Page 8 of Sweet Duke of Mine

EYES FLECKED WITH GOLD

W hen Daisy checked on her patient after supper, she was pleased to find that his fever had not returned. And for now, his sleep seemed restful. Restorative.

She hadn’t allowed herself to contemplate the shock she’d felt when she had first looked into his eyes. Not until later that night, when the house was quiet and the world had slowed.

Lively green eyes. Identical to the ones she had lost herself in years ago.

Except, Alastair’s eyes had always held light. Hope.

The man in her pantry? He mostly just looked confused and lost—when he was conscious enough to look any way at all.

Later, after she had finished her chores and long after Gilbert had completed his homework and gone to bed, Daisy crept into the pantry and lowered herself onto the small stool beside the mattress.

Now that his fever had broken, she could finally study him properly.

After washing out the dirt and blood, his dark hair had emerged sleek and silky, just as Alastair’s had once been .

But the beard was wrong. It had thickened with each passing day, obscuring the lines of his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth.

It made it impossible for her to be sure.

Ten years had passed.

Alastair would be nearly thirty now—a titled gentleman, not the reckless young man on the brink of adulthood she had once known.

Would his shoulders be this broad?

The stranger stirred, and Daisy jumped. And then his eyes opened again, reaching inside her heart and squeezing it.

She’d never seen anyone with eyes like Alastair’s—that striking green, flecked with gold.

Until now.

His gaze met hers, steady, searching.

“Hello.” The word came out gravelly, and Daisy had to clear her throat. “Do you remember where you are? My name?”

He blinked, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse from disuse—and the fever.

“Daisy.”

The name landed like a stone in her stomach.

For a half-second, she thought—it is him. He knows me.

But then, his next words pulled her right back into reality.

“You’ve been nursing me—caring for me.”

Her heartbeat steadied. Of course. She had introduced herself before. Hadn’t she?

Daisy reached for the cup of water, her hand unsteady. “You should drink.”

She helped him lift his head, pressing the rim of the cup to his lips.

She had felt perfectly comfortable touching him when he had been on the brink of death—bathing him, treating his wounds, forcing medicine between his lips when he had been too weak to swallow .

But now that he was awake? Now that his sharp gaze tracked her movements? This enclosed space in her pantry, her sudden awareness of how intimate all of this was—unseated her confidence.

“How do you feel?” she asked quickly. “Are you in much pain?”

He shifted, propping himself up slightly—and Daisy was reminded just how large he was. Why was she so flustered?

“Some,” he admitted, voice still thick with exhaustion. “Not as bad as before.”

His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the towering shelves, the rows of supplies, the half-open door. “What is this place?”

“My shop—Honeysuckle and Lye,” Daisy said. “Well, technically—my pantry.” She let out a small sigh. “I make soap. Scented soap.”

His brow creased further, and for reasons that made no sense at all, she found herself wanting to explain. Wanting to tell him how she had improved upon her aunt’s business, how she’d figured out how to make better soap than most in London—how she had learned to turn a profit in a world that hadn’t been made for women like her to succeed.

But none of that would matter to this man.

A finely dressed gentleman who had nearly been beaten to death in an alley wasn’t likely to give a fig about how she grew herbs to make her own oils, or how she wrapped each bar in cloth before tying it off with a ribbon.

And she had bigger concerns than impressing this enigmatic stranger.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asked instead, shifting the conversation back to what mattered.

His frown deepened. His stare grew unfocused, like he was searching for something just out of reach. Something she might need to help him find .

So she oh, so gently added, “You were beaten badly and left for dead.”

She waited, watching as his throat worked around a swallow, as his hands curled into the blanket.

“I found you behind my garden,” she said. The words sat heavy between them. “You were unconscious. And it was clear you wouldn’t last the night if someone didn’t… help.”

A small crease formed between his brows, his fingers flexing against the blanket again.

“I couldn’t just leave you there,” she continued. “So my brother and I… we managed to… get you inside.”

His eyes widened slightly—perhaps in surprise. Perhaps at the thought of being dragged around by a woman and a boy.

But he remained silent. Not in disbelief, but as though she was talking about someone other than him.

Daisy exhaled. “You’ve been here a week. Feverish. Delirious.”

She thought back to those long nights, to the moments she’d worried he wouldn’t make it—to how she had held cool cloths to his brow, spooned medicine between his lips, willed him to fight.

And now he was staring at her, alive, but still so lost.

“Do you know why someone would want to harm you?” she asked again, softer this time.

The muscles in his throat bobbed with another swallow.

