Page 32 of Heartless

Catherine blinked. ‘LadyMargaretMearle?’

The Duke might have seen the disbelief on her face, but he was too busy gazing at the wall. ‘I know. It’s absurd of me to think I might be worthy of such a dear creature, or that she could ever share my feelings. But it’s just . . . she’s the jammiest bit of jam, isn’t she? So very clever. And righteous. And so very, very . . .’ He swooned. ‘Pink.’

He dared to glance at her.

Catherine snapped her mouth shut and tried to look sympathetic.

Appeased, he looked away again. ‘But I can’t even bring myself to speak to her. I can’t imagine what she thinks of me.’

Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, Cath thought of all the snide comments Margaret had made about the Duke over the years, mostly regarding how stuck-up and arrogant he was. Traits that she, too, had seen in him, but no longer seemed fair.

It was difficult to imagine. She could not recall Lord Warthog, the perpetual bachelor, ever showing favour to a lady, just as she could not recall any man showing interest in the intolerable, unattractive Margaret Mearle.

Yet – here it was. Pudding and pie, right before her eyes.

She tried to smile, hoping to ease the desperation scrawled across the Duke’s face. ‘I would be happy to put in a fond word for you, Your Grace.’

CHAPTER 10

THE DAYS LEADING UPto the tea party were agony. Catherine was filled with dread at what would happen when she saw the King again. Her mother was anxious too, though they were hoping for very different results from the meeting.

It felt like trickery of the worst sort to be making a batch of macarons with the intention of capturing the King’s heart when Cath had no interest in capturing it at all. Nevertheless, she was glad for an excuse to spend a day in the kitchen, where she didn’t have to worry about being ordered to go practise some useless skill, like embroidery.

Oh, if only, if only the King were fickle. If only he’d been so embarrassed by her disappearance that he wouldn’t dare attempt it again or, at the least, he would have the sense to propose in private this time.

Although that thought, too, made her shudder.

Despite her growing trepidation, as the tea party approached, Cath also started to become fidgety with impatience. She tried to deny it, even to herself, but she was looking forward to the afternoon. Not for the King, or the lawn games, and not even for the mini cakes and sandwiches.

She was anticipating another encounter with the court joker.

Having had no more sightings in her dreams, she was longing to see him again, fantasizing over every potential facet of their next encounter. She wanted to witness another buoyant smile, to be the source of his easy laughter, to feel the brush of his fingers on the nape of her neck.

She paused, lifting the pastry bag away from the baking sheet, where fifteen piped discs of batter were waiting to be baked into almond meringue biscuits. Her skin had a new flush to it that wasn’t from the oven, and her hands had begun to tremble – unacceptable for such a delicate task.

She shut her eyes and tamped the thoughts back down, as she did every time they drifted in the direction of illicit caresses. Her mother would implode if she knew Cath was having such improper thoughts about the King’s Joker.

The King, for goodness’ sake. The one she was supposed to be dreaming about.

Her nerves were in tatters over it all.

Setting down the pastry bag, she swore that she would not allow herself to be carried away during the tea party. She was a lady, and he was a novelty. If she should see him again – which was unlikely in itself – she would entertain only civilized conversation. None of these flirtations that had carried her away before. There could be nothing improper at all.

Though she was curious to know if she would feel as drawn to the Joker again upon a second meeting, there was a part of her that hoped she wouldn’t. Because what options were given to her even if she did feel it again? Her parents would never allow a courtship with him. She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about the King. And besides, she was supposed to be focusing on how she could persuade her parents to let her have the bakery, the one dream that had consumed her more than all the others . . . until the lemon tree, at least.

‘Good graciousness, what is that delightful aroma?’

She jumped back from the counter. Cheshire – or rather, Cheshire’s head – had filled up the cuckoo clock’s face on the wall, the hands pointing at his left ear and whiskers, indicating it was just past two o’clock in the afternoon.

‘Hello, Cheshire.’ She frowned. ‘You better not have just eaten that cuckoo bird.’

He disappeared in a puff before reappearing, fully formed, on the high windowsill above the counter. The orange tint from the pumpkin pasties had faded from his fur. ‘I’ve done no such thing,’ he said, ‘although I am presently determining how many ofthoseI can eat when your back is turned without your noticing.’

She eyed him suspiciously.

‘Oh, fine. I suppose I don’t care if you notice or not.’

‘They are for the King.’

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