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Page 12 of Sweet Duke of Mine

A GOOD SHAVE

W hile Gilbert finished his snack—along with listing more of his impassioned opinions on John Locke—Daisy cut off another slice of bread and poured soup into a bowl for Alastair, who had not been without his own thoughts on the subject.

The conversation had been both fascinating and disconcerting.

Fascinating because so many of the ideas were new to her.

Disconcerting because it all felt so unbearably natural.

As though Alastair belonged here.

And that was dangerous. It made it all too easy to forget that his presence in her kitchen was temporary.

“I need to start writing my theme, so I’ll be in the dining room, Dais,” Gilbert announced, gathering his books before turning to their guest. “Thanks for the help, Mister… Alastair. Now I need to get these ideas down on paper.”

“The tricky part,” Alastair said with a knowing nod.

“Indeed,” Daisy inserted, feeling oddly left out of the conversation. Once Gilbert disappeared, she busied herself with wiping up stray crumbs, but her mind wasn’t on the task .

This growing inability to concentrate whenever Alastair was near was getting more than a little annoying.

“Daisy?” The quiet way he said her name made her pulse stutter. He could sense her unease. “I can’t very well call you Miss Montgomery if you’re my wife, can I?”

“I don’t suppose it would be wise.” She forced a bright smile. “Are you still hungry? That wasn’t much of a meal…”

He shook his head, rubbing his fingers over the scruff along his jaw. “Actually, I wondered if you might have a razor.”

“A razor…? Oh! Yes, you can use my father’s.”

Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and hurried upstairs, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between them. She needed a moment to breathe—to gather herself.

Inside her room, she knelt before the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed, the familiar creak of its hinges echoing in the quiet. She ran her fingers over the smooth grain before lifting the lid, releasing the faint scent of cedar and time.

Inside lay various belongings she had kept of her father’s—a worn leather-bound journal, a neatly folded handkerchief, and the battered gloves he’d worn in the fields. She hesitated before reaching for his old shaving kit, the weight of the past pressing against her chest.

After her father passed, she hadn’t been able to part with these remnants of him. They weren’t just objects; they were memories—the scent of his pipe, the echo of his laughter…

She swallowed down the emotion that rose unbidden. Now wasn’t the time for sentiment.

Clutching the shaving kit, she descended the stairs and found that Alastair had claimed the seat Gilbert had vacated.

“My father kept it sharp, but it’s been a while...” Daisy set the small velvet pouch on the table, opening the flap to reveal a gleaming razor nestled beside a well-worn leather strop. With practiced ease, she took the blade between her fingers and ran it over the leather, the rhythmic motion releasing a familiar scent—oil, steel, and a hint of cedar. The fragrance transported her to a different time, back when her father had still been the man she’d adored—before the accident, before the pain, before the gin.

She swallowed, pushing those memories aside.

“You’ve never been married, then?”

Alastair’s voice cut through the quiet, pulling her back to the present. She jerked slightly, the razor slipping in her grip before she tightened her hold.

“Oh, no.” She laughed, but the sound was light and hollow, as if the question itself were absurd. As if it didn’t strike right at the core of something she didn’t want to examine too closely.

She bit her lip.

Once he shaved, she would know—she’d be certain. Because if he truly was Alastair… she would recognize his mouth, his chin, every sharp and softened edge of his face.

The thought sent an unsteady ripple through her chest.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said, his tone gentler now, as if he sensed her disquiet, if not the real reason behind it.

Daisy exhaled, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “It’s fine. Just not a bothersome question, I suppose.”

“My apologies,” he said.

Her heart gave an erratic thud, and she dropped her gaze to the razor, focusing on the steel rather than the man watching her so intently.

“It’s quite all right,” she added quickly. “But marriage isn’t for me. I have Gilbert to think of, and my shop…”

She ran the blade over the strop again, though it was already sharp enough. The motion kept her hands busy, kept her mind from spiraling. But it didn’t stop the whisper of doubt—of impossible hope—pressing against her ribs.

She had suspected. From the moment she looked into his green eyes, she had felt it. But the bruises, the beard, the fever—they had kept her from knowing for sure.

Now, in just a few strokes of the blade, she would know.

“You look as though you know what you’re doing,” Alastair commented.

“My father liked having a good shave, but his hands shook horribly in the end.” She rarely spoke of those days. She certainly hadn’t reminded Gilbert of them.

But it had been hard. Watching her father’s condition deteriorate and then… afterwards, once he was gone… For years, although not alone, she’d felt incredibly lonely.

Knowing she would lose herself in this stranger’s eyes if she looked directly at them, she kept her head down, blinking away the sudden storm of emotions—memories of carefree days spent working the farm, before Alastair left the Priory.