“I can’t recall…” His voice came out strained. He pressed his fingers against his temple. “…much of anything.”

Then, his gaze swung back to her. “I was in a dark room—not this one. It was cold. I remember… pain.”

There was an agony in that one word that summoned a stinging to Daisy’s eyes. His haunted expression had her hugging her arms in front of her.

“And before that?” she prompted.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. “It’s there.” But that defeated look was returning. “I just can’t…” He looked up at her again. “You are familiar, though. Your scent. It’s?—”

“Honeysuckle.” It was the scent of her most popular soap but also the perfume she made for herself. Sometimes it permeated the entire shop. He would have been smelling it on and off since he’d arrived.

Although, it had always been her favorite, and it grew ubiquitously in the trees where they’d spent hours and hours together, alone, talking, and eventually… loving.

No. No. No!

This man was a stranger.

This man was not Alastair.

The Alastair she had loved would be safe and sound at one of his estates—possibly married to a well-bred wife.

“Who is your family?” she asked.

He frowned, and Daisy felt her stomach twist.

She could not continue keeping a strange man hidden away in her storeroom. There had to be someone out there—someone who cared for him, who would come looking for him.

But what if those looking for him weren’t… friendly?

A troubling thought crept in, one she’d pushed aside until now. She’d been so focused on protecting her garden, on keeping Gilbert safe, that she hadn’t truly let herself consider the deeper implications.

Had someone with power ordered his death?

She looked at the man before her—refined, well-spoken, a gentleman through and through. Who was he?

She needed to get her hands on the latest Gazette. If he was someone of note, surely there would be a notice—a missing person’s report, a desperate plea from family or friends.

She needed to know if anyone was looking for him.

“Who are you?” she asked, locking her stare with his. “What is your name?”

More silence .

He stared down at the sleeve of the night shirt she’d found for him—one of her father’s old garments. He lifted his wrist, turning it from side to side, flexing his fingers as if testing their movement.

A long, weighted sigh left his lips.

“I don’t know.”

The words landed heavy in the small space, and the memory of that final blow—the one delivered with cruel precision by the meaner of the two bobbies—flashed through her mind.

Had they damaged him permanently?

If he didn’t even know his own name… how could he possibly find his people?

She couldn’t keep him here—not without his presence being discovered.

Handsome though he might be.

Her gaze flickered—not for the first time—to the open vee of his nightshirt.

Beneath the fabric, taut skin stretched over firm muscle. He was lean but strong, his chest broad, his skin smooth.

She knew all of this because she had bathed him.

And she had not skipped anything while bathing him. Only because his fever had burned so hot. Because she had been faced with a choice—her modesty or his life. And she had done what needed to be done.

Thank God he had not expired.

He was very much alive—and still waiting for a response.

Her mouth felt dry as she tore her gaze away, forcing her thoughts into order. “It’s only been a few hours since you woke up,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I’m sure you’ll remember everything by tomorrow.”

But what if he didn’t?

His dark stare echoed her thoughts—doubting, filled with hopeless resignation. She didn’t like that look in his eyes. It made her want to do something for him, though she didn’t know what.

Flustered by her thoughts, she smoothed her skirts and glanced around the small storage room.

“Are you hungry? I have some soup left over from supper.” With all the complications this man had brought to her home, she was happy to address something she could actually help him with. He needed nourishment. That she could do.

He would be better in the morning, surely.

When she met his gaze again, he smiled, just a small tilt of his lips. Warmth danced from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It was that feeling. A feeling she’d all but forgotten, one she hadn’t known since Alastair left to be with his father in London.

“Finally a question I can answer,” he murmured before looking up at her sheepishly. “I’m starving, actually.”

Daisy found herself grinning back at him, and although it was short and ironic sounding, they both laughed just a little. When she rose, however, he turned serious again.

“I’m inconveniencing you, though. Am I not?” Even disheveled, not quite sitting on a ragged mattress, he appeared dignified. Definitely a gentleman . “As soon as I’m able, I’ll take myself out of your way—out of your pantry. So you might go on with your business.” A wince this time, masquerading as a tight grin.

Daisy shook her head. “You’re not inconveniencing me,” she lied. He’d only turned her life upside down.

But he’d been through a lot—more than she could even imagine, really.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt… Something she didn’t fully understand.

Inspired, somehow ?

But that was not why she intended to let him stay.

“You were beaten and left for dead. Your wounds need to heal completely before you put yourself back in danger.”

Which meant her guest wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

Not if she could help it.