Page 48 of From Rakes to Riches

The fear was even worse. He’d seen it on their faces—that flash of uncertainty, that nearly imperceptible flinch backwards.

Cats were sly, demanding creatures, but they were a great deal less complicated than little boys were. If he could persuadeHecate to tolerate him without utterly cocking the thing up, then there might be hope for him, after all.

It was a start, at least. Proof that the thing could be done.

He rested his head against the side of Hecate’s pen and stared up at the dusty rafters above. Aside from Hecate’s soft nibbling and the whistle of the wind around the sides of the stables, it was silent here.

It was unnerving, all the silence. There was forever someone nattering in his ear in London, and an endless parade of willing ladies and bored gentlemen traipsing through his townhouse, all of them eager to be seen with the fashionable Lord Hawke.

It was no wonder his sons found him such a disappointment. It had been months since he’d been obliged to exert any effort to please anyone aside from himself. The irony there, of course, was that nothing and no one could please him?—

“Mrreowww.”

He glanced up at Hecate’s disgruntled meow. “Yes? What is itnow? No, I don’t have any more beef, you greedy creature.”

She ambled over to him, her heavy belly hanging low, and without so much as a by- your-leave crawled into his lap and settled herself down on top of him as if he were a stuffed cushion.

“No, that won’t do. Bad cat.” It was ridiculous enough he was sneaking into the stables at night to feed her, but a cat lounging atop him, kneading her claws on his thigh? No, indeed. He did havesomepride left. “This isn’t part of our agreement, Hecate.”

Hecate paused to glare at him with her round, yellow eyes, then began calmly licking her paw.

“You’re spoiling my coat, you ridiculous animal.” It was a Weston, for God’s sake. He wriggled his legs, trying to dislodge her, and when that didn’t work, he rolled onto his side to tip her off. “Go on, shoo.”

But Hecate didn’t shoo. She remained right where she was, a continuous rumble emanating from her throat.

Well, itwasquite cold tonight, and then Hecate was fifty-four days into her gestational cycle—at least, according to Miss Templeton’s charts. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for him to let her lounge on top of him for a bit.

He settled back against the pen and curled his hand around Hecate’s back. Miss Templeton and her infernal charts. Yesterday, she’d brought Hecate’s gestational chart with her when she brought him his tea, just in case he wished to ‘have a look at it.’

He didn’t, of course. The very idea was absurd. If hehadtaken a peek at it once she was gone, it was only because she’d left it on his desk, where he couldn’t avoid seeing it.

No doubt precisely as she intended it.

He’d never met a more persistent woman than Miss Templeton in his life. He couldn’t make the least sense of her. She should have been pleased to be rid of him after the way he’d behaved toward her, but instead she seemed utterly determined to lure him back to the stables for another animal husbandry lesson.

Animal husbandry, indeed. More like cat coddling.

Still, he hadn’t liked the way her face had fallen when he’d dismissed her, and after she’d gone, he’d had rather a lot of trouble settling down to his work again. Then this morning he’d found himself watching her, Ryan and Etienne march down the pathway from the castle to the stables with a twinge in his chest…

God above. First the cat, and now the meddlesome governess. Either being at Hawke’s Run was having a decidedly bad effect on him, or a decidedly good one. He hadn’t yet made up his mind.

One thing was certain, however. Hecate’s purring was lulling him to sleep. “I do beg your pardon for disturbing you, Hecate, but as much as I treasure our newfound friendship, I draw the line at spending the night in the stables.”

He didn’t draw the line at leaving her his coat, however, and she’d burrowed quite contentedly into its folds by the time he left the stables, closing the door against the biting wind on his way out. He’d have to fetch it early tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t do for Miss Templeton and the boys to find it there?—

“Mew, mew, mew.”

What the devil? He paused halfway across the stable yard, listening, but the mewling was gone. All he heard was the wailing of the wind.

Damn it, he was hearing cats everywhere now.

He resumed his trek across the yard, his boots crunching over the thick layer of frost on the ground, but when he neared the kitchen door he heard it again—a frightened, pathetic mewling, and it was growing more desperate every moment.

It was certainly a cat, but it couldn’t be Hecate. She was tucked safely into her pen inside the stables, and it was too high-pitched, more like a kitten’s cry. But where the devilwasit?

“Mew, mew, mew.”

Bloody hell. The kitten was nearby, but it was as dark as Hades out here, and by the sounds of it, it was a tiny thing, and likely hiding from him. “Here, kitty. Come on out, now.”

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