“A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.”
—Northanger Abbey
HAVING spent an agitated night with little slumber and even less happy thoughts, Charlotte rose from her bed exhausted. At least she would not have to face him today. He would not come for the promised lesson when his sire lay so close to his final moments. It was close to the end now; she had seen it in the old gentleman’s eyes. And he knew it too. She hoped he would be out of his pain soon, now that he had had a chance to say his good-byes and make his peace with the world.
He would not come, she thought as she sat in the simple dining room, nibbling on the corner of her toast. And it was for the best. She had been overcome by the duke’s keen observation of the state of her heart, and humiliated by their discussion. She was certain that her poor acting skills would not stand up to her next audience with Lord Huntington or his father.
Suddenly, the door to the room opened and in walked her father. He appeared haggard from the long night spent at the duke’s bedside.
“Ah, there you are, Charlotte. Here’s one more burden to add to our dish.” Her father waved a letter before Charlotte as James walked in and joined them. “We are to expect a visit from your cousin, Alexandre Barclay, the Friday after next.” “Not, dear old Alex? After all these years?” James asked.
Charlotte’s hand stopped for just the merest second in midair as she poured herself another cup of tea. One drop escaped onto the pale green tablecloth.
“It seems your half French cousin on your mother’s side has ascended to his English father’s viscountcy. He is now Lord Gaston and he has a desire to visit our little family circle in whom one member in particular” —her father paused to look pointedly at Charlotte—”was destined to become a part of his own twice over many years ago.”
“Many years ago,” echoed Charlotte.
“He has a very pretty way of turning a phrase, he does,” said her father, as he continued reading the letter. “Will he be able to turn my dearest daughter’s intelligent head as well?” He peered over his spectacles at her.
“Father!”
“I am but teasing you, child. The viscount must possess lofty ambitions far superior to a physician’s daughter, no doubt. And you are practical enough to admit it.” Her father returned to scanning the page. “We have no way to warn him of our vast descent from the ton. I cannot like this visit. It portends nothing but trouble, if I remember this young gentleman’s character very well. However, we do owe his parents much,” he concluded, shuffling the pages.
“The way I understood it, Grandmamma had selected him with care for her favorite and only granddaughter,” James said with a grin. “Wonder what the chap looks like. Do you think he is short and portly, or thin and mean-tempered?”
“I would not care to guess.” Charlotte concentrated on spreading some jam on her toast.
“Oh, come, Charlotte, do not tell me you are not curious about the man you were to marry?”
“Not in the slightest,” Charlotte replied, using her napkin.
“Remember you are speaking to a future man of the cloth. Falsehoods require serious penance.”
“James, this was all arranged when I was but four years old—a mere child. I barely remember him, I assure you,” she said, lying through her teeth. She had never been able to forget the tall, dark-haired boy who had been much more interested in horses and fishing than meeting the girl for whom he was intended. When she had been a child, Charlotte had thought of him as her handsome prince. “None of us ever expected him to carry through with both families’ intentions after the revolution.” Charlotte gave her brother an angry glare.
“Forgive me, dearest,” James said, trying to swallow a smile but failing. “I for one would like to meet the man who callously jilted my sister, fairly broke her heart with sorrow for long-lost dreams.”
“James…” warned the father. “Enough poppycock. Charlotte has never had any intention to marry,” her father said, as he speared several sausages and transferred them to his plate. “We shall see how the viscount conducts himself. And we will learn the purpose of his visit. I for one hope his stay is short and without incident. Once he sees that we are unable to supply him with any interesting forms of entertainment, as we are always required at the abbey, I am sure his visit and any curiosity he holds will wane quickly,” he said, before turning his attention to the breakfast before him.
Charlotte tried to ignore her brother’s teasing grin as she considered the viscount’s forthcoming stay. She finished her meal in a pensive state. The visit would bring nothing but embarrassment and a continuous stream of annoying remarks from her brother. She must find an especially large tome of sermons at the abbey to recommend to her father, thereby ensuring a premature retribution for James’s unbrotherly behavior.
