Spellmaker

The duchess guided her to a settee. Elsie was about to sit, but the duke was leaning against the mantel, watching his daughter play. Sensing her opportunity, she offered up an excuse about stretching her legs and went to stand by him, taking up a place a little too close for comfort.

She could feel it, the spell, with something beyond her five senses. Maybe if she got very close, she would be able to tell whether it was the siphoning spell.

She cleared her throat. “Lovely woods you have.” It was one of her many rehearsed lines. “Do you hunt often, Your Grace?”

The duke chuckled. “Not for some time now. Perhaps you have not noticed, Elsie, but I am beginning to lean toward old.”

Behind her, Miss Josie chuckled.

Elsie smiled. “I hadn’t noticed.” Though, in fact, the Duke of Kent was perhaps the oldest man she knew, short of Two-Thom from Clunwood. “You seem to have recovered from your illness nicely, if I may say so.”

He smiled. “I try my best.”

This was getting nowhere. Elsie racked her brain for something else to say.

“How is your training coming along?” the duke asked.

“Oh fine. Lovely. Quite lovely. Keeps me busy.” She studied his face, that spell pulsing just beyond her reach. An idea struck. “Forgive me for saying so, but I believe your cravat is crooked.” She knew nothing about fixing a cravat, but if she could just reach for it—

The duke raised a hand before she could, his slender fingers tracing the knot. He adjusted it slightly. “It’s actually a new design my valet introduced me to. Not sure how fond of it I am.”

Blast.

The duke looked at her expectantly, so she said the first thing that came to mind. “You haven’t by chance heard from Master Merton, have you?”

He blinked. “No, she hasn’t—”

The door opened, calling Elsie’s attention away. Curse her heart for how it quickened at the sight of Bacchus, looking smart, well groomed, and tired.

The duke straightened. “I suppose we can all head in now. Abigail?” He held out his arm for the duchess.

Bacchus spied Elsie and came toward her, his strides long and purposeful.

Elsie swallowed. “Where were you?”

“I lost track of time.”

She wilted. Touched his elbow. “It’s understandable.”

He rewarded her with a soft smile before rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me, I haven’t slept well.”

“I see that, too. And it’s no wonder,” she added quietly. “But I will forgive you for anything and everything as long as you forgive me for anything absurd I do in that dining room.”

Because she would make a fool of herself, one way or another. If it meant Bacchus’s happiness.

“Anything and everything, hm?” There was a sparkle in his gaze that made her belly warm. She couldn’t muster a sensible reply.

The others had started for the dining room, so Bacchus offered his arm. Elsie took it, relishing the feel of the strong muscles under his sleeve, wishing for . . . everything.

But it was no use feeling sorry for herself. She had a job to do.

They had nearly reached the dining room when Bacchus whispered, “You seem uneasy.”

She scoffed. “I’m about to accost a duke. Of course I’m uneasy.”

Bacchus’s lips pressed into a line, and he said nothing more until they were seated, the first course served. Elsie sat around the table from the duke this time, though not close enough to feel that otherly buzz of his spell.

She considered, as Miss Josie recounted her day shopping in town, what actions she needed to take. She swallowed spoonful after spoonful of white soup as she debated and was surprised when her spoon hit the bottom of the empty bowl.

“What flowers did you decide upon, Miss Camden?” the duchess inquired as a servant took her dish away.

“Flowers?” Her brain remembered too slowly her excuse for pulling Bacchus away at the engagement dinner. “Oh! Well, roses, of course.”

The duchess smiled. “A good, traditional choice.”

In truth, Elsie couldn’t care less about what flowers decorated the chapel when she got married. It seemed so inconsequential, so abstract, compared with her other worries.

“It’s too bad laceleaf doesn’t grow here,” Bacchus added. Elsie could detect the very slightest hint of tension in his voice, something she might not have noticed if this were their first meeting. His English accent was especially crisp. “It’s quite lovely, especially the red variety.”

“Is it native to Barbados?” Elsie asked.

He nodded and took a sip of water.

Elsie’s gaze narrowed in on that glass, and a perfect, mortifying plan sprung into her head.

“What a lovely name,” Miss Ida said. “Laceleaf. Do tell us what it looks like.”

Bacchus set the glass down. “It’s a variety of lily.” The servants came around with the second course, serving the duke first. Elsie waited until they moved away so there would be none to lend aid but herself. “The entire flower is made of a single petal wrapped around the tip of the stem, and the spadix—”

Elsie swiped her arm out and tipped over her full water glass, spilling it over the table and, subsequently, onto the duke’s lap.

No one could say she hadn’t tried.