacket was a castoff Weston winkled out of Georgie’s astonishing surplus of clothing, and while it did not cling like a second skin, it fit better than usual and was a sober hunter green. He remembered the color to be flattering to his eyes.
He looked his reflection in the eye then turned away.
The trousers were workmanlike and secured roughly. He ought to practice with buttons, but it galled him to have to relearn as basic a skill as that. And yet if he wanted to look well for the lady—if he wanted to look like a duke, like a man—he would need to hark back to his childhood.
His childhood, when he had a pride, a father, a mother, brothers, and a sister—no, no, no, he would not, he could not think on that, not now, not when Miss Barrington might look at him and see.
Miss Barrington, who claimed to be ambivalent about kissing. Untrue, he thought, pleasure rushing through his body at the mere remembrance of her mouth on his, her fingers in his hair, those places she touched on his scalp that made him want to melt at her feet and give her anything. Give her everything.
What had he to give? Nothing, no pride, an empty title, the barest grasp of his humanity, nothing. And yet he rebelled against that, for he had his heart to give. If she was hisvera amoris,and on top of that hisconiunctio, he had himself as a place of rest to offer, a lifelong companion, lover, and friend. Never mind that he still had to walk for hours to find any rest in the night, that he was alert to the slightest change in atmosphere—
He heard footfalls approaching. No one came here. Who would come here?
Who else would come here? Alwyn had ceased wondering why the lady apothecary ended up where she did, so finding her on his doorstep wasn’t that much of a surprise. Nor did her curiosity regarding his abode; what took him aback was the flash of hurt on her face when he essentially barred her from entering by stepping out and closing the door firmly behind him.
“It is a bachelor’s accommodation,” he said. “I wish to make a better impression on you.” Her expression couldn’t decide whether to be peeved or to preen. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Mr. Giles left his flask in the shed, and I brought it back to him.” She pointed to a craggy heap of stones in the distance. “He and his tribe reside on that hill.”
“Leftit did he? How forgetful. It does not say much about his intelligence.”
