Her hand dropped to her midsection, nursing the hurt hidden under layers of cloth. She contemplated his perfect cravat, feeling dry as dust and all of her thirty-five years. “We have four hours before you must get ready for the ball.”
The duke eyed the clock on his mantle. “I suppose this is where I should concede that you’re right.”
Her “Yes” was grudging acknowledgment.
She dipped low and tested the kettle perched by the fire. The copper was hot. If a passerby touched her, they’d find her flesh over-warm and shush her off to bed. A prudent woman would take that advice and stay under the covers.
Dragging the butter churn before the fire, she faced a trying fact. She wouldn’t kiss His Grace, but she would touch him…and that would test the limits of their restraint.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“Nothing at the moment.”
He gave her room to work, an indication of his budding trust. “When do you plan to inform me of the details of this…”
“Healing treatment?” she supplied, pouring hot water in the churn. “In a moment.”
She upended buckets of tepid water into the churn, mentally cataloging the process her father had taught her years ago. The fire was a respectable blaze, heating her legs. Spring was lovely and full of sunshine, but winter’s bite lingered. His Grace would need the warmth, and she needed the oil of amber. She spun around, searching for the vial, finding a nicely lived in sitting room.
Windows shed light on a satinwood desk full of unrolled architecture plans. A beige brocade winged chair with its dented seat cushion waited for its usual occupant. Shelves of books, a few ferns but no flowers, and a wine-colored settee with comfy beige and white pillows added the final touch to cozy confines. It was all very un-ducal. She could lose herself in here.
“Mrs. Chatham,” he said sternly.
She continued searching the room, checking shelves, the mantle. “Keep your voice down, or this afternoon meeting of ours won’t stay secret for long.”
“What are you doing?”
“I am looking for my jar.” She spied the squat amber glass near papers on the duke’s desk. She sped toward it and plucked the treasured vial from the mess. “Here we are.”
He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Pray tell, what are your plans for me?”
She uncorked the jar with a
“You have the patience of Job, Your Grace.” She leaned a hip on the corner of his desk. “I tend to lose myself in a project.”
Hand clasped behind his back, he was every inch a duke. “Since I am your project today, it’s only fitting for you to tell me what we’re about to do.”
She smiled. The explanation alone required the utmost delicacy. “You know the same thing happens when I put together my gardens. I don’t precisely plan as others do.”
He tipped his head a slight degree. “You’re evading me, Mrs. Chatham, but I can forgive you that because you’ve piqued my interest.”
He was as hungry for details about her as she was of him.
“Are you telling me you don’t put your garden plans on paper first?” he asked.
“Never. They’re designed entirely on intuition and impulse.”
“I can’t fathom such a thing.”
“Gardens are meant for pleasure,” she said tenderly, because the duke could use some tenderness. “Sometimes one must let things happen.”
It was a brazen statement. Rife with suggestion. By his ravenous stare, he couldn’t quash the warmth unfolding between them any more than she could.
“I’ve glimpsed your garden from the road. It is a thing of beauty.”
Her knees were jelly. Arousal flooded her body. Somehow the compliment tinged with erotic undertones. He could have said
“Thank you, Your Grace. It is a hodgepodge of chaos and order, which I find utterly satisfying. The truth is with a little care and attention, and the right doses of sun and water, my gardens flourish every season without fail.”
He locked on to her wayward hair which had come loose during luncheon. “They certainly do.”
A delicious connection formed, sweet as summer rain and twice as healing. She missed this, the bond of man and woman. Being with the duke fed a timeless yearning which defied explanation, and she had mere hours to enjoy him. She’d take pleasure in every minute.
“Will you trust me to take care of you?” she asked with all gentleness.
“A woman to take care of me.” He contemplated the butter churn, his mouth quirking. “We are compatriots in this…our game of patient and physic.”
She laughed lightly. “Is that what we are? Compatriots?”
His true smile returned. The first one she’d witnessed in days. “I can think of nothing better.”
