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“I believe you know exactly how intelligent it was. He has received his flask full of a healthful cinnamon tonic, which he assured me he will imbibe at the earliest moment.”
“I suspect he would imbibe something far less pleasant than cinnamon to impress you.” Alwyn gestured her before him; that was gentlemanly, or was it? What if she came upon a stone and fell?
Miss Barrington set off without hesitation. Their way through the outer edge of the park led them to a culvert, and he rushed in front of her and extended his hand without thinking. She laid her hand in his, and the thing he sensed between them fluttered in his heart at their contact. None of it had been his imagination, then. Not his tolerance of her touch, not the cuddling under the awful coat, not the hair combing, not the kiss. No wonder Delilah had been so scornful: there was nothing wrong with the mare’s instincts. He made a sound; to his ears it was as if his lion were agreeing with him, an even deeper rumble than usual. Miss Barrington looked at him askance.
“Her Grace’s mares are a flighty bunch,” he said, “but if I did not know better, I would think Delilah aversipellis.”
She accepted the non sequitur with aplomb. “I agree. She responds to one’s speech and actions with true comprehension.”
“Horses, in general, are rather more perceptive than mostanimali purem, or at least they give that impression,” Alwyn said. “The horses at Drake’s were my allies, which is astonishing given their status as prey.”
“Perhaps they sensed the humanity in you.” She paused beside a flowering bush, hesitated, then forged ahead. “And do tell me if this is insulting, as they are the least of felines, but the cats around the Lowell stables are great friends with both the lads and thehorsehorses.”
“It is not insulting. We larger predators feel protective ofcatcats.”
Her laugh, no longer so rare, rang through the glade. “You would have only to meet the cat from Sorrento and you would not say as much. He was as fierce as any of your sort, I can tell you.”
“Your cat?” Predisposed to felines, was she?
“Oh no, I had no illusions on that score. He had us—me, primarily. Timothy tried, but the creature preferred my company.”
She sounded pleased about that. “What was its name?”
“The Italian cat.”
“Yes, as you have said. What was it called?”
“The Italian cat.”
He stopped walking and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss Barrington.”
She burst into laughter again. “That was what I called him. The Italian cat. Timothy is terrible at naming things, and I refused to address the animal as Diocletian or Pope Leo the Thirteenth, even though the latter fit rather well.” Bold, she ran a finger down his forearm. “That is my favorite joke.”
“I am honored you consider me a fit audience.” Alwyn’s face felt odd, stretched, his jaw loose, his eyes slightly pinched but in a comfortable way.
She reached out, hesitated, put her hand in her pocket. “Making even an audience of one smile is all the reward required,” she said.
Oh. Smiling. He touched his cheeks. That’s what that was.Oh.
It affected a change in more than his face: his chest opened, his shoulders released tension he hadn’t known was nigh constant, his entire body lightened. A simple smile, accomplishing all that?
He gestured her forward, and they carried on.
***
The Italian cat prevailed again. How many skittish clients had that cat soothed, how many bilious types made to laugh at his antics? Even in memory, he succeeded in amusing the duke, had made him smile! How she missed that cat.
How she had missed Timothy’s Italian cooking. As they entered the cottage, the kitchen was redolent of the sunbaked hills of the south, thanks to the duke’s basil. Water boiled, promising pasta, and the scent of garlic promised pesto. While less ambitious than the Sunday Meal, Timothy manned several pots and pans simultaneously.
The duke looked around with less vigilance than he usually had when indoors, and she was proud he felt safe.
Proud, as his progress was clearly…progressing.
“We do not have a room for dining and will sit here if that is acceptable.” She divested herself of her layers and started to set the kitchen table.
“I am not so high in the instep,” he replied, the gravel of his tone taking on a playful cadence.
“We were offered footmen but prefer to do for ourselves,” Timothy said.