It was foolish to let her thoughts linger like this, on a part of her life she could never return to. Pointless to imagine.

Even if he was Alastair, they could not go back in time. They lived in different worlds, always had, actually…

She couldn’t be distracted by past disappointments. No, she had Gilbert’s future to think of—and her own. And she was succeeding, dash it all!

What was she doing, imagining she might find Alastair’s face beneath that thick beard?

She felt his gaze on her as she prepared the blade, and she couldn’t help but ask. “Are you sure you’re up to the task?” Just a few days ago, he’d been unconscious, so weak he could barely swallow a spoonful of willowbark tea.

He hesitated, his fingers grazing his beard as if assessing the effort it would take. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” he finally said.

His tone was light, but Daisy caught the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He was testing himself, gauging how much strength he had truly regained. For all his confidence, he was still recovering, and… lost.

“Here.” She set the blade down and sighed. “I can help if you need me to.”

He glanced up at her, his gaze unreadable. “I appreciate that.” And then he rubbed his jaw again and said, “I can’t imagine I’ve ever allowed it to grow this long. I am feeling quite uncivilized.”

Ah, yes, his speech was indeed that of a refined gentleman.

“Looking uncivilized isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Daisy said, keeping her voice light. “Rather dashing, if I say so myself.”

He propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand while he studied her. “Shall I leave it, then?”

Her breath caught. Green eyes would forever be her favorite—especially his shade, the color of a lush forest, spring green. Alastair’s eyes had always held a light, a quiet hope that danced beneath the surface.

That same light flickered now. And, inexplicably, it lifted her spirits.

“Absolutely not. I want to see your face.” The words left her lips before she had a chance to soften them. But it was true—she needed to know for certain. She needed the truth. “And lucky for you, I just finished a batch of my gentleman’s soap this morning.”

His lips quirked. “How is it different from a lady’s soap?”

Ah. This was a subject she could discuss with ease.

“I make it with a higher fat content—vegetable fat—to create a thick barrier between the blade and your skin. And I use earthier scents.” She turned to the cupboard and withdrew a wrapped bar. “Cedar, rosewood, orange, bergamot, clove, saffron, cinnamon… leather.”

His brow lifted. “Leather? How does one make soap smell like leather? ”

She smiled at his curiosity. “By using warm spices—ones with animal notes.”

He held up a hand, shaking his head. “It’s for your customers. You shouldn’t waste any on me.”

She scoffed, placing the cake of soap into his palm anyway. “It’s not a waste. I’ll consider it research, so I can see how well it works on such a thick beard as yours.”

She was also curious to know the effect of the cedar and rosewood oils with his personal fragrance.

Because scents were different on different people. And she might just have had him in mind while putting this blend together.

Not him. Alastair.

She swallowed and glanced around the room, looking for a distraction.

“I have a small looking glass, but that’s in my bedchamber—” She cleared her throat and pressed on. “Why don’t you allow me to do it this time? I believe I’ve seen enough blood this week to last a lifetime…”

The words were meant as a half-joke, but his expression sobered. “Was it that bad?”

Her fingers clenched around the soap, nearly losing her grip.

Because yes, it had been bad.

She nodded, unwilling to lie. “Even after I got the bleeding to stop, a few of the wounds festered. I was terrified you were going to die.”

He watched her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “I was a stranger to you.”

“You are a human being.” Her voice wavered despite herself.

He exhaled.

Then, softly, “In that case, I would appreciate your help, very much.”

Before she could respond, he moved—rising from the stool, carefully placing the soap onto the counter, then pouring water into a small basin.

And then, he reached for her.

His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and firm, a steady contrast to the tremor she could feel in her own hands. He didn’t say anything—just held them. A moment of quiet acknowledgment. A thank you without words.

She could pull away.

She could put a safe distance between them.

But she didn’t.

Because at this moment, standing here with him, hands entwined over a simple bar of soap and a basin of water, a part of her needed to hold on.

Even if just for a little while longer.

Without stopping to think, she dropped her head and rested it on his shoulder, relishing in the simple physical contact.

It wasn’t that Gilbert never allowed her a short embrace or a playful ruffle of his hair, but this was different. It was man to woman, and with each second that passed, reassuring warmth spread through her.

“Thank you,” he whispered from above her head. “Thank you for saving my life.”

She wanted to protest, but he shushed her before she could do so. “You are a compassionate and courageous woman. Not everyone would do what you did. In fact, I think most would be inclined to look the other way.”

