Page 23 of The Duke Decides

She turned on her heel and poked her head into another room. Gabe couldn’t make sense of the plan of the place, though it seemed well laid-out and accommodating.

“Hello, girls! I hear you had an adventure today?”

There were a dozen heads in the room, and all of them swiveled in Louisa’s direction, faces sprouting smiles. Every one of them began talking at once, a chorus of young and eager voices like melodious chirping of birds.

There were no prohibitions on talking, then, not like a usual workhouse. No prohibition on friendships, for he saw two young girls holding hands as they came forward. And no lack of affection, for as each of the girls tried to tell Louisa about the ordeal of the mouse, several moved close to her, crowding her skirts. One small girl, who an older woman lifted down from a chair, ran to Louisa, buried her red face in her apron, and commenced sobbing.

Louisa patted the girl’s back and made soothing noises. “There, there, Myra. You know, mice need food just as you do, and he was probably looking for company, the little thing. Did he quite put you out of sorts? Only think that he must have been as equally terrified of you, and left in such a fright he won’t dare show his whiskers again.”

“I h-hope he will not,” the child sobbed, smearing her tears into Louisa’s clean linen. “I hate their pointy noses and their claws. And they bite!”

“I think they’re adorable.” An older girl planted her hands on her hips. Her cap was pushed back on her head, her apron crooked, but Louisa made no move to admonish her. “Mother, mayn’t I catch him and keep him as a pet? I have already named him Sir Mousely.”

“Oh, we can’t have it in our rooms!” the little one howled. A chorus of other voices expressed varying combinations of disapproval and interest.

“I am afraid we mayn’t make Sir Mousely a pet, my dear Susan, as there will be several objections. But we might think of adopting a cat, who can be part of our household and also encourage Sir Mousely to keep to his own quarters?”

“A cat! Oh, please say we might! How soon will the cat arrive, Matron?”

“I will speak to the Sisters about it. Off to the exercise yard with you now, girls. It is time to take some air. You may practice your curtsies to the Duke of Barkham as you go and say ‘how do you do, Your Grace.’ Susan, since you were so brave in the matter of Sir Mousely, will you choose the game?”

The girl with the askew apron immediately took charge of the group, her disappointment over being denied the rodent disappearing in her new authority as she lined the smaller girls up for their curtsies. Gabe bore all the gracing with more courtesy than he was ever inclined to show in his own drawing room. As the last little skirt scuttled out the door into the gardens beyond, Louisa pulled a face and blew out a long breath.

“I’ll be in the basket with Sister Agatha with this cat notion, as she detests animals. But it would be a wise to have a mouser about, and the girls would adore having something to take care of.”

“This is not like a regular workhouse at all,” Gabe marveled, following as Louisa passed through a dining hall empty save for a set of rocking chairs before a hearth, with a set of old beldams rocking and drowsing within them.

All the workhouses he had seen—well, the two with which he was acquainted—had been dour, dark places where the residents toiled through the daylight hours, took a mean meal, and then crawled into sleeping cots which were little more than clumps of straw on the floor. Louisa passed a dormitory lined with sturdy cots, all with a plump pillow at their head and a thick woolen blanket piled at the foot, a wooden trunk beneath, small tables with wash basins and space for meager personal items, and an older girl sweeping the floor, singing to herself.

She turned to him in the shadow of a doorway leading to another set of gardens, and something tore in Gabe’s chest at the look of despair on her face.

“I can’t allow this to be taken away. This is their home, and mine. It cannot—it cannot all come to an end because of me.” She clasped her hands over her face, shoulders shaking.

Without a thought Gabe stepped forward and curled his arms about her, pulling her into his chest.

Chapter Eight

“What do you mean? What have you done?” Gabe asked. The look of wildness on Louisa’s face rattled him; it was the darting gaze of a trapped creature with no avenue of escape. Was Louisa a criminal? Just what was she hiding?

His natural caution warned him to have a care. He was not on very solid footing of his own, being a newly made duke with his life constantly under threat.

“Lord Vérité,” Louisa whispered, her voice a low thread of hurt. “He wants our building, or our lands, or our funds. Everything. And he threatens to expose me if I do not comply.”

“Don’t give in. We will not give him what he wants.” He ran his hands up and down her back, detecting the strength in her narrow shoulders, the steel in her spine. Yet she was soft flesh and warm blood, the same as any woman. So easily hurt.

He tightened his hands around her back, urging her closer. No one would hurt her. He would not allow it.

And that would be the first time Gabriel Declan had ever exerted himself in the interests of any female who was not his mother or sister. He’d certainly never exerted himself to win a woman. Yet for some reason, he was staging every ploy he could think of to get close to this one.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

He sensed that was new for her. She was a woman in command, the queen of this small realm, its greatest and final authority. All the decisions for its care and upkeep fell on her. All the burdens and responsibility that came with, what, a hundred souls or more in her keeping?

She rested a moment in his arms, her breath growing steady. The ribbons in her cap tickled his nose. Her scent floated into his head, pulling apart his brain and setting every lick of good sense free like chaff in the wind.

Hell’s knees. This woman overpowered him by her very nearness. What was he supposed to do next?

For a wild moment, he hoped she would kiss him again. This close to her, he could think of nothing but kissing, and all the touches that might come after. But she had not lost her head, as he had. She stepped away, wiped the back of her hand across her face, and touched her pelerine to ensure it covered her bosom. Alas, it did.