“Even the smooth surface of family union seems
worth preserving, though there may be nothing
durable beneath.”
—Persuasion
OH, no, my dear brother, I must relinquish the head of the table in deference to you, now that you are on the mend,” said Lord Edwin, drawing out the aforementioned seat and motioning Nicholas to it. “This is your first appearance, after all, after three weeks.”
Nicholas glanced at his father’s wife out of the corner of his eye. Her Grace paled, her lips thinning in suppressed anger.
“I prefer to leave it vacant in deference to Father,” he replied.
“Always the proper one,” Edwin replied. “Always thinking of others. How I admire you and wish to be more like you,” he continued with an easy smile.
Not wanting his brother to feel uncomfortable, Nicholas offered another solution as he turned to one of their dinner guests, the elderly parish vicar. “His Grace would be most comfortable knowing a man of your high morals was warming his seat, Mr. Llewellyn.”
The duchess appeared infuriated by his decision. The tall, white-haired gentleman bowed. “I would be most delighted to accede to your wishes, Lord Huntington.” Nicholas hobbled on his new crutch to a seat offered by the butler.
“I am most pleased you were able to join us for dinner, Dr. Kittridge,” said the Duchess of Cavendish as she took her seat along with the other ladies. She nodded to the doctor’s two offspring, “and of course your family as well,” she added with stiff, condescending hauteur. A smile skirted her tight lips as she surveyed with distaste the unbalanced group of seven ladies and five gentlemen at table.
“It is an honor, Your Grace,” replied Dr. Kittridge.
“We are indebted to your tireless care,” added Edwin, as he served himself a sizable portion of the boiled loin of veal and braised asparagus.
Nicholas glanced at Miss Kittridge, who had been placed opposite him. She looked up to meet his gaze, then returned her attention to the plate in front of her with haste. What was she thinking’ He had not seen her in the last fortnight, although his faithful batman had told him Miss Kittridge often watched over him while he slept. Charley and Rosamunde had been his only source of companionship since that morning. Had his boldness shocked her so much that she dared not converse with him again lest he ravage her?
For the hundredth time, Nicholas wondered what had possessed him that morning. Since when had he started pouring his heart out about his past and taking to flustering innocents with unabashed lust? But she had tasted so sweet, and he had been unable to deny himself, even though he had no right to indulge.
He must return to the battlefield, a place where it was easy to forget all about the pleasures of the flesh amidst the horrors of war. She was everything he was not, and he had made a promise he would not break—no matter how tempting. The fever was, without doubt, to blame for his momentary lapse.
The ancient formality of this massive stone dining chamber, whose coldness matched the mood of so many of those who inhabited it, brought him back to the scene within it.
“Perhaps I could sit with Papa this evening to give a rest to Miss Kittridge,” said his sister, Rosamunde.
“Whatever for? Miss Kittridge does not mind her duties. And you are needed to entertain the other ladies. Louisa and Lady Susan would be inconsolable without your company,” Her Grace said. “And now that your brother is well enough to join our evening circle, we will have quite the gathering of young people,” she concluded without looking at him.
Seated next to him, Louisa Nichols, Rosamunde’s dearest friend from Miss Polinaught’s School for Young Ladies, looked ready to add to the meager conversation, but then lost her nerve as she toyed with the spitchcocked eel and roasted pigeon in front of her. She appeared much the same as when he had accompanied the girls cub hunting, fifteen years ago. Except Louisa’s freckles had disappeared and her carrot-colored hair had mellowed.
The petite lady sitting on the other side of him giggled, displaying very small teeth evenly spaced. Her curled blond hair formed a picturesque halo around her dainty visage. “Your lordship is very quiet tonight,” she said. “I am honored you chose me to lead you in to dinner, and happy to find you are much improved in health.”
Rosamunde’s assessment of Edwin’s rich prospect had proved correct in every way. The vixen had been unrelenting in her new pursuit during every visit. And he had felt very much like prey, unable to move away from the miserable, calculating girl.
“Yes, it seems several weeks under the care of the Kittridgesdoes indeed produce miracles.” He turned and winked at Miss Kittridge.
“Miracles, my lord? I think not,” said Miss Kittridge. “We leave to God alone those tasks. However, my family and I are much relieved to see you so quickly on the mend. You are not the sort who enjoys the idleness of the sickbed.”
“I am sorry I was such a trial on your patience, Miss Kittridge.”
“My dear, you were always a trial on the patience,” inserted the duchess as she cut into the veal with vigor.
A thick silence intruded. Nicholas resisted the urge to fill it by turning the subject. It was a tried-and-true method he had used doggedly throughout childhood. But, he would not revert to his former ways.
Suddenly, he felt a slight tap on the tip of his boot. He looked up to encounter Miss Kittridge’s clear gray eyes searching his face. He knew then that it was her polite way of disagreeing with Her Grace. He cleared his throat.
“Why, you are right, of course, madam. I was put on this earth to plague all of the weaker sex,” he said, and smiled at Miss Kittridge.