“I couldn’t.” For some reason, Daisy felt like crying. She sniffled a little and then reluctantly pulled away until he had no choice but to drop his arms. “I would do it again.”

“I know,” he said.

They stared into one another’s eyes, and she swallowed hard.

“Now.” She cleared her throat. “Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll see about civilizing you again. ”

“You’re sure you don’t mind? I could likely make do myself.”

Without a mirror, the only thing he’d be likely to do was maim himself.

“I am sure.” Daisy poured warm water from the kettle into the basin, soaked a clean cloth, and lathered the soap. Already, the scent had transformed the mood of the room. She inhaled. “Do you smell that?” she asked.

“Cedar?”

“And a combination of rosewood and roses. If you concentrate, you’ll notice something else.”

“Smoke?” Alastair tilted his head. “I like it.” He tucked his feet under the stool and sat waiting while she arranged the tools. “It’s not too flowery.”

“No.” She willed herself not to shake and then turned to face him. “That’s the idea. To keep the scents subtle and low and clean. There’s nothing worse than a man who smells like he’s been doused in perfume.” Was she rambling?

“Wouldn’t want that,” he agreed.

In the days she’d nursed him, she’d touched him intimately—she hadn’t had a choice, really. Bathing his fevered body, tending his wounds, pressing cool cloths to his skin.

And yet, she’d never felt the connection she did now.

Not like this. Not with him watching her. Not with her hands steadying his face as though he belonged to her.

“Here we are…”

Her voice barely rose above a whisper as she dipped the cloth into the warm water and soaked his beard. This was the easy part. The impersonal part.

But then, scooping up a bit of soap with her fingers, she lifted her hands to his jaw.

His gaze caught hers, dark and hooded, and as she smoothed the lather over his whiskers, something shifted in the air between them. Heat flared behind his eyes, coiling tension in her belly, sending an ache through her limbs .

Being the object of his close attention shook her. It also thrilled her. It made her stomach flutter, her skin hum, her pulse trip over itself.

Ignore all of it, Daisy.

Her grip tightened slightly on the razor. She was about to touch a blade to his face and neck, and any misstep could hurt or scar him permanently. She had to focus.

Reining in her thoughts, she set her fingers at the hinge of his jaw, stretching the skin taut. “Hold still,” she murmured, angling the blade just so.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in a small, teasing grin.

“And don’t talk.”

His smirk deepened, but he obeyed.

Slow, deliberate, downward strokes. She traced the edge of the blade over his cheek, revealing high cheekbones, smooth skin, a jawline far sharper than she remembered.

Older.

Harsher.

He’d been on the cusp of manhood the last time she’d seen him. Now, he was all man.

Her fingers trembled.

Of course, it was him.

Ten years older. With no memories.

But he was…

Alastair.

She forced her breathing to stay even. Forced her hands to remain steady as she worked her way lower, over the hard planes of his face. The razor glided down his jaw, revealing the man beneath the bristle, the man who had once held her heart in the palm of his hand.

Had she known all along? From the moment she’d stared into his eyes?

She paused, the blade resting at his throat .

He leaned his head back slightly, exposing the long column of his neck, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallowed.

“You trust me?” she whispered.

His lips parted slightly, as if the question surprised him. Then, with quiet certainty, he said, “Completely.”

His voice, low and rough, sent a shiver through her.

She rinsed the blade, exhaling slowly.

Steady, Daisy. Stay steady.

With careful precision, she resumed, sliding the razor over his throat, feeling his pulse hammer beneath her fingertips.

For these few minutes, he was hers again.

And God help her, she wasn’t sure she could bear to let him go. But then, like a clap of thunder, she clamped down on such foolish, dangerous thoughts. No. No. No!

Had he not hurt her enough already?

This changed nothing.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered. “Make an ‘O’.”

He followed her commands, and Daisy went to work on his mustache. Slow, steady. His breath caressed her face while she allowed the blade to do its job.

She remembered this mouth. She remembered the scar just above his lips, a half-inch cut he’d given himself chasing her up a tree when they’d been so very, very young.

When she finished, she set the blade aside and then, using cool water this time, smoothed away the remaining soap. When he went to rise, she held him in place. “Wait, I have a balm.”

Again, he obeyed, sitting patiently while she poured the silky liquid into her hand.

“What is it?”

“Shea butter and grapeseed extract.” This particular product sold for a pretty penny. She didn’t care.

This was Alastair .

She smoothed the mixture over his cheeks, around his jaw, and around his neck.

For good measure, she brushed some over his forehead and down his nose.

Somewhere between the flood of memories and longing, between the pain of the past and the sheer pleasure of the present, time fell away.

She parted her lips, leaned in, and?—

She kissed him.