Page 21 of The Duke's Pet

“Good little kitten.” He stooped and moved her hair, holding it back so it wasn’t hanging around her face. “Now drink.”

The glossy surface of the milk glistened.

His grip on her hair tightened. “Now.”

I have to obey him.

Jemima had no idea how she was going to lap up the milk, but dipped her face to it and tried her best. This was the last thing she’d imagined would become of her day. But much as it was demeaning and silly, it was also the better option to many other scenarios.

“That’s it, drink up,” he whispered. He was squatting at her side now, his leg skimming her shoulder. “Kittens need to drink their milk.”

She was sure she’d made quite a mess but could do nothing about it.

“Here, let me see.” He cupped her face and urged her to sit back on her heels.

A drip trickled to the point of her chin.

His eyes sparkled, as if enjoying the show, and thrilled that she’d complied with his unconventional demands. “Oh, dear, you have made a mess.”

He leaned forward, and very gently kissed away the drops of milk on her lower lips and chin.

She stared at him, tense and hardly breathing. She’d been kissed once before by Billy from the village. But it had been nothing like this. These were small peppered kisses, little presses of his lips against her skin. His eyes were closed as if savoring the milk and his breaths blew gently onto her flesh.

When he’d finished, he sat back and studied her. “Did you enjoy that?”

She paused, knowing she had to give him the answer he wanted. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He took her hands and urged her to stand. “And now you will eat something more, for it’s clear you need the sustenance.”

“Thank you.” Her stomach clenched, hunger a constant unwanted companion.

He pulled out a chair and nodded at it.

She sat quickly, aware of her breasts moving as she did so.

His gaze drifted over her body as he set a plate of small sandwiches and pastries between them. “Take your fill.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She reached for a ham sandwich and munched into it.

He took one that held cheese and sat back, crossing one leg over the other.

She ate quickly.

He, much slower.

He also kept his attention firmly on her, while Jemima was eyeing up what to eat next on the small cake stand. There were times in the winter she wouldn’t have had that much to sustain her in a whole week, and never anything so tasty. Sometimes a turnip was the best she could hope for.

“What profession was your father in?”

She swallowed her mouthful. “A farmer, Sir, though he liked to make things with wood too.”

“And what happened to his land when he passed?”

“I worked it for a while on my own.” She paused to bite into a fresh sandwich, cheese this time. “But it became too much, plus I had the misfortune of a river bursting its banks and taking away the seeds I’d sown.”

“Thatisbad luck.” He paused and poured tea. “But surely you had more land that didn’t flood.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Our farm was on a flood plain.”

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