Page 17 of Sweet Duke of Mine
SETTLING IN
F ollowing the uncomfortable admissions Daisy made when showing Alastair the article, she had anticipated awkwardness between them—hesitant glances, strained silences…
Oddly enough, though, none of that happened.
If anything, the atmosphere in her small home seemed lighter, clearer, as though the tension between them had broken and drifted away like storm clouds after a summer rain. Perhaps it was because, in the end, they’d been honest. Painfully honest, yes, but at least the air was clear.
Or perhaps it was simply that she refused to dwell on what she couldn’t control. Alastair was here, and he was safe. For the moment, that was all that mattered. She would not waste this time worrying about what the future held, because there was no guarantee of a tomorrow—at least not one that included him.
No sense borrowing trouble.
And although his presence seemed to affect every part of her being, the two of them seemed to have reached a silent understanding—to resist, for now, the undeniable attraction that lingered just beneath every interaction. Aside from an occasional spark, moments where Daisy struggled not to reach out and brush a lock of hair from his brow or to simply touch his hand, conversation flowed effortlessly between them, just as it always had.
Gentle banter about the weather, the latest eccentricities of her clients, Gilbert’s schooling—simple topics, yet each felt rich and meaningful because they shared them together.
It was remarkable how quickly they slipped into that easy rhythm, as though their bond had never truly been broken—only paused.
And since Alastair had no trouble recalling his academic knowledge, the two of them could discuss current political issues, such as taxation and the Voters’ Reform Act, along with other Parliamentary goings-on, and even fictional books they’d both read.
And her soap.
Alastair listened but also assisted in tending the garden while she described the importance of her fragrant oils and other key ingredients that made her soaps superior. The days flew by, and the evenings took on similar idyllic rituals. Once Gilbert learned the extent of Alastair’s breadth of knowledge, her brother happily discussed his latest lessons while Daisy cooked supper.
Daisy didn’t mind having such moments to herself—to calm her thoughts and regain her balance. This was when her father’s voice echoed in the form of her conscience, whispering that she needed to curb her expectations.
Because yes, he was Alastair, but he was not the same person she’d loved. He had no memory of the friendship they’d shared. Or of his life as the Duke of Lovington.
Someday, all of that would change .
So, although she’d decided there was nothing to do but live in the moment, she did her best to keep some distance between herself and Alastair. It was safer this way—smarter.
Because he would, undoubtedly, return to his old life. He would be duty bound to take his seat at the head of the dukedom once again, just as he had been ten years before.
And the man who lived that life, the Duke of Lovington, was the man who’d hurt her.
He was the one her father had warned her about.
And on this night, it caught up with her.
She tossed and turned, determined not to dwell on the undeniable magic lingering between the two of them, nor on the future she'd once dared to dream. But sleep remained stubbornly out of reach as her mind drifted again and again to Alastair—then and now, the memories they'd created, and the ones they'd been denied.
Because, truth be told, she'd never fully let him go. No matter how hard she'd tried to convince herself otherwise, a small, hidden part of her had clung to the memory of him.
And with that reminder, her eyes flew open in the darkness.
She remembered her weakness from long ago—something she’d done consciously, feeling desperate but also foolish.
Something she'd eventually hidden away, ashamed…
But perhaps it hadn't been so foolish at all.
Heart pounding, Daisy pushed the covers aside and slipped from her bed. Dropping to her knees, she reached beneath the bedframe until her fingers brushed against the small, familiar box she’d kept concealed for years.
With a combination of fondness and foreboding, she sat back on her heels and brushed a layer of dust from its lid.
She might be able to help Alastair remember.
How could she have forgotten about these clippings? Moving to where the moonlight cast a filtered light into her room, Daisy opened the well-worn wooden box and lifted out old treasures.
It didn’t matter that she would be embarrassed at having once followed his life so diligently, she needed to show these to him.
His accomplishments. His successes.
Gossip regarding a few unsavory exploits.
But any of these details could possibly jar the puzzle pieces of his memory back into place.
The sooner Alastair regained his memory, the sooner he could secure his safety—and the sooner he could return to his own life before he claimed an even greater space in hers.
