Girl meets Duke. Tessa Dare

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      He said this as though it were a complete sentence, but even after several moments of contemplation, Penny could not make sense of it.

      With an annoyed shake of his head, he wrenched open the door for the third time, stormed through it, and slammed it behind him with such decisive force that the portraits rattled on the wall.

      Penny smiled to herself.

      With that, she could be satisfied.

       Tap. Tap. Tap.

      The next day, Gabe found himself sitting in his office. In fact, he’d been sitting there for hours now. Not reviewing any of the many papers, contracts, or ledgers awaiting his attention, but merely staring into space and tapping a shilling against the desk.

       Tap. Tap. Tap.

      She’d meant to kiss him. She’d wanted to kiss him. She’d said as much, explicitly, and she’d seemed perfectly content to be kissed in return. More than content.

      He hadn’t taken advantage of her.

      He’d just been colossally stupid.

      With a creaking groan, he allowed his head to slowly fall forward until his brow met the desk blotter. And then he stayed there, trying not to recall the sweet freshness of her kiss or the hot joy that had blazed through him when her breasts met his chest.

       Colossally. Stupid.

      “Mr. Duke, you’ll never guess what—”

      Gabe lifted his head.

      Hammond fidgeted in the doorway. “I’d something to show you, but perhaps this isn’t a good time.”

      “No, no.” Gabe launched to his feet. “It’s a good time.”

      It was, in fact, the best possible time. He’d never been so happy to be interrupted.

      Hammond led him to the upstairs bath, where he gestured expansively toward the tub. “Behold, the latest in modern conveniences. Hot running water.”

      “You’re certain this time?”

      “The tradesman repaired the boiler yesterday. I tested it just this morning. Piping hot.”

      As his architect turned the tap, Gabe crossed his arms and kept a safe distance. He’d let Hammond take the chances today.

      Happily, the tap did not explode like a cannon packed with icy shrapnel.

      Unhappily, what pooled in the bathtub was a trickle of rusty sludge.

      “Deuce it.” Hammond closed the tap and kicked at the tiled floor. “I swear on everything holy, this was working an hour ago. Burns probably hexed it.”

      “The housekeeper? Don’t start in on that nonsense again.”

      “I tell you, she’s unnatural. I don’t know if she’s a ghost, a witch, a demon, or something worse. But that woman is of the Devil.”

       “Ahem.”

      Startled, both Gabe and Hammond wheeled around.

      There stood Mrs. Burns. Even Gabe had to admit, these sudden appearances were growing unsettling.

      Hammond raised his fingers in the shape of a cross. “I rebuke thee.”

      “Good afternoon, Mrs. Burns,” Gabe said. “We didn’t hear your footsteps.”

      “I was always taught, Mr. Duke, that servants should draw as little attention to themselves as possible.”

      She certainly had their attention now.

      Wordlessly, Hammond lifted his arm, extended a single finger, and poked the housekeeper in the shoulder.

      Mrs. Burns stared at him. “Yes, Mr. Hammond?”

      “Solid corporeal form,” he muttered. “Interesting.”

      Gabe gave him an elbow to the ribs, sending the architect’s “corporeal form” stumbling against the sludge-filled tub. “Is there something we can do for you, Mrs. Burns?”

      “I only came to inform you that you have a letter, sir. It’s just arrived.”

      “The post came this morning.”

      “This letter didn’t come through the post, Mr. Duke. It’s from Lady Penelope Campion.”

      * * *

      Dear Mr. Duke,

      As requested, here is an inventory of the animals in my care:

       Bixby, a two-legged terrier.

       Marigold, a nanny goat of unimpeachable character, who is definitely not breeding.

       Angus, a three-year-old Highland steer.

       Regan, Goneril, and Cordelia—laying hens.

       Delilah, a parrot.

       Hubert, an otter.

       Freya, a hedgehog.

       Thirteen kittens of varying colors and dispositions.

      Gabe leafed through the report in disbelief. It went on for pages. She’d given not only the names, breeds, and ages of every misbegotten creature, but she’d appended a chart of temperaments, sleeping schedules, preferred bedding, and a list of dietary requirements that would beggar a moderately successful tradesman. Along with the expected hay, alfalfa, corn, and seed, the animals required several pounds of mince weekly, daily pints of fresh cream, and an ungodly number of sardines.

      The steer and the goat, she insisted, must go to the same loving home. Apparently they were tightly bonded, whatever that meant, and refused to eat if parted.

      The laying hens did not actually lay with any regularity. Their previous owners had grown frustrated with this paltry production, and thus they had come into Her Ladyship’s care.

      And the lucky bastard who accepted a ten-year-old hedgehog? Well, he must not only provide a steady supply of mealworms, but remain ever mindful of certain “traumatic experiences in her youth.”

      He had to read that bit three times to believe it.

       Traumatic experiences in her youth.

      Unbelievable.

      The world teemed with children who received less food and attention than she gave the least of these creatures. Gabe knew it well. He’d been one of them. At the workhouse, he’d subsisted on broth, bread, and a few morsels of cheese every week—when his diet hadn’t been restricted as a punishment for misbehavior, which it usually was.

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