He blinked. “No, she hasn’t—”
The door opened, calling Elsie’s attention away. Curse her heart for how it quickened at the sight of Bacchus, looking smart, well groomed, and tired.
The duke straightened. “I suppose we can all head in now. Abigail?” He held out his arm for the duchess.
Bacchus spied Elsie and came toward her, his strides long and purposeful.
Elsie swallowed. “Where were you?”
“I lost track of time.”
She wilted. Touched his elbow. “It’s understandable.”
He rewarded her with a soft smile before rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me, I haven’t slept well.”
“I see that, too. And it’s no wonder,” she added quietly. “But I will forgive you for anything and everything as long as you forgive me for anything absurd I do in that dining room.”
Because she would make a fool of herself, one way or another. If it meant Bacchus’s happiness.
“Anything and everything, hm?” There was a sparkle in his gaze that made her belly warm. She couldn’t muster a sensible reply.
The others had started for the dining room, so Bacchus offered his arm. Elsie took it, relishing the feel of the strong muscles under his sleeve, wishing for . . . everything.
But it was no use feeling sorry for herself. She had a job to do.
They had nearly reached the dining room when Bacchus whispered, “You seem uneasy.”
She scoffed. “I’m about to accost a duke. Of course I’m uneasy.”
Bacchus’s lips pressed into a line, and he said nothing more until they were seated, the first course served. Elsie sat around the table from the duke this time, though not close enough to feel that otherly buzz of his spell.
She considered, as Miss Josie recounted her day shopping in town, what actions she needed to take. She swallowed spoonful after spoonful of white soup as she debated and was surprised when her spoon hit the bottom of the empty bowl.
“What flowers did you decide upon, Miss Camden?” the duchess inquired as a servant took her dish away.
“Flowers?” Her brain remembered too slowly her excuse for pulling Bacchus away at the engagement dinner. “Oh! Well, roses, of course.”
The duchess smiled. “A good, traditional choice.”
In truth, Elsie couldn’t care less about what flowers decorated the chapel when she got married. It seemed so inconsequential, so abstract, compared with her other worries.
“It’s too bad laceleaf doesn’t grow here,” Bacchus added. Elsie could detect the very slightest hint of tension in his voice, something she might not have noticed if this were their first meeting. His English accent was especially crisp. “It’s quite lovely, especially the red variety.”
“Is it native to Barbados?” Elsie asked.
He nodded and took a sip of water.
Elsie’s gaze narrowed in on that glass, and a perfect, mortifying plan sprung into her head.
“What a lovely name,” Miss Ida said. “Laceleaf. Do tell us what it looks like.”
Bacchus set the glass down. “It’s a variety of lily.” The servants came around with the second course, serving the duke first. Elsie waited until they moved away so there would be none to lend aid but herself. “The entire flower is made of a single petal wrapped around the tip of the stem, and the spadix—”
Elsie swiped her arm out and tipped over her full water glass, spilling it over the table and, subsequently, onto the duke’s lap.
No one could say she hadn’t tried.
“Oh no!” she stood immediately, seizing her napkin and coming to the duke’s aid. The spell on his person called to her, but she still wasn’t close enough to read it. “I’m so clumsy. Oh, forgive me.” She needn’t fake her embarrassment.
The duke scooted back, shaking water off his hand. Elsie moved closer. Her initial impressions held out—there was no smell, no sound, and now that she was closer, she didn’t feel the tingle of a rational spell. It had to be physical—
“It’s quite all right. It’s not the first time.” The duke stood.
Now if only he would be so kind as to change his clothes right there in the dining room and allow Elsie a good look at his naked torso.
“Elsie.” Bacchus stood, fingers grazing her elbow.
“I’ve almost got it,” she replied. The others would think she meant the mess, which the servants were now hurrying to clean up. She dared to reach for the duke’s chest with her half-soaked napkin—
Bacchus’s grip tightened, holding her back. Frustrated, she turned to him, but the set of his brow and jaw, like they’d been crafted by a blacksmith, gave her pause.
“Why don’t you change,” the duchess offered. “We’ll wait for you—”
Bacchus’s voice carried over hers. “What spell is on your person?”
The room silenced. Even the servants hushed. Elsie’s lips parted. That’s one way to do it . . .
The duke froze. “Pardon?”
“The spell on your torso,” Bacchus specified. “Is it or is it not the recipient enchantment for a siphoning spell?”
The duke blanched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Be straight with me, Isaiah,” Bacchus pressed. “She’s a spellbreaker.”
Elsie guiltily set down her napkin.
The duke glanced at his wife, then settled on the tabletop. “It’s not what you think, Bacchus.”
Bacchus tensed. “Explain it to me, then. Explain why I had a hidden spell on my person since my youth, and why you grew ill immediately following its removal.”
The duchess looked shocked. Had she not known? “Isaiah?”
One of the servants gestured to the other, and they quickly exited the room.
Miss Josie looked back and forth between Bacchus and her father. “What’s going on?”
Bacchus merely waited.
The duke sighed. “I was growing frail, and you were such a strong, healthy boy.”
Bacchus’s hold on Elsie tightened.
“Please”—the Duke of Kent lifted a hand—“I did not mean to take it from you. Your father—”
“My father knew?”
The knob in the duke’s throat bobbed. “Your father gave his consent.”
Bacchus glowered. “It was not his to give.”
“Strictly speaking—”
“I thought I had polio.” Bacchus leaned over the table, finally releasing Elsie so he could press both hands against its surface. “For years I thought I had polio. I thought I would lose the use of my legs. I went to countless doctors.”
“Girls,” the duchess murmured, “let’s wait for your father in the parlor, hm?” She hurriedly ushered them to the door. Elsie’s pulse raced, but she didn’t try to join them. She needed to be here. She needed to stand by Bacchus’s side. Her hand strayed to his triceps, her touch featherlight.
Chagrined, the duke repeated, “Your father knew.”
“And so did you,” Bacchus replied darkly. He straightened, seeming to almost double in size. “Who did it? My father was no spellmaker.”
The duke turned away. “I swore that I would not—”
“Who?” Bacchus pressed. “You owe me at least that much.”
The duke’s shoulders slumped so deeply Elsie thought his fingertips might brush the carpet. “Master Enoch Phillips performed it while you slept.”
Elsie gaped. Wasn’t Master Phillips the head of the London Physical Atheneum?
Bacchus said, “I don’t suppose you’ll share whose vitality you’re drinking from now.”
The duke looked ready to cry.
Elsie started as Bacchus’s hand gripped hers, and suddenly she was being pulled away from the table toward the door, barely able to keep up with his long strides. A maid swept by the passageway, and Bacchus barked, “See a carriage pulled around immediately and ensure Miss Camden is taken care of.”
His presence and his baritone emanated both authority and restrained rage, and the maid didn’t hesitate to respond. “O-Of course. Miss Camden.” She curtsied and, abandoning whatever chore she was about, quickly led Elsie to a cushioned bench in the vestibule by the front door. Meanwhile, Bacchus burst up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.