She worried about Gilbert as well. Her brother was already becoming accustomed to Alastair's steady presence—not merely enjoying his help with schoolwork, but soaking up the masculine attention and guidance craved ever since her father’s debilitating injury.
And if Daisy were honest with herself, she was struggling against cravings of her own.
Determined to do the right thing, she left the box out and slipped back under the covers.
After a fitful night’s sleep, she rose early the next morning, carried the box downstairs, and paused at the threshold of the kitchen.
Would the articles help him remember?
Did she want him to remember? Yes, but also… For a few seconds, her lungs couldn’t find enough air.
She could not allow herself to think such selfish thoughts. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying the sight that met her.
Alastair was already up, heating water on the stove and moving confidently around the kitchen as he prepared breakfast. She smiled softly, remembering his first attempts at cooking. Initially, his lack of experience had been charmingly obvious, but that only served to endear him further to her .
As did, of course, the fact that he managed to look ridiculously handsome so early in the morning, with his hair ruffled, his shirt unbuttoned, and his feet bare.
“Good morning.” He shot her a proud expression as he slid one slightly burned egg onto a plate.
It felt odd not to be the first one awake—not to be the person responsible for setting the tone of the day and ensuring everything unfolded exactly as it should.
“Good morning,” Daisy said softly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and wishing, not for the first time, that it would stay there.
Lately, against all common sense, she’d begun taking greater care with her appearance. She spent extra time each morning taming her unruly hair, tying it back in a pretty knot, and selecting some of her more flattering gowns. It was silly, really, considering she always ended up covering them with an apron.
“Are you hungry?” Alastair asked, glancing at her proudly as he set the plate in front of her.
She exhaled, pushing aside the familiar flutter in her stomach with a gentle laugh. “Ravenous.” But instead of taking a seat, she placed the small box carefully on the worktable between them, and not meeting his eyes, casually added, “I brought something down for you to look through.”
Crossing to the hook where her apron hung, she slipped it off and fastened it over her gown, the action feeling oddly like donning armor.
“I just added three eggs for Gilbert.” Daisy felt Alastair’s curious gaze follow her.
“He’ll inhale them, as usual…” But she waved him toward the box on the table. “Why don’t you look at those while I finish breakfast?”
He hesitated, his expression wary, but then took the seat near the box .
“What are these?” he asked, eyeing the box with clear suspicion.
“A few clippings I’d forgotten that I saved. But they might be helpful…”
His lips quirked wryly. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?”
Still, he unlatched the lid, revealing a stack of carefully cut-out newspaper articles. The folded papers near the top were more of a crisp white, but those buried deeper had yellowed with age.
“Oh, Daisy…” Alastair’s shoulders relaxed as he carefully lifted them out.
Daisy all but held her breath while he sorted through the top articles. One by one, he read various headlines aloud.
“‘ Lovington betrays father’s memory by siding with the Whigs… Lovington unwilling to abandon election reform… Is Lord Griswold’s daughter good enough for the elusive Duke of Love?’ These cannot all be about me.” He paused to peruse a few of the articles but dismissed twice as many.
“My apologies for their condition.” Daisy turned to the stove and checked the water, mostly just to give her something else to focus on, and shrugged despite the heat ebbing up her neck. “My client’s husband reads over breakfast.” She pointed to an old stain. “Hence the remnants of kidney pie and spilt tea.”
“You cut out articles about… me,” he said. “And saved them.”
“It’s terribly embarrassing, really, and I never expected you’d be such a favorite of the gossip columnists. But I remembered I had them last night and realized they might be helpful now.” Her insides shivered because they hadn’t discussed the past— their former relationship —since that long conversation in the dining room a few weeks before.
He had to know why she’d saved them.
The gossip sections were the worst, tying him to various ladies of the ton —notably a beautiful and famous opera singer. She hadn’t minded when she’d read of their split.
Oh, how she’d hated those, yet she’d kept each and every one.
Would she ever be able to let go?
“It’s like reading about someone else.” He glanced up. “Honestly, I’m a little appalled at… myself.”
