Page 50 of Trapped with her Cruel Duke

Louise turned to her in amazement. “A male?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I grew up on a farm. We had several cats that were used to keep the rats away. It’s a male, for certain.”

Louise looked down at the little bundle in her arms and laughed. “Well, that is wonderful. I finally have a name for him.”

Christian rubbed an exasperated hand over his forehead. “Have you, indeed? And what are you going to call it?”

“Jack,” Louise said with a grin. “His name is Jack Frost, seeing as he is owned by the Ice Queen.”

CHAPTER 20

Christian sat in an armchair before the fire and stared at the kitten.

He was a tiny, little thing with dark markings down his back and large, wide eyes that darted around every room with interest.

Christian glared at him.

The kitten was moving across the floor beneath him and sniffing everything in its path. Its claws pattered incessantly as it went to sit by the fire, the heat of the flames warming its back.

Christian glanced at the door, which he had deliberately left open to keep the stairs in sight. Despite his instructions, Louise was late. He frowned, wondering what on earth was taking her so long.

“I told her not to be late,” he muttered to Jack, “and here she is, with minutes to spare. I should confiscate you to teach her a lesson.”

At that moment, the kitten decided that he felt too hot beside the fire and wandered over to the chair. Christian eyed him warily and then cursed as the creature scaled his leg with needle-like claws, dragging its tiny body onto his knee.

The kitten studied him for a few seconds before padding down his thigh and nestling against his stomach. Christian gripped the armrests as he stared down at the purring creature irritably.

“I believe you are supposed to stroke it, dearest,” said an amused voice as the Dowager Duchess appeared in the doorway, watching him curiously.

“Why do cats constantly sit on those who do not like them?” Christian complained. “It took me an hour to get ready this evening—I do not want hair all over my coat.”

“Then why have you not removed him?” his mother asked.

Christian looked down at the little furball. Its back rose and fell rhythmically, its gentle purring oddly soothing. His hand moved of its own accord, and instead of lifting the little creature and placing it on the floor beside him, he found himself scratching it awkwardly behind its ears.

The kitten snuggled further against him, and his mother laughed.

“I think perhaps you do not dislike him as much as you claim.”

Louise would not like it if I were unkind to him.

“I suppose he is rather sweet if he could stop shedding hair over everything he passes.” Christian plucked a stray hair off his sleeve as his mother stepped into the room.

She stroked the cat far more naturally than he did and then went to stand beside the fireplace, watching him carefully.

Christian glanced up at her, feeling the atmosphere in the room change as she folded her hands in front of her.

“Has there been any news?” she asked softly, glancing at the doorway.

“About Marcus?” he asked. The Dowager Duchess nodded. “I spoke with the constable yesterday evening.”

“And?”

“He is rather reluctant to continue the investigation. I explained in the strongest terms that that was not his decision to make. The man is a little weasel and wishes to be done with it. He is convinced that Marcus is dead, I am sure.”

Tears welled up in his mother’s eyes, but her expression was resolute.

“It has been six months, Christian. Do you truly believe that any other outcome is possible now?”

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