Chapter Nine
Sebastian leaned back against the cool stone wall in the hall beneath Thomas’s grandfather’s portrait, arms folded, jaw tight.
If the man were alive, he wouldn’t allow the kind like Paisley to cause problems. Therefore, Sebastian decided he had to find a way to protect his friend from any trouble that may arise before his wedding.
He was getting married soon, and if Sebastian was a good friend, he’d make sure there were no hitches.
He didn’t understand how Paisley could speak of women as if they were prizes to be seized.
As if affection could be won with a few compliments and handed over like spoils.
Sebastian didn’t want spoils. He wanted a woman who would look at him and see him.
Who wanted him because of who he was—not what he had.
Not a conquest, but a connection. A meeting of equals, not a victory lap.
And for some reason, his mind wandered straight to Miss Madeleine Hunt.
Maddie.
The name slid into his thoughts like a whisper he didn’t want to forget. He wasn’t sure when it had happened—perhaps somewhere between her commanding him over a pot of steaming mint and brushing salve over his face—but she’d unsettled something in him.
Would she ever let him kiss her?
Their first kiss should be special, and he’d do anything to make it unforgettable if such an honor fell on him… Confound it! Why was he thinking about her first kiss? His body reacted instantly to the thought.
He hadn’t meant to think of her that way. Well, not at first. Especially not while he was sneezing and dripping like an invalid. But she’d sat so close. Touched him so gently. Her fingers had grazed his lips with an innocence that touched him deeply.
What man wouldn’t react?
And then she’d looked at him. Not through or around him. At him.
She didn’t simper and feign false charm.
No angle to work. Just those steady eyes that made him feel like a man worth considering for life.
And in the gazebo in the snow, when her gaze had flicked—just briefly—to his mouth, something inside him had locked into place.
As if his entire body understood something he hadn’t dared name.
He’d kissed women before. Far too many, if he were honest. But none of them had made him want the way Maddie did. Not just to taste, or touch, or win—to deserve her. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. His chest felt too tight. His thoughts too loud.
She was everything he hadn’t expected. Polished, yes.
But not cold. Proper, but not unfeeling.
Curious. Quick-witted. Surprisingly kind.
And even when he irritated her—especially then—she looked at him like he wasn’t just the Marquess of Cambridge, but a man capable of more than he’d ever let himself believe.
Would she kiss him back? Just another perspective of the same question: Will she let me kiss her?
If she did, he wouldn’t rush it. He’d kiss her slowly.
Thoroughly. As if a kiss were a promise and he truly meant every word of it.
Sebastian pushed away from the wall and adjusted the towel slung over his shoulder.
Maddie deserved more than idle fantasies.
If there ever came a moment when she wanted him—truly wanted him—he intended to be ready.
Not because she was beautiful, though she was.
But he looked back at the painting of Thomas’s ancestor and thought to himself that with Maddie, he’d like to pose for a portrait.
To stand for a legacy for their… he gulped… children.
Am I falling into affection?
Because when she looked at him, he felt like a better man. And he’d be damned if he let that feeling slip away.
A tall shadow flicked by and Sebastian lost his train of thought.
Male with a thick coat.
Sebastian pressed his back to the cold stone wall, holding still as footsteps approached.
A faint sound broke the silence.
Meow!
He frowned. Not the sharp, warning cry of an adult cat. This was higher, whinier. A kitten.
The shadow stretched before the corner. Sebastian shifted slightly to catch a glimpse of the intruder.
It wasn’t a servant.
Paisley.
The duke walked into the corridor, a wicker basket swinging from one hand.
From the basket came the mournful cries of a mother cat, white as the snow outside, with five tiny kittens wriggling beneath her.
Sebastian’s jaw clenched. The kittens from the stables…
They were barely old enough to leave the hayloft, much less be dragged through the drafty castle.
Paisley crouched, his seemingly expensive coat brushing the flagstones, and plucked up the smallest kitten. The runt. The little claws caught on the lace handkerchief Paisley had inexplicably produced from his pocket.
Sebastian’s gut twisted. That kitten needed its mother more than any of the others. Whatever this was, it wasn’t kindness.
Cradling the squirming ball of fur, Paisley tucked it inside the handkerchief and straightened, moving quickly toward the main hall.
Sebastian followed.
He knew the layout of the castle far better than the duke did.
While Paisley took the long route, Sebastian slipped through a side door, cutting into the same hallway ahead of him.