“But you should be proud, too.” Daisy pointed to one of the political ones.
Daisy watched his slim but strong hands sort the clippings out across the table.
Why did his attackers leave him outside her garden, of all places?
“Fate has a wicked and twisted sense of humor, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved slowly around the table toward her, causing her breath to catch and her heart to race when he slid his arms around her waist.
“I don’t know what to say.” His voice caught, and his warm breath stirred a few errant curls. “You were here... All along.”
She twisted around and, unable to stop herself, buried her face in his chest. “I tried to let it go—to let you go.” She sniffed. “And I did. I really did.”
His hand stroked the back of her head. “Of course you did. You were just curious about an old friend.”
“Exactly.” She nodded. “I was just curious.”
Curious enough to torture herself when he’d become engaged, and curious enough that she’d celebrated silently when she’d learned the story hadn’t been true. And then she’d tortured herself again each time a columnist wrote of his rakish behavior. Until, that was, he abandoned his wayward ways and involved himself in politics.
A champion for the people, of course. He’d always been foolishly optimistic .
“You should read them. You never know what may or may not restore your memory.” She stepped out of his arms. “They’re mostly in order.”
“It’s a little daunting.” He stared at the articles as though one of them might jump up and bite him.
“I cannot imagine.” Daisy feigned nonchalance as she scurried into the pantry, located the ingredients required to make bread, and did her best to keep busy so she wouldn’t be tempted to watch him read.
She had a large bowl of dough rising near the stove by the time he set them aside.
“I don’t think it was my uncle who wanted me dead,” he announced.
This was not at all what she expected.
“Did you remember something?”
He shook his head, then separated a handful of articles and slid them across the table toward her. “Seems I’ve been rather outspoken about the Reform Act—not the best way to make friends in Parliament. I’ve likely made some powerful enemies.”
Enemies who would also be…“Lords.”
“Yes.” He tapped one of the articles. “Take the Marquess of Denningham, for example—he outright said I ought to be shot for treason.”
“Because you want to extend the vote to those who do not own property.”
“Yes.” He looked grim. “Ultimately, most of my ideas are doomed. I’ve put myself in the minority.”
Could that be the reason he’d nearly been killed?
Even as a very young man, he’d shown empathy for those who were less fortunate. So much so, that she’d not only been disappointed when he’d not come back to tell her goodbye, but… surprised.
“I need to speak with my uncle.” His confidence should have reassured her, but instead, that heavy unease trickled down her spine.
“Maybe…” She hesitated, then stepped forward, gripping the back of a chair as though it might steady her. “But just… wait a little longer—please? Just a few more days to remember. This marquess fellow might be the reason you were… hurt. But what if he isn’t? What if, by seeking out your uncle, you’re walking straight into danger? You don’t know who’s against you if you can’t remember what happened.”
He exhaled sharply, his fists clenching as he paced the length of the table. “Perhaps I need…”
She held her breath. “Yes?”
“I need to walk around Mayfair—put myself in familiar surroundings. Perhaps something I see there will trigger some of my memories. Help my brain function normally again.”
“Your brain is functioning just fine,” Daisy said. “It’s just temporarily in need of repair.” She tried to lighten the mood, half regretting her decision to show him the articles.
“What if my memory loss is permanent, though?”
Daisy swallowed hard, sensing she was fighting a losing battle.
“What if someone recognizes you?” she countered.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I’ll wear a disguise,” he said.
If he was half as stubborn as he’d been ten years ago, he’d not give this up.
Which meant she wouldn’t be making any soap today.
“In that case…” She dusted her hands off on her apron and lifted her chin. “As soon as Gilbert leaves for school, you and I will venture across town.”
He blinked at her. “You want to come with me?”
She nodded, sending him a look that dared him to argue with her.
He might be stubborn, but so was she. And Daisy was not about to allow him to go out on his own .
“I saw those men who left you for dead, Alastair. I may not have gotten a clear look, but I remember enough that if I see them again, I’ll know.” Her voice firmed, the protectiveness in her flaring despite herself. “And besides, you’re not the only one who wants answers.”
They faced off for a moment before he nodded.