Mary Ann was tying knots into her bonnet strings before they’d gone a dozen steps. ‘It’s rather a miracle he’s stayed in business this long, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed,’ said Cath, but she was already forgetting about the grumpy old cobbler. ‘Do you suppose the Duke would entertain the idea of leasing the building to us?’

‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Mary Ann. ‘I hope he would make the decision as a businessman should, based on our solid business plan and financial projections.’

Cath shook her head. ‘No one thinks like that other than you, Mary Ann. I do think the Duke likes me well enough, as much as he likes anyone. But he also knows that I’m a nobleman’s daughter who is supposed to be looking for a husband, not looking into storefronts. He might think it’s a conflict of values to enter into a business arrangement with me.’ She cast her eyes upward, finding it too easy to imagine the Duke’s haughty snort.

‘Unless we have your father’s permission.’

‘Yes. Unless that.’

Nerves twisted in Cath’s stomach, as they did every time she thought of broaching the subject with her parents. That was where the dream and reality refused to mix, as distinct as oil and water. No matter how many times she tried to imagine the conversation with her parents and what she would say to persuade them that her bakery was worth investing in, or at the least, worth giving permission for . . . they never said yes. Not even in her fantasies.

She was still the daughter of a marquess.

But she could push forward without them for now, for a little while longer still.

‘We’ll have our answer soon enough, though.’ She popped open the parasol as they headed back towards their carriage. ‘We’re going to call on the Duke this afternoon.’

THE MOST NOBLE Pygmalion Warthog, Duke of Tuskany, lived in a fine brick house upon a rolling-hill estate. The roof sported half a dozen chimneys, the drive was lined with apple trees, and the air carried the sweet smell of hay, though Catherine wasn’t sure where it was coming from. She and Mary Ann left the footman to wait in the carriage again while they approached the house. Cath held a calling card; Mary Ann a box of miniature cakes that Cath had been saving in the icebox for just such an occasion.

A housekeeper opened the door.

‘Good day,’ said Catherine, holding out the card. ‘Is His Grace at home?’

The housekeeper seemed momentarily baffled, as if the receiving of guests was an uncommon event – and perhaps it was for the Duke. ‘I – I will have to check,’ she stammered, taking the card and leaving them on the doorstep as she disappeared inside.

Minutes later, the housekeeper returned and ushered them into a parlour with a bowl of red apples on a sideboard and an array of cosy, if dated, furniture. Cath took a seat, leaving Mary Ann – in this outing, her dutiful lady’s maid – to stand.

‘Would you care for some tea?’ asked the housekeeper. Her eyes were shining now, her uncertainty at the front door replaced with an anxious sort of delight. She seemed eager to please what Catherine could assume were very rare guests.

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

The housekeeper bustled off. The door had just closed behind her when a second door opened, admitting the Duke.

He wore a velvet smoking jacket and held Catherine’s calling card in one hoof. He looked at Catherine, then Mary Ann, and his stiff shoulders dropped a tiny bit as if in disappointment.

Catherine stood and curtsied. ‘Good day, Your Grace.’

‘Lady Pinkerton. What a surprise this is.’ He gestured for her to sit again and claimed a chair opposite her, folding one leg on top of the other.

‘It had been too long since I’d come to call on you. I hope this is a good time.’

‘As good as any.’ He set her card in a silver bowl beside him. The bowl was similar to the one in the foyer at Rock Turtle Cove Manor, meant for collecting calling cards – except their bowl was often full, while this one had previously been empty. ‘When Miss Chortle delivered your card, I thought perhaps you might have . . . er, company with you.’

‘Company?’ She listed her head. ‘Oh – my mother generally pays her own calls these days, but I’ve no doubt she’ll be calling on you soon.’

His flat nose twitched. ‘Your mother. Yes. How are the Marquess and Marchioness?’

‘Quite well, thank you. And how is’ – she hesitated – ‘your estate?’

‘Quite . . .’ He, also, hesitated. ‘. . . lonely, if one is to be honest.’ He followed the statement with a smile that kept pace with a grimace, and something in the look tugged at Catherine’s heart. It made her want to pity him, but then, he was the one who was the ever-constant wallflower at the King’s parties, who never so much as deigned to dance and was always the first to remove himself from a conversation.

Still, how much of his ‘aloof-like’ behaviour was snobbery, and how much was shyness? She wondered that she’d never considered it before.

‘Would your maid care to sit?’ the Duke asked before Catherine could think of anything polite to say in return.

Mary Ann had just lowered herself on to the edge of a small sofa when the housekeeper returned, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and a plate of scones. Her hands were trembling as she poured the tea and her twinkling eyes darted between Catherine and the Duke so often that she spilt, twice. The Duke, frowning around his tusks, thanked her and ushered her away, adding the milk and sugar himself. As he bent over the tray, Cath caught sight of a bandage on his neck, stained dark with dried blood.