He ducked behind a carved screen just as Paisley joined a waiting companion—one of the footmen who served as his shadow and a maid from upstairs.
“You got it, milord?” the man asked in a low voice.
“Better than I hoped,” Paisley replied, glancing down at the small bundle in his arms. “Perfect for the plan.”
The maid leaned closer, curiosity in her tone. “You sure it’s old enough?”
“It’ll do,” Paisley said flatly. “I don’t care about the animal. The point isn’t to keep it alive for long. Once Miss Madeleine is near this cat, her dowry is as good as mine.”
Whatever did that mean? Even for Paisley, this was a stretch… he’d have to marry her first. Sebastian wrinkled his face at the thought. Not while I’m alive.
Staying out of sight, Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. He knew the kind of man Paisley was but hurting a kitten was a low even for him.
The duke’s voice was calm. They also carried a touch of cruelty. He spoke as though this kitten were nothing more than a prop, a disposable tool for whatever evil scheme he had in mind for the day.
Sebastian’s throat tightened as the maid—he recognized her from the upper floors—peeked into the bundle. Her eyes widened. “Your Grace, she’s hardly weaned. She won’t survive long without her mother.”
Paisley’s mouth curved in a smile that did nothing to soften him. “Then she’ll have to manage. I paid you both, so do the job.”
The maid looked down at the kitten again, stroking its tiny head. “If the mother won’t take it back, there’s no saving the poor thing.”
Sebastian didn’t wait to hear more. Whatever Paisley had planned, he was not leaving that defenseless creature in his hands. Not tonight. Not ever.
The duke might think no one had seen him.
He was wrong.
*
Maddie sat curled in the soft embrace of the drawing-room armchair, a book on herbal remedies propped in her lap. She traced a finger under a passage about nettle leaf’s virtues in easing inflammation, and murmured aloud, “If only nettle could cure all my troubles.”
The quiet was pleasant—until the maid appeared with a feather duster and a determined expression.
At first, Maddie only noticed the occasional floating mote in the air. Then came the sniffle. Another. Her eyes began to prickle. She gave the maid a polite smile and bent over her book again. No sense making a fuss about a little dust.
Through the corner of her eye, Maddie saw a bulge under the maid’s apron. Did it move?
The air seemed to thicken, almost… musky. Her breaths felt shallow. That odd, too-tight ribbon about her chest pulled tighter. She shifted, trying not to draw attention to herself.
And in that uncomfortable stillness, her mind slipped—unhelpfully—toward a certain marquess.
She remembered the way Sebastian’s voice dipped when he spoke to her, how his gaze seemed to hold her in place even when she wanted to look away.
It was absurd to think of him now, with her eyes watering and her throat prickling, yet the thought came anyway, uninvited and warm.
As if some part of her had begun seeking him out, even in the quiet.
She blinked hard and fixed her gaze on the page, willing her cheeks to cool. Thinking of him was not part of her plan.
The door opened again. As if beckoned by her thoughts, Sebastian strolled in with his easy, unhurried gait—until he caught sight of the maid. His expression sharpened.
“Maddie!” he said, then he glanced at the maid and corrected himself. “Miss Madeleine, how do you do?” but without waiting for an answer, he stepped toward the maid. “You,” he said, the single word carrying far more weight than his casual tone.
The woman froze, duster in hand. “My lord?”
“Where did you take it?”
Maddie’s head came up. It? Her frown deepened. Was he in the habit of interrogating staff so bluntly? Had she perhaps been mistaken and he was no less arrogant than Paisley?
“The kitten,” Sebastian said. “From the stables. Where is it?”
The maid’s fingers tightened on the duster as if she were trying to cover up the bulge beneath her apron. “I—”
Before she could continue, another figure emerged from the hall—Paisley, looking far too pleased with himself. “What’s all this?”
Sebastian didn’t even glance his way. “Where,” he repeated to the maid, “did you take the kitten? It wasn’t even weaned.”
“Is this how you treat the staff, Cambridge?” Paisley ignored the maid and shot Maddie a grave look. Almost theatrical.
The maid’s hands trembled now, her lips pressing together.
And in that moment, Maddie understood Sebastian wasn’t cowing her. He was protecting something small and defenseless. Kittens.
Her chest constricted again, sharper this time. “Wait,” she managed, breathless. “Cats? Here?”
Sebastian’s head snapped toward her. “Maddie?”