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Catherine cleared her throat again. “I see. Well. Thank you for your hospitality, at least.” She set the new teacup on the table beside the horrid scone.

The Duke shrank, any sign of confidence that he’d had at the start of this visit dissolving. “Are you leaving so soon?” He sounded miserable at the prospect.

“It was not my intention,” said Catherine. “If it isn’t too forward of me, I actually had meant to ask a… a favor of you.”

His small eyes got smaller. “What sort of favor?”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you. But as I said before, I’m fond of baking.

Really baking.” She eyed the scones with distaste.

“I like to think I’m quite good at it, and I never use pepper at all, I assure you.

” She smiled in an attempt to lighten what had become an awkward conversation.

She nodded to Mary Ann, who stood and handed the box to the Duke.

“These are some miniature cakes I made. They’re for you to keep.

I hope you’ll enjoy them.” She hesitated.

“In fact, I hope your senses aren’t so dulled that you can still taste them. ”

“I… that’s very kind, Lady Pinkerton,” said the Duke, opening the box and eyeing the cakes, not with gratitude, but suspicion. “But what are these for?”

“That’s precisely my reason for calling.

I’ve been thinking how Hearts could use a nice quality bakery and I thought, well, why shouldn’t I open one?

Which led me to thinking of the storefront Mr. Caterpillar is vacating and if you might be interested in leasing the storefront to me?

” She kept her tone light and confident, but when she had finished, the Duke’s expression had darkened.

She brightened her own smile to compensate. “What do you think?”

“I see,” he said, shutting the lid on the box and setting it on the table beside him. “So this is not a social call, after all.” He sighed, and the sound was devastating. Cath felt Mary Ann flinch beside her .

“That isn’t so,” Cath stammered. “I’ve been meaning to call on you for weeks and just—”

“It’s all right, Lady Pinkerton. You needn’t go on. I understand that I’m not much for popularity and your calling cards are doubtlessly wanted elsewhere.”

Her chest tightened. “I’m sorry to have offended you.”

He waved away her apology and, after a moment, sat straighter in his chair. His expression shifted into that cold exterior she knew from countless balls. His voice, when he spoke, carried a stiffness that had been missing before. “Is the Marquess aware of your plans?”

She thought to lie, but saw no point in it. “No, not yet.”

He rubbed at his hanging jowl. “I have great respect for your father. I would not wish to insult him by being party to a business venture he does not approve of.”

“I understand. I intend to speak with him about it soon, but thought it might be beneficial to have a storefront first. To better convey my plans to him.”

Mary Ann leaned forward. “This request is contingent upon a rental agreement that puts fair market value upon the storefront and a full inspection of the property—”

Cath pinched Mary Ann’s leg, silencing her, but the Duke was nodding. Almost, but not quite, smiling at her interruption.

“But of course,” he said. “That is smart business.” He tossed a peppery scone into his mouth.

A crumb stuck to his lower lip. He wouldn’t look at Catherine and he had nearly finished his tea before he spoke again.

“I will keep you under consideration for the storefront, once Mr. Caterpillar has moved out.”

Cath’s entire body lifted. “Oh, thank—”

“But I, too, have a favor to ask, Lady Pinkerton.”

Her gratitude caught in her throat, right beside the still-scratching pepper. She swallowed it back down and hoped something mighty that he was about to ask for a lifetime supply of fresh-baked, pepper-free scones.

“Of course,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

The veil of his confidence once again slipped and, if he hadn’t been so very pig-like, Catherine would have thought he looked rather sheepish. “You are friends with…” His tusks bobbed as he gulped. “… Lady Mearle, are you not?”

She stared at him. Friends was not the most accurate depiction of her relationship with Margaret Mearle, but—“Yes. Yes, she and I are quite good friends.”

“Do you think it might be possible for you to, er, if it isn’t asking too much, might you… put in a fond word for me?”

She cocked her head to the side. “With… Lady Mearle?”

“Indeed. You see, I…” He flushed, and his lips turned into a brief, awkward smile. “I rather fancy her.”

Catherine blinked. “Lady Margaret Mearle?”

The Duke might have seen the disbelief on her face, but he was too busy gazing at the wall.

“I know. It’s absurd of me to think I might be worthy of such a dear creature, or that she could ever share my feelings.

But it’s just… she’s the jammiest bit of jam, isn’t she?

So very clever. And righteous. And so very, very… ” He swooned. “Pink.”

He dared to glance at her.

Catherine snapped her mouth shut and tried to look sympathetic.

Appeased, he looked away again. “But I can’t even bring myself to speak to her. I can’t imagine what she thinks of me.”

Gnawing at the inside of her cheek, Cath thought of all the snide comments Margaret had made about the Duke over the years, mostly regarding how stuck-up and arrogant he was. Traits that she, too, had seen in him, but no longer seemed fair.

It was difficult to imagine. She could not recall Lord Warthog, the perpetual bachelor, ever showing favor to a lady, just as she could not recall any man showing interest in the intolerable, unattractive Margaret Mearle.

Yet—here it was. Pudding and pie, right before her eyes.

She tried to smile, hoping to ease the desperation scrawled across the Duke’s face. “I would be happy to put in a fond word for you, Your Grace.”