Page 11 of Sweet Duke of Mine

CLOTHING THAT MAKES A GENTLEMAN

D aisy had plenty of time to prepare answers for Gilbert’s inevitable questions while he was at school, and sure enough, he barely set his books down before launching right in.

“So, you aren’t really married, are you? You just made that up.”

“You know I’d never keep something like that from you.” Because they were a team. Because they were all one another had.

Daisy handed him some bread and soup. She always tried to have something ready for him when he came home—he was a growing boy, after all. Already taller than most boys his age, Gil never refused food. How long before he towered over her entirely?

“Do you understand why I would lie, though?” she asked, watching as he tore off a piece of bread with his teeth.

Gilbert snorted. “Because he wasn’t dressed.”

Ah, yes. He understood, if only on the most basic level.

“Him joining us in the kitchen like that was most inappropriate,” she agreed. “And yes, his lack of proper clothing certainly made it worse.” She took every opportunity to instill manners and propriety into him. He might need them someday.

“I don’t suppose he had much choice, though,” Gilbert reasoned. “Stuck in the larder like that.”

“True.” Daisy couldn’t help but smile at his logic. “But you and I need to talk. He still hasn’t remembered who he is, so he’s going to stay with us a little longer. And since I told Mrs. Farley that his name is… Alastair,” Daisy forced herself to continue, “and that he is my husband, we’re going to have to keep up that story until it’s safe for him to go.”

Gilbert, who had been listening intently while he chewed, nodded. “Will he still sleep in there?” He gestured toward the pantry door.

That was… a good question. Daisy hadn’t thought that part through. There were only two small rooms upstairs—hers and Gilbert’s. And her brother’s was so tiny there was barely enough space for his bed, much less another person.

After her aunt’s passing, she’d refashioned the parlor into a proper salesroom for her soaps and oils, leaving only the kitchen and the small dining room where they took their meals and where Gilbert did his schoolwork. It was also where she sometimes sat for tea with Mrs. Farley.

But the dining room was larger than the pantry. It had a window.

If they moved the mattress in there, he’d be more comfortable. Gilbert could do his homework in the kitchen, and if Mrs. Farley came for tea, they’d simply move the mattress elsewhere.

She certainly couldn’t share her small bedroom with him.

Alastair.

Impressions from a long-ago afternoon unexpectedly raced through her mind. Wildflowers in the grass, his fingers stroking along her cheeks and brow; bright green eyes and a tilted, boyish smile. Memories she’d struggled to keep at bay because they hurt too much.

Please, leave me be.

“We’ll move him into the dining room next time he’s up. Before Mrs. Farley comes for tea, we’ll simply move the mattress elsewhere.”

But then she changed the subject, not wanting to think any more about this stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger. “Now, tell me about your day...”

Gilbert, although not a gossip, could go on and on about academic subjects that interested him. History and philosophy topped that list.

“We’re reading from the writings of John Locke,” he announced just before tearing off another bite of bread.

Daisy arched a brow. “The philosopher.”

Her brother nodded enthusiastically. “The fourth book of An Essay Concerning Human Understanding .”

Before their father had taken up farming, he’d attended the small village school where he’d learned to read, studied history, and even dabbled in philosophy. So much so, he used to joke, that he’d married the teacher.

Daisy and Gilbert’s mother.

Both had gone on to encourage Daisy to share her lessons over supper, or while working alongside them in the kitchen or the fields. Looking back, she’d realized they’d been tricking her into learning.

So she’d adopted the same habit with Gilbert, encouraging him to share his lessons each evening. If he could teach them to her, he would have an even stronger grasp of the material.

And aside from the practicality of it, Daisy—like her father—wasn’t opposed to filling her brain with new thoughts. She especially loved literature and history.

She had loved listening to Alastair discuss new ideas he’d learned while away at school .

“Tell me about Mr. Locke,” she said as she scrubbed out one of the bowls she’d used earlier.

