Page 45 of His Mad Duchess
Sebastian stooped to scratch behind the cat’s ear, which earned him a half-hearted tail flick, nothing more. He cast Margaret a theatrically wounded look. “Ungrateful minx. Do you see? All my trouble climbing trees, risking cracked ribs, and she turns on me for a scrap of ribbon.”
Margaret’s laugh slipped out before she could catch it. “Perhaps she has good taste.”
He raised a brow. “Insulting your husband in broad daylight? Shocking conduct, Madam.”
“Terrible scandal,” she agreed sweetly. The cat rolled over, batting her boot, tail twitching.
Sebastian nudged the cat’s side with one finger. “We must christen her properly, you know. She can’t go about nameless, clawing ribbons and the ankles of respectable people.”
Margaret paused, twirling the ribbon thoughtfully. “I suppose not. What would you call her, then? Lady Claw?”
“Too obvious,” he said at once, squinting at the cat as if it might offer its own opinion. “What about… Lady Mewsington?”
Margaret’s laugh was so bright, it startled a bird from the hedge. “Your Grace! You cannot be serious.”
“Perfectly serious,” he said gravely, eyes alight. “Lady Mewsington of Ravenscourt. It lends her a certain—what do the French say?—je ne sais quoi.”
Margaret swatted his arm lightly with the trailing ribbon. “You are absurd.”
“Better than being dull,” he said, catching the ribbon just before the cat could. He tugged gently, winding it once around his finger. Their hands brushed—a careless thing, but the warmth lingered longer than it should.
She drew her fingers back to her skirts. The cat batted Sebastian’s boot, offended by the pause in her game.
Margaret dropped her eyes to the little ball of sleek fur. “Miss Fortune,” she said then, softly, tasting the sound. “I think she is a Miss Fortune, don’t you? Mine and everyone’s.”
Sebastian’s brows drew together. “Misfortune?” he repeated the word slowly with disbelief. “You would saddle her with so ill-omened a name? That bodes dreadfully for my carpets and, I suspect, for my peace of mind.”
Margaret’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Not misfortune, Your Grace—Miss Fortune. As in a lady. Of charm. And consequence.”
He stared at her for a beat, then let out a short laugh. “Ah. You will forgive me. I thought you meant to christen her a harbinger of disaster.”
“She is no such thing,” Margaret said, scooping the kitten closer. “She will bring nothing but delight.”
“Or fleas,” Sebastian said lightly, though there was the faintest curve at his mouth.
Margaret gave him a look. “If she does, I shall see they are all sent directly to you.”
The faintest smile tugged at his mouth as the kitten batted curiously at the silver buttons of his waistcoat. “Then she and I shall be at war before the week is out.”
“Only if you provoke her,” Margaret returned, lifting her chin. “And she strikes me as the forgiving sort.”
Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Forgiving? That beast has claws. One swipe at the draperies, and my mother’s portrait will come crashing down.”
“Then I shall instruct her to begin with your study,” she said sweetly. “You might find the walls improved.”
He laughed a low, unguarded sound and shook his head. “You and she make a formidable alliance, Your Grace.”
Margaret smiled, running a finger over the kitten’s silky head. “Miss Fortune,” she repeated softly. “A bit of trouble. A bit of luck.”
“And wholly yours,” Sebastian said, his voice losing some of its jest. “Heaven help the rest of us.”
Margaret looked up and found his eyes waiting. Something in her chest gave a quiet, traitorous leap.
He leaned in, eyes locked to hers, as the cat squirmed around their boots. “Miss Fortune,” he murmured. “Rather like someone else I know.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You flatter yourself, Your Grace.”
His brows lifted. “You might spare me that formality. It makes me feel as though we are strangers still.”
