Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(10)

Nevertheless, her stomach was a giddy frolic of crickets and butterflies.

He was just so near. And so tall. And so commanding.

So male.

Everything female in her was rallying to the challenge. Perhaps this was how mountaineers felt when they stood at the base of a soaring, snow-crested alp. Exhilarated by possibility; awed by the inherent danger. A bit weak in the knees.

“Snowdrop,” he scoffed, leaning his weight against the table edge. “You ought to change her name to Lamprey. Who keeps a weasel for a pet, anyhow?”

“She was a gift.”

“Who gives a weasel as a gift?”

“One of my father’s admirers.”

“I should think it was one of his enemies.”

Izzy joined him in sitting on the table’s edge, resigned to explaining the whole story. It made a good illustration of how her father’s literary success and the public’s adoration never translated into much practical benefit.

“My father wrote an ongoing saga of knights, ladies, villains, sorcerers . . . castles. Anything to do with romantic chivalry. And the tales were all framed as bedtime stories told to me. Little Izzy Goodnight.”

“That’s why Archer was expecting a young girl?”

“Yes. They always expect a young girl,” she said. “The heroine of the tales kept an ermine as a pet. A fictional ermine, of course. One that was brave and loyal, and every bit as majestic, pale, and slender-necked as her mistress. And this fictional ermine managed to accomplish all sorts of clever, fierce, fictional deeds, such as chewing her mistress free of bindings when she was kidnapped, for the third time, by the fictional Shadow Knight. So a devotee of my father’s stories thought it would be a lovely gesture to give real-life Izzy Goodnight a real-life ermine to call her very own.”

Wouldn’t that be precious? the fool must have thought. Wouldn’t it be marvelous and adorable?

Well, no. It wasn’t, actually. Not for Izzy, not for Snowdrop.

A real-life ermine did not make a cuddly, brave, loyal pet. Snowdrop was sleek and elegant, yes—particularly when winter turned her thick coat white. But though she weighed a mere half pound, she was a vicious predator. Over the years, Izzy had suffered her share of bites and nips.

“A stupid gift,” the duke said.

She couldn’t argue with his assessment. Nevertheless, it wasn’t Snowdrop’s fault. She couldn’t help being a weasel. She was born that way. And she was ancient now, near nine years old. Izzy couldn’t just toss her to the wolves—or to the wolf-dogs.

“I can only imagine,” she said, “that Lord Lynforth was following a similar impulse. He thought it would be an enchanting gesture to give little Izzy Goodnight a real-life castle of her own.”

“If you don’t want his fanciful gift, feel free to refuse it.”

“Oh, but this gift isn’t the same as an ermine. This is property. Don’t you understand how rare that is for a woman? Property always belongs to our fathers, brothers, husbands, sons. We never get to own anything.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women with radical ideas.”

“No,” she returned. “I’m one of those women with nothing. There are a great many of us.”

She turned her gaze to the floor. “When my father died, everything of value passed to my cousin. He inherited my childhood home, all the furnishings in it. Every dish in the cupboard and every book in the library. Even the income from my father’s writings. What do I have to my name? I have Snowdrop.”

Her hands began to tremble. She couldn’t help it; she was still angry with her father. Angry with him for dying and angry with him for dying this way. All those years she’d helped him, forgoing any life she might build for her own, and he’d never found time to revise his will and provide for Izzy should the worst occur. He was too busy playing the role of doting, storytelling father.

The duke didn’t seem to appreciate the injustice of her situation. “So you do have somewhere to go. You have a cousin. He can support you.”

“Martin?” She laughed at the suggestion. “He’s always despised me, ever since we were children. We’re speaking of the same boy who pushed me in a pond when I was eight and stood laughing on the bank while I sputtered and thrashed. He didn’t throw me a rope that day, and he won’t now. There’s only one thing I can do. The same thing I did then.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Learn to swim,” she answered. “Quickly.”

His wide mouth tugged to one side. She couldn’t decide if it was an appreciative half smile or a belittling smirk. Either way, it made her anxious.

“Listen to me, prattling on.” She tilted her head and peeked under his makeshift compress. “I think the bleeding has stopped.”

With his teeth, he tore a strip of linen from a corner of the handkerchief and wrapped it around his finger, carefully folding under the ends and knotting it tight.

“I know you don’t want to leave Gostley Castle,” she said. “Perhaps we can agree on a quarterly rent.”

Surely the rents on a property this size would be enough to secure her a well-appointed cottage somewhere. Izzy didn’t need much. After several months as an itinerant houseguest, she yearned for the smallest comforts. Curtains, candlesticks. Sleeping beneath linens embroidered with her own monogram.