Page 37 of A Duke at the Door

“I am not annoyed.” She ripped apart the string and tore at the brown paper of the parcel.

Oh, there, the sigh wedded with a roll of the eyes. “Are you not.”

“No, I am not.”

“You are becoming increasingly out of sorts,” he observed. “Every day that passes, you stray further and further from the land of sorts.”

“Do I?” She separated their clothing and bundled hers against her chest.

“After all this time, I think I can tell.” He set his mended clothing aside gently, in contrast to her ill humor, his every movement measured. “One wonders what it would be like if you were to say what is on your mind.”

“Or, as an example of the opposite, if one practiced discretion before saying whatever one thought.” How had their conversation gone so dreadfully wrong?

“You might have stayed on the Continent, you know. I would not have been offended.” If he had one besetting sin, it was his relentless need to teach her by example, to do the thing she was not doing to his approval. He would not stopdemonstratinghis feelings. “No need to shepherd me home.”

“Might I have stayed? With no companion, no man to protect me?”

He snorted. “I’d like to meet the man who dared protect you. Or perhaps I have.”

Was that what Timothy wanted, to marry her off to the first likely swain to darken her door, as their father had? Would he have preferred she hadn’t joined him here in Sussex? Or even in the whole of England? It was like a stiletto to her heart. “Pardon me for interrupting your work. I’ll take my clothing upstairs and wish you a good night.”

Timothy’s characteristic muttering would have been preferable to the silence in her wake.

***

The tension in her body threatened her with another restless night. And she had forgotten to fetch the valerian.

Too much of the herb was not healthy, but how was she to stop her mind from racing enough to sleep and thus improve her humor for the morrow?

She and Timothy often wrangled like cats in a sack, but this had been… Ought they to part and live their own lives? They did live their own lives, they truly did, each to their profession…but perhaps they were too old to be in each other’s pockets. Did her brother feel she was preventing him from finding another partner? That must be what all the matchmaking was about, to get her out from under his feet. It was not as though she did not wish for a lover, but every man she met either quizzed her relentlessly about their conditions or refused to take her advice regarding their health.

Timothy had his eye on the duke for her, and who was less healthy than His Grace?

No, that was not correct. The duke was not unhealthy; he was unwell. That was not an improvement, or was it? Were health and wellness not the same thing? Oh, how she longed for someone to help her talk this through. Her whole philosophy had undergone great revision in the past year or so, and she did not think she would find an enlightened opinion here in England.

“Let me keep an open mind,” she scolded herself and then sighed. She missed the Italian cat, she truly did. It might be worth a trip to the stable to see if any in the clowder there would like to follow her home.

The Duke of Llewellyn was healthy in his frame, an opinion underscored thanks to their sojourn beneath his coat. He walked for hours and hours every day, much as she did, and seemed none the worse for it. His breathing was even, his color good, neither too pale nor too rosy; when he did not have to grapple with challenging utensils, he ate heartily. His voice sounded like a rusty gate, utterly lacking in the beautiful lilt to be found in a Welsh voice, and still it did strange things to her composure.

And yet…he was not well. Visits of long duration were anathema; the degree to which his hand had shaken attempting that fork tweaked at her heart. That he should struggle so with something he had mastered as a child, that he would do so before all, showed courage. Was it not well to be brave?

It was good of the others to care for his health, but Tabitha wasn’t convinced they knew any more than she did. They had nothing to compare him to, apart from the fact he did not Change. Or could he not?

Was the issue with the lion and not the man? Theversipellesemphasized how weak the human side was in comparison to the essential self, and yet Llewellyn was withholding the lion—and if he were truly weak, he would not have been able to Change back when freed from the curse, or the magic, or whatever it was…

Tabitha knew better than to tease this out further. Experience had shown that leaving a tangle to itself overnight would bring clarity in the morning. She would sleep on it, hopefully, and see what the new day brought.

After a quick wash and change into her night rail, she let down her hair. Not a curl to be found, a mere wave, nothing special except for its tidy length. How unfeminine she would be made to feel if anyone knew how short she kept it, only grazing the tops of her shoulders. Luckily the fashion to knot one’s hair atop the head allowed for camouflage; it was impossible to tell its length when done up. It was so thick, no one could tell it didn’t fall to her hips.

Would Llewellyn’s hair fall to his hips? His slim hips… She had felt bone against her side when they lay on the ground. If that was indeed his hip and not his—she giggled.

All that talk of sexual activity with Jemima. It seemed to be the only thing ladies wished to speak of: men and their foibles and shortcomings and attributes, how all of it sat uneasily together to create an appealing objective. Her lady clients always asked how to enjoy the act without it becoming too enjoyable so the men did not think them loose in their morals or that they could have the bed things all the time. Tabitha suggested self-love as a means to those ends.

Again: perhaps she ought to take her own advice.

She climbed under the covers, slid her nightgown up to her hips, and unbuttoned the bodice. If only her favorite chemise weren’t in the laundry; made of the finest muslin, it was so soft with age, it was like silk against her breasts.

Her breasts, which were not large by any means but very, very sensitive. She ran her fingertips around the sides, her skin appealingly soft if she did say so herself, thanks to the jasmine-scented lotion she made. Did the duke find the jasmine pleasing? Was that why he sniffed her? They had been lying together so close under his awful coat, creating a little den of warmth from their body heat and their breath.

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