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What was done was done. But now what would she do?
She would apologize to her brother.
And then she would pin him to the wall about the fated mate nonsense.
Nonsense? Tabitha Barrington, with all the evidence to the contrary?In addition to the delirious kissing all over her person, there was the way Alwyn ceded to her as though her preferences mattered. It was the way her heart had responded to direction when disarming Asquith—had it been his heart? How could that be; did an Alpha not need a pack to have asentio?
Was she enough of a pack—a pride—for him?
How could it happen so quickly? But here, she had evidence at her disposal: Felicity had been wed in less than a fortnight; Beatrice had been married off to a total stranger and seemingly in no time they were in total accord. At least Tabitha had had the good fortune to get to know her duke—not her duke—
She covered her eyes. He was her duke, wasn’t he?
The part of her that resisted that possibility was in direct conflict with the part of her that wanted it, so much.
A breeze blew that notion into a swirl in her head. She tucked her tender ankle across her lap and massaged the residual soreness. It was much improved, and should she take on this Welshman, Timothy could cover her duties until Their Graces found someone else. If they needed to.
If she chose Alwyn, would they go to Wales? He did not seem attached to it but said there was a house there. Would it be in disrepair as Arcadia had been before Osborn gave its care to his wife? Did she see herself as the chatelaine of a great ducal manse? She did not.
Nor did she wish to be known as a lady apothecary any longer, so he could not give her a premises, as Lowell did Felicity.
Would he give her the world?
The badgers had hung the last length of bunting and scurried away with their ladders just as the first horsemen of the royal cavalcade trotted into Lowell Close. A spontaneous cheer erupted, and she saw Lowell and Mr. Bates exchange a rueful glance. Felicity smoothly took her husband’s arm and led them to the forecourt of the coach house, where they awaited their regent’s arrival.
At the same moment, Timothy appeared to perch beside her. He looked around him, up at the tree, and down at the boulder they sat on. “This is one of your more magnificentboudoirs.”
“I do not sleep here.”
“It is from the French,bouderwhich meansto pout. It’s very like the ledge in Valensole above your lavender field.”
“I am predictable,” Tabitha grumbled. “How lowering. Sulky and predictable and cross and out of sorts.”
Timothy clearly hesitated to refute that, and she was saved from further ignominy by the prince’s entrance into the village. The royal carriage was as ornate as one would expect, gilded within an inch of its life and well in tune with the style of the coach house’s flamboyant trademark. As a footman opened the door and lowered the step, His Highness popped his head out the window and beamed up at it. “That,” George declaimed, “is a magnificent sign.”
As he descended, all present bowed and curtsied, and where appropriate to their species, bared their necks to the greatest among them. Tabitha noted His Highness was in no rush to release the Lowell populace from its obeisance. The footmen stood immobile as statues, and the very air stilled in his presence.
As he negligently waved a hand and all rose, His Highness’s valet ran up with a brush and flicked the dust of the road off the princely ensemble.
“Speaking of magnificent,” Timothy said, “that coat deserves such praise.”
“That coat is the work of Lady Jemima Coleman, I suspect.” Tabitha worried at her skirts. She had never been so unnerved around her brother, ever. “You came upon me as silently as a wolf. I wonder whose example you have taken as your pattern card.”
“Speaking of pattern cards.” If she didn’t know him so well, she’d think he hadn’t a care in the world, but the way he kept plowing his fingers through his hair belied his unease. “I suspect Lady Jemima Coleman has the eye of the one whose I would catch.”
They took a moment to observe Lowell’s Beta as he smoothly orchestrated a receiving line of sorts; one imagined the prince had little patience for such things. “Fit, blond, clever, and dimpled,” Tabitha said. “I should have guessed. No wonder you disliked Italy.”
“That wasn’t the only reason.” He sighed. “Mr. Bates and I are not to be, and thus I pine.”
“Do you? Really?”
“No. You know I do not exert my affections where it will do me no good.”
“Nor do you ever use anyone’s nature against them.”
“Ahhh, I said that. I cannot believe I said that.” He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. “This is the first quarrel we’ve had since the doll and the penknife.”
“I shall never forgive you for that. The wanton destruction of Lady Bastable-Clark’s hair at your hands will live in infamy.” She reached out and tugged on the hem of his coat. “But as for last night…I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