With gratitude, she acceded to her father’s request that she take some air this morning and visit Mrs. Bumsides, one of the tenant farmers’ wives, who was lying in after the birth of her eighth child. Yes, that would take her mind off her embarrassing situation. Then she would return to the abbey to confer with her father, who had hastened there soon after the sparse morning repast.
Her plans in place, Charlotte ignored the grayish clouds in the distance and the short rushes of breeze that assaulted her body when she departed the cottage. Head down, and equipped with a basket full of supplies and muffins, Charlotte headed toward the valley. It was but two miles to the rundown Burnside cottage.
The first fat raindrop struck her arm a little more than half the distance to her destination. It had been folly to think she could have returned from her jaunt before the storm began. And she had misjudged the direction of the wind. Those were her last thoughts before the heavens let loose their fury. She turned back and ran as fast as her skirts would allow. The wet grass tickled her cold ankles, and more and more mud began to fly as she ran. She slid to a stop upon the sudden appearance of a horse and rider—Lord Huntington, to be precise.
Her heart lurched. Before she could say a word, he spoke.
“Miss Kittridge, give me your hand, and use the stirrup to step up,” he ordered, kicking free from the object in question. “I will have you at your cottage in five minutes, if you will allow.”
Charlotte very much wished she had the courage to refuse his offer because of the humiliation of the last evening. But looking into his kind eyes and handsome face, she found she could not, and obeyed without a word, finding herself seated sideways atop his “good” leg in a moment. Wordlessly, he opened his greatcoat and wound her arms around his waist. He covered her with the front of his coat almost completely. She tucked her head under his broad chin and allowed herself to absorb the lovely warmth of his body. Had Marianne in Sense and Sensibility felt thusly with Willoughby when he had carried her home? Charlotte’s experience far surpassed anything she remembered reading. Just the smell of him intoxicated her senses, making it difficult to speak.
“His Grace? Is he—”
“He has turned the corner,” he interrupted. “Your father said to tell you that my father is resting comfortably now— not a cough for the last hour. Perhaps he has turned a corner.” He gave her a warm smile despite the rain pouring off his hat.
“I thought to keep our appointment. Your maid sent me out after you in fear of the storm.”
“I have made you all wet and dirty.” She glanced down to where her boots had muddied his new high-topped boot.
“Save your breath, my dear. It is Charley who will come after you, boot brush in hand. He has become quite the dandy’s keeper.”
His happy exuberance was contagious. He was obviously relieved by his father’s turn for the better. And she was glad the old gentleman had been made comfortable once more.
With that, they were off. It was a very uncomfortable perch despite the smooth, rolling gait of his horse. The pommel dug into her body, forcing her to move closer to him. But she would not have had the ride end if she had had a choice. For several minutes they rode without words, and she tried to imprint the experience in her memory.
She breathed in the heated, masculine smell of shaving lather and his overall scent, feeling dizzy from his closeness. And she hugged his muscled torso closer to her, marveling at its broadness. She heard a deep rumble of laughter when he finally brought the horse down to a fast walk. The drenching shower changed to a light patter.
“I would not have let you fall, Miss Kittridge, fear not.”
“I trust you, my lord.”
“Do you, now? Is that wise?”
“I trust you to deliver us back to the cottage, at least,” she said, joining him in laughter. Sunlight broke through the clouds and bounced off the wildflowers, glittering in the now light mist of rain. She looked up at him. The sunlight had turned his eyes a clear green.
“Ah, Miss Kittridge, I warned you I cannot be trusted around dimples,” he said, as she experienced the full intensity of his expression.
She tried to wipe the smile from her face and force her lips over her teeth.
“You are failing miserably, you know.”
A giggle escaped her.
“Ah, Miss Kittridge, did you know that you have two sets of dimples when you attempt to erase the first pair?”
“You are an out-and-out bounder, sir,” she said, conceding a full smile.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. And then, suddenly, his gaze moved to her mouth.