John Locke, she remembered all too easily, had been one of Alastair’s favorites.

“He was a physician first,” Gilbert explained, “which allowed him to write from a unique perspective—about humans as physical individuals, but also how they exist with one another, and how governments ought to work.”

At times like this, Gilbert truly did seem too mature for his age.

“And when did he live?” Daisy prodded.

“The seventeenth century. And before you ask, he was English. I believe he was born in Bristol.”

“I have heard of him.” Daisy pinched her mouth together, placing the bowl she’d just dried on the shelf while Gilbert continued.

“He writes that humans are born with no preconceptions about anything. That our minds are blank slates.”

“A state which I am, unfortunately, far too familiar with.”

The abrupt comment came from behind her.

Daisy turned in surprise, meeting her patient’s stare as he cocked a single brow. How did he do that? In less than twenty seconds, his presence had sent the temperature in the room soaring by at least ten degrees.

“Although,” he added, his voice laced with dry amusement, “I’m not sure my particular condition is what Locke had in mind.”

She swept her gaze over him, noting his improved appearance. She had left some of her father’s old clothing in the pantry, and while they weren’t a perfect fit, they were far more appropriate than the thin, worn nightshirt.

“I have your clothing,” she said, anticipating his next question. “The ones you wore when I found you. They’re clean. But—” She turned to a nearby cupboard, extracting the neatly washed and mended garments: a fine linen shirt, an embroidered waistcoat, well-cut breeches, and a pair of worn Hessians. Holding them up, she gave him a pointed look. “Although I’m not sure what Mrs. Farley would think if she saw my seaman husband wearing clothes fit for a king.”

She moved to put them away, but he was already stepping around the worktable toward her.

“Let me take a closer look,” he said. “Please.”

As he crossed the room, she noted that although his movements were careful, he was no longer limping. It was remarkable that he was up at all.

He lifted the fabric, studying each piece, and as he stood beside her, Daisy resisted the urge to lean closer to him.

Perhaps she was coming down with something. An illness that caused temporary loss of one’s self-control.

That would certainly explain the ridiculous flutter in her chest.

Because… this man was one kind of attractive while vulnerable and bedridden, but quite another while he towered over her, his broad shoulders brushing hers, examining clothing that could only have belonged to a wealthy gentleman.

A titled gentleman?

“Do you—” She swallowed the strain in her voice. “Do you remember them?”

He unfolded each piece, smoothing his palm over the fabric. Daisy took a measured step back—partly to get a better look at him, partly to put a bit of space between them.

Two faint lines appeared between his brows. “I know they’re mine, and yet, they aren’t specifically familiar.”

“Like Locke?” Gilbert piped up.

He let out a low chuckle, still focused on the garments. “Like Locke.”

But then he found one of the patches she’d sewn and ran his thumb over the stitches .

“The garments are very fine,” Daisy pointed out, her voice measured. “Even mended.”

She held her breath, waiting—uncertain of what, exactly—until he lifted his gaze and met hers.

“You didn’t need to do this.” His voice was quieter now. And then, almost reverently, he murmured, “Daisy Margaret Montgomery.”

Her name in his mouth sent bells ringing in her head. A wave of dizziness threatened to wash over her.

How could he not be Alastair? She touched the worktable to maintain her balance. Why would he say her full name like that?

Because she’d introduced herself to him—that was why. Hadn’t she?

“I had plenty of time to work on them while you slept,” she admitted before deliberately steering the conversation back to her original point. “But a working man would never wear pieces such as these.” If she’d wanted to, she could have sold them for nearly half a year’s profits.

“No,” he said. “He would not.”

Gilbert looked on in awe. “That means you’re probably a nobleman! I thought you might be a nob by the way you talk.”

Alastair nodded.

Daisy turned back to face the worktable but couldn’t seem to remember what she’d been doing.

“He’s not wrong,” she said softly.