Page 47 of From Rakes to Riches

“Miss Templeton?” He set his pen down carefully on his desk. “I asked if there’s something else you needed.”

“Needed? Er, no. No, indeed, I just…well, I thought you might like to accompany Ryan and Etienne to the stables tomorrow morning.”

“More animal husbandry?”

Oh, dear. He didn’t sound at all enthusiastic. “Yes. We’ll go every day now, as Hecate is approximately fifty-eight days along, and is thus nearing the window at which she’s most likely to give birth, so?—”

“Forgive me, Miss Templeton, but I could quite happily live the rest of my life without ever knowing the details of the feline birth cycle.”

“But—”

He held up a hand. “I distinctly recall you warning me not to interfere with your lessons, and I’ve told you more than once, Miss Templeton, that I despise cats.”

Who was he attempting to convince of that, her, or himself? “But Ryan and Etienne want you there, my lord.”

“Why, because it went so well the first time?”

He shook his head, but underneath the sarcastic smile on his lips was a hint of that same misery she’d noticed the other day, and her chest tightened. Much like his handsome face, now she’d seen it, she couldn’tunseeit, and it didn’t sit well with her.

Not at all.

“If they didn’t want you there, Lord Hawke, they never would have asked you to come the first time. I admit it was a bit awkward, but if you’ll only give it another chance, I’m certain it will?—”

“No, thank you, Miss Templeton. I think it’s best for all of us if I stay well away from the stables.”

“Itisn’twhat’s best for everyone!” And if he truly wanted to stay away, then why was he sneaking about the stables at night? “Please, Lord Hawke, if you’d just give it another?—”

“You’re dismissed, Miss Templeton.” He picked up his pen, and bent over the papers scattered across his desk. “Please close the door on your way out.”

7

Hecate wasn’t, as cats went, the worst creature Adrian had ever encountered.

She was still a cat, of course, and thus was moody and unpredictable like most of her species, but Ryan and Etienne were right. She didn’t scratch or bite, and she did have remarkably soft, warm fur.

Not that he’d patted her. She’d brushed up against his hand, that’s all.

She seemed to tolerate his visits well enough, though that had more to do with the clotted cream and bits of meat than any desire she had for his charming company. Still, the welcoming meow she gave him when he entered the stables now wasn’t entirely disagreeable.

“Hungry, are you?” He stepped into the pen, spread an old horse blanket over the hay and settled down beside her. “I do hope tonight’s offering agrees with you, madam.”

Hecate had a rather discriminating palate, for a cat. He’d made the mistake of bringing her French beans a la crème the other night. She’d given them a disinterested sniff, then turned her back on him, disgusted by his stupidity.

He hadn’t madethatmistake again.

“It’s a nice ragout this evening. I liberated it from my dinner plate, but don’t tell Cook that.” He rummaged in his coat pocket, took out the napkin he’d hidden there and spread the morsels out on the floor. “Here we are.”

Hecate rose from her sprawl, sniffed delicately at the beef, and after a fastidious twitch of her nose, deemed it acceptable. He reclined back against the side of the pen and watched, oddly pleased, as she began to eat. “That’s it. There’s a good cat.”

Good cat, indeed. If his fashionable London friends could see him now, they’d either laugh themselves sick, or drag him directly off to Bedlam. God knew he didn’t bear much resemblance to the elegant Earl of Hawkenow, with his breeches dusted with hay and bits of Hecate’s orange fur stuck to his coat.

Even now, three nights into his feline experiment, he hadn’t any bloody idea what he was doing here, hunkered down in the hay, his arse gone numb with cold in spite of the horse blanket, trying to make friends with a persnickety cat.

Acat, of all absurd things.

But Hecate wasn’t just any cat. She wasRyanandEtienne’scat.

After eight long months of absence from Hawke’s Run, he no longer knew how to talk to his sons. He didn’t know how to be with them—he didn’t know them at all anymore, really—and since he’d returned home, his efforts to bridge the gap seemed destined for disaster. He couldn’t bear to see their eager expectation give way to bitter disappointment every time they gave him another chance, and he made another gaffe.

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