“Are you going to kiss me again, Lord Huntington?” she whispered before she could stop herself. She cringed privately with embarrassment.
“Are you flirting with me, Miss Kittridge?”
“Oh—that was very wrong of me.” She shifted and tried to regain her composure.
“More’s the pity, my dear. But never let it be said that I allow an opportunity to pass.” He had transferred the reins to one hand and lifted her chin with the other while halting the horse.
Did he speak in jest or in earnest? She had never had any experience to sharpen her wordplay—whereas he was a master in the trenches of human dialogue. Perhaps he was excessively gay because of his father’s improvement. Joy overtook many a person with news of good health. She was very unsure of herself, not knowing that her very timidity would add fuel to the fire.
Oh, God, what was he doing? What was he thinking? Her eyes looked so large in that virginal face of hers. And he could not embarrass her now by not following through, could he? She expected a kiss, so he must oblige. He must.
His lips touched her beautiful mouth and he was lost. She tasted of honey toast and roses and rain all bundled into one small pretty parcel. She opened her mouth tentatively to his gentle prodding, and he had a great desire to crush her to him. He felt overwhelmed by her trust in him.
Her skin was so soft and her lips so inviting and sweet. He lightly nipped her upper lip and touched her slick hair, with waves more pronounced from the rain. Ah, he wanted just a little more. Just a very little more.
Without a word, he disentangled her arms from around his neck, and lowered her to the ground. She said naught as he dismounted and pulled her back into his arms. Ah, she felt so very small, but perfect there. He could almost span her tiny waist with his hands. But she was no child. His palms traveled slowly up her frame to find perfectly formed breasts filling his hands.
He felt her catch her breath, and looked down at her upturned face. He saw surprise, and trust, and a great longing in her expression. He leaned down and kissed her on her milkand-roses cheek then moved to trace her ear with his tongue. She again inhaled quickly, and he moved his attention to her mouth.
“You have the most enticing lips I have ever seen, Miss Kittridge,” he said , quietly. “As do you, Lord Huntington,” she said, looking at his mouth.
Her bold response augmented his desire, and he leaned in to taste her again, but not as tenderly as before. He kissed her long and deep while stroking her tightened nipples through the drab-colored wet gown.
A light moan escaped her. He looked at her half-shut, passion-filled eyes, and felt the greatest desire he had ever known to take her right there. He stiffened his arms and rested his forehead on her soaked hair, breathing deeply, trying to regain a measure of control. What on earth had he been thinking? This was not the way to keep his word to his father. This was the path toward broken promises. And his lack of control would hurt her, the one person he would not harm for the world. The mood was broken more thoroughly than a giggle in church.
“Miss Kittridge…I am sor—,” he began.
She interrupted. “No, oh, please no. Please don’t say you are sorry. I am not,” she said, looking to one side. “But I am aware we are breaking a goodly number of proprieties. I shall endeavor to avoid smiling at you in future—” she continued and dropped her voice to a whisper—”although I am sure your comments about my physiognomy are all made in kindhearted jest.”
“Miss Kittridge, this is a poor way of showing my gratitude toward you and your father’s care. I had not thought I was the sort of man to engage in such unbecoming behavior toward a young lady.”
“We have discussed this before. I am not a ‘young’ milkand-water miss, although I am well aware that I appear so. I have never been taken seriously by anyone except my family my entire life. You will kindly stop inferring that I am a young innocent, or, or—”
“Or what, Miss Kittridge?” he said, with a smile.
“Or I will be forced to demonstrate that I am not as you think.”
“Perhaps you are not young, I concede” he said, unable to resist moving a lock of tumbled, wet hair from her cheek. “But you are an innocent. Are you not?”
She refused to answer him, and turned away, walking past the stand of birch trees in front of the cottage.
“I take it that you would prefer we postpone our lessons until tomorrow,” he called out to her retreating form.
She did not even pause or turn around. She waved an acquiescent hand and continued walking.
Nicholas watched her stomp away, her delightful small, round posterior clearly visible through the wet muslin. She was correct, she was not a girl, but a mature woman at the peak of her prime, he thought, rubbing his chin. And she exhibited spunk when he was able to goad her out of her natural shyness.