“Lord Huntington, Her Grace described the portrait gallery to me and my grandmother earlier,” Lady Susan said, redirecting the conversation. “She mentioned that I was the Veriest Picture of the first Duchess of Cavendish, and I am most curious to view her likeness.”
He toyed with the idea of resistance. This lady was dispensing with as many stages of courtship as humanly possible. He moved his gaze to Miss Kittridge, who signaled her disapproval with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. The triumvirate of the doctor, his daughter, and Charley had become quite the gaol-keepers.
“Why, Lady Susan, I am sure Edwin would enjoy above all else giving you this small pleasure. He is much more familiar with our family’s ancestors and very capable of leading you about properly.” His stepmother’s dark eyes dared Nicholas to interfere.
Little did the duchess know that it was the first time their thoughts had ever coincided, albeit for opposite reasons. She thought Nicholas would try to steal the silly heiress away from Edwin. He would have smiled if it had not been such a preposterous idea.
When the young lady’s pout appeared, Dr. Kittridge cleared his throat. “Lady Susan, I am sure your tender nature will comprehend the necessity of Lord Huntington returning to his apartments at the conclusion of this repast. The gravity of his injury forces me to insist.”
Oh, better and better. Nicholas did not have to rack his brain for an excuse.
Lady Susan’s demure smile did not hide the angry frustration evident in her eyes.
Nicholas turned to his sister to see if she would chime in too, but instead saw, not for the first time, Rosamunde’s timid glances toward the handsome young man seated beside her.
“You are to enter the clergy, sir? A most admirable profession,” Rosamunde said with a shy expression.
“There is not much choice in the matter. I’ve not the head for science, and though I would vastly prefer to take up arms with my countrymen—” Mr. Kittridge was stopped by the sound of his father clearing his throat. “I have been convinced that the clergy is the soundest profession for me,” he said with some gloom.
The two grandmothers, seated opposite each other, forgotten at the other end of the table, began to cackle and preen their feathers in competition.
“I have always said that I prefer a vicar’s blacks to the ostentatious gold braid of an officer,” said the Dowager Countess of Elltrope, Lady Susan’s grandmother, as she simpered and looked toward the debonair vicar.
Nicholas’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Cavendish, pricked up her ears. “Good heavens, Hortense, then why ever did you marry Elltrope? Was he not an officer in the 33rd Foot before he was called home to carry on the title? His elder brother had perished, no?”
“You know the story very well, Margarita. We have known each other this age,” the Dowager Countess replied stiffly.
“I am honored by your sentiments, Lady Elltrope,” said the vicar. “It is not often a vicar’s craven dress is prized over colorful regimentals,” he said, his faded blue eyes twinkling.
The Dowager Duchess harrumphed in disgust.
Nicholas was amused. Some things never changed. His grandmother still fancied the vicar—the handsome old devil. A man whose sermons had always been mercifully short, and his kindnesses within the parish correspondingly generous. It gladdened the heart.
It was too bad he would not find much amusement the rest of the evening. Miss Kittridge, still mortally embarrassed by his chaste kiss, would tend to his father. Obviously, she was innocent of a man’s kisses despite her intimate knowledge of a male’s anatomy. He looked at the serene expression on the lady opposite him. She was plain, it was true, but she had an intelligent mind and a kind heart. And he had a notion that if she were allowed more gaiety in her life and pretty gowns instead of the prim gray frock she wore at every occasion, she would blossom into a beautiful woman.
If he were not the sort of man he was, he would enjoy deepening the acquaintance and giving her these things. But ladies of her ilk, or of any ilk, for that matter, were not part of the future allotted to him. He looked down at the heavy almond cheesecake Her Grace prized. One bite later, he placed the heavy silverware on the plate.
Charlotte was mortified. She had never found herself so tongue-tied in all her life. She was behaving like a milksop debutante incapable of muttering the most insignificant of trivialities. It was absurd.
It was those mysterious green eyes of his. Or the combination of the somber green uniform and his eyes. She gripped her hands beneath the table and tried to take hold of herself. She would not be one of those young ladies whose heads were turned at the sight of a uniform.
At first, he had been like any other patient, although more distrustful than most, to be sure. Then when the fever had lifted, his humor and generosity of spirit had filled every hour of the time spent in his chambers—all culminating in that kiss. It was insane. It was as though she was a love-struck schoolgirl.
And how had she dared to tap his foot? She almost thought her threadbare slipper had moved on its own volition… if she had not known better.
She’d felt her appetite flee as the meal progressed, and the young ladies of the ton flanking either side of him flirted and charmed him throughout each passing course and remove.
And just as she’d chosen a topic to engage his views, she looked up to see his gaze resting on her. Her thoughts died, and she was sure she looked like a beached fish, mouth agape. She snapped it shut and returned her attention to the revolting dessert. Yes, she decided, it most certainly had something to do with those all-knowing eyes.
She was going to have to give up reading those poems of Byron. They were worse still than that novel she blamed for her embarrassing feminine feelings, which had heretofore remained blissfully dormant. She had put all romantical nonsense behind her years ago. Yes, she was going to have to leave off all reading of Byron and the mysterious “Lady” now.