Westerley Crossings.”
“Ah, she sounds like a horse you named as a child. She is gentle?”
“She is. But spirited enough to make riding her interesting. I’ve had her since I was seven.”
“Once we’re settled at Bowcliff, I’ll request your brother transport her to my estate for you. Would you like that, my dear?”
He might be lofty, but he did care for her. And his appreciation for horses was reassuring. It was something they would have in common going forward.
Culpepper’s beringed hand settled on the cat, stroking behind its ears without seeming to be aware of it, and then hooking his finger through the cat’s collar. At least she thought it was a cat. Without any hair, it just as easily could have been a squirrel—or a very large rat.
“Meow.” The cat glared at her as though reading her mind and finding her thoughts offensive. Touché.
“What is your cat’s name?” At the risk of being a chatterbox, talking put her at ease. It always had.
“He is Archimedes.”
She had to laugh at that. Because the one thing she knew about Archimedes, the mathematician, aside from the fact that his discoveries had something or other to do with circles, was the legend that the man had been taking a bath when he’d had his mathematical epiphany and then gone running through the streets naked, shouting, “Eureka.”
“Archimedes is hardly deserving of your laughter. The name imparts dignity. There is an elegance to his smooth symmetry.” Culpepper stroked the cat’s side. “He is a most valuable animal.”
“So he is not called Archimedes because he is naked?”
“I beg of you not to be vulgar.” Culpepper sent her a frown. Surely, he was teasing her. “Archimedes is not… unclothed, Lady Tabetha. He is hairless. And as I said, rare and valuable. I hope to turn a considerable profit once we’ve returned to London.”
“You’re going to… sell him?”
“Like all animals, he is an investment. I suppose this is not something a young lady such as yourself can comprehend. I imagine you see him as a pet, something to shower affection on until you have your own human child to nurture.”
“But…” As ill-mannered as the cat was, Archimedes was still a living being and deserved to be treated as something more than a possession.
He was right. She did not understand.
“Does he bite?” She leaned forward but the duke held out one hand, as though to stop her.
“He isn’t comfortable around strangers. Best not become attached, anyhow.” He grimaced and then glanced up at her “I’d hate for him to mar your lovely complexion with his claws.”
Tabetha squirmed and touched her fingertips to her hair. Getting to know this man was going to take more effort than she’d imagined. She soldiered on. “Archimedes. It is quite the mouthful. Do you ever call him Archie?”
“Archie is a name befitting a servant, Lady Tabetha.”
One of her brother’s outriders was named Archie. Was Culpepper inferring that his cat was more valuable than a servant?
Of course not. He simply valued his cat.
And besides, he is a duke, she reminded herself. Such an arrogant outlook on life was to be expected. He’d been taught his cool demeanor since birth. It’s how dukes are raised.
And unlike his cat, he more than tolerated her. He esteemed and appreciated her. He’d said so, hadn’t he?
Tabetha gave up on her attempts at conversation—for now. Firstly, because he hadn’t seemed to appreciate them. Secondly, because she wasn’t all that versed on card games or politics, and thirdly, because his responses were less than reassuring.
Likely, it was nerves.
Thanks to Stone Spencer for planting his blasted seeds of doubt, she had a few nerves of her own.
She shivered and directed her attention out the window again. Although her family was going to be miffed that she’d eloped, her mother would be ecstatic to have a duchess for a daughter.
Her Grace.
The Duchess of Culpepper.
Her mind drifted back several years, to just before her fifth birthday. After waking from a terrifying nightmare about a wild boar attacking her in the fields, she’d sat shivering in her bed, trying to shake the images of his filthy sharp teeth sinking into her, when the door opened and her father had entered, illuminating the nursery with the soft light of the single taper he’d brought with him.
“Was it that nasty boar again, Poppet?” He’d been wearing a heavy dressing gown over his nightshirt and soft leather slippers on his feet. He’d smelled of bergamot and cinnamon. Sometimes, when she was at home, at Westerley Crossings, she’d open one