Love Language (The Aristocrat Diaries 1)

Aunt Cat blushed. “Yes, please, Arthur. If you don’t mind.”

I side-eyed her as she took a seat. I wouldn’t embarrass her by asking her why she was blushing at the butler, but I was going to stare at her so she knew I’d seen.

She caught my eye and immediately looked away.

Did she—

Did Aunt Cat have a crush on Arthur?

Well, well, well.

To paraphrase her words two days ago, it looked like she had some explaining to do.

“Milady.” Arthur set a teacup and saucer down in front of her, being very careful not to make eye contact with her. “And the sugar for you.”

Hmm.

He was being too careful.

Wait. Did he have a crush on her?

Oh, I was being daft, wasn’t I? I’d spent too long this morning wrapped up in other people’s love lives. I clearly needed to get out of the house for a little while, and the garden centre seemed to have my name on it.

It wasn’t as though I was having much luck with the blasted website.

Arthur set a newspaper and cup of tea down seconds before my father made his appearance.

“Ah, thank you, Arthur.” Daddy tied the robe of his dressing gown around his waist. “Catherine, Gabi. Good morning.”

“Morning, Daddy,” I said, sipping my tea. “Did you sleep well?”

“No, there was a dreadful racket coming from the garden early this morning. Did anyone hear it?” He looked around. “Sounded like a squealing pig. You haven’t snuck any in, have you, Catherine?”

“How would one sneak a pig anywhere, Henry?”

“You managed it with eight ducks last week.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps you need to see a doctor.”

“There are eight extra ducks in the pond. If you’re going to sneak them in, at least make them the same breeds as our old ones. Those black ones stick out like sore thumbs.”

He had a point.

I hadn’t seen the new ducks in person yet thanks to the weather, but from the pictures, the black ones were definitely not very discreet, compared to our other... normal… ducks.

“My Cayugas are beautiful, and you won’t say a bad word against them.” Aunt Cat sniffed and set down her teacup. “Perhaps you need an animal of your own, Henry, to keep you company.”

“I have plenty of company, thank you very much,” Dad replied, licking his finger so he could flip the page of his newspaper. “And there are enough animals on this estate without you adding anymore.”

“About that—”

“No.”

“But the goats—”

“No.”

“You’re rude.”

I snorted but coughed to cover it up.

“Catherine.” Dad sighed and set the paper down. “You cannot keep the two goats you currently have under control. I don’t care if you want to have a goat farm named after every English monarch since the eleven hundreds. You have to take care of the two you have if you’re to have any hope of convincing me that more goats are necessary.”

Several loud knocks came from the front door, and Arthur excused himself to answer it.

“Two words,” Aunt Cat said, leaning forward. “Petting zoo.”

I looked from her to my father.

“I’m sorry?” he replied.

“Petting zoo. We can open an extension of the gardens into a petting zoo for the little ones with goats, chickens, ducks, rabbits, and maybe lambs. I haven’t decided. It’s between lambs and ponies.”

My father blinked at her.

I fought back a laugh. “Have you slowly been accumulating farm animals over the past year so you can eventually open your own petting farm?”

She looked at me with an earnest expression. “But of course, dear. Why else would I need thirty-six chickens, twenty-three ducks, six goats, and ten rabbits?”

My father pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t have all those animals.”

“You’re right. I still need four more goats and ten rabbits, then I’ll be there.”

“You—”

“Young Miles is here, Lady Catherine. Says he ran an errand for you.”

I did a double take as he walked into the kitchen with two big bags of what sounded suspiciously like tins of food.

“Ah, my soup!” Aunt Cat stood up and took one of the bags from him. “Thank you!”

“Why are you buying her soup?” I asked Miles as Dad frowned at the exchange.

“I asked him to,” Aunt Cat replied, rummaging through the bag. “Since you took all mine to the church when you played Mother Theresa.”

I looked at Arthur. “How much sugar did you put in her tea?”

Miles cleared his throat and set the second bag on the island. “I really have to get to work now. I have to go by the garden centre before I start, so—”

“I’m coming!” I said quickly, closing my laptop and jumping up.

Aunt Cat looked me up and down. “In your space pyjamas? As fetching as they are, dear, I’m not sure they’re fit for public consumption.”

“Obviously not in my pyjamas,” I muttered, tugging at the pyjama top that proclaimed “I need my space” with a cartoon drawing of Saturn.