Nicholas remounted his horse and eased the animal into a canter.
Charlotte paused at the top of the hill to watch his elegant form fly toward the abbey. She sighed.
“Charlotte! Wait a moment,” called a deep voice behind her.
She turned to find her brother, James, coming toward her. His clenched hands were pumping as he trudged up the wet hill behind her.
She shivered and felt like a cold, doused cat. She guessed by James’s angry expression that he had witnessed her encounter with Lord Huntington. At least he had not interrupted them—that would have been embarrassing in the extreme.
“Charlotte, what are you thinking to encourage Huntington in that fashion?” he asked. “Have you no shame? No notion of what is proper and decorous for a lady of your standing?”
“Oh, I have a very good notion what is right and proper for a woman of my standing, James. I am a lowly daughter of a physician, a nurse and the sister of a soon-to-be clergyman.”
“Charlotte,” he said, all anger leaving his face. “My dearest, you are the granddaughter of a marquis, do not underestimate your standing in the world.”
“So you think I am acting unladylike do you?”
“No. I think you are making a gross mistake. And I would hate to have to challenge our dear employer’s son to a duel because he was leading my sister to ruin.”
“Really, James, how ridiculous you are. Lord Huntington and I were flirting,” she said, then turned fully to face him. “Just as you have done on every occasion you have found yourself in the company of his sister.”
He had the grace to flush. “I have not been caught kissing Lady Rosamunde, however.”
“Ah, so you have kissed her then?”
He was silent.
She sighed and looked down at her drenched gown. “Ah, so then we are both going to wrack and ruin. Well, if it is any consolation, I suppose we will have each other’s shoulders to cry on when they leave us brokenhearted,” she offered. “Or I shall find myself nursing my brother or Lord Huntington’s wounds of honor.”
“Charlotte, he will not have you,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“He is the heir to a dukedom. My guess is that he will return to his regiment if Lady Susan does not entice him away altogether.”
“I am well aware that her beauty far outshines any shallow amount of femininity I might claim.”
“Charlotte, I do not mean to degrade your own charms. You have many, and you are very dear to me, you know that. I would not choose another sister for all the world,” he said, looking at her drenched form.
“High praise, indeed,” she said, feeling like a pathetic half-drowned mouse. But then she had no need for her brother to confirm her meager ability to attract the other sex. She had had seven and twenty years of disinterested and disinclined gentlemen to demonstrate the truth. She shook her head.
“I would not see you hurt again,” he said.
“I have never been hurt!”
“You do not think I did not see how unhappy you were when our dear cousin never answered our father’s letters? When you were refused a voucher for Almack’s? When Mr. Cox never paid us a third social call? And what about Mr. Reed, who never appeared to take you on the promised carriage ride? Charlotte?”
“Please, please stop. Enough!” she said, turning to walk away.
“Charlotte, have a care. Do not see him alone again—if only to guard your heart.”
She stopped to face him again. “I promise to heed your advice when you choose the same course.”
Males. They were impossible. The whole lot of them, she thought, while walking toward the cottage. She would not spend one more minute with a brother who knew better than anyone how to reduce her to feeling like a drenched rodent.
Nicholas smiled to himself. Miss Kittridge had left him in her workroom to fetch a covering for his clothes. She had insisted they take a rest from the page when she had caught him clenching his head.
The second and third lessons had proceeded better than he had expected, although Miss Kittridge had been reserved. He had not been able to tease a single half-smile from her grave countenance. But she had continued to prove herself to be a formidable teacher. She had a calming way of listening and not hurrying him, and not destroying his concentration and renewed desire to overcome his affliction.
It was the first time he had ever made any kind of progress. But it was infinitesimal—and frustrating. The letters still swam all over the page, and he always walked away with his head aching from the effort. And to make matters worse, he was having a hard time keeping his hands off her modest form.
Her patience and her kindness, and the sweet innocence she refused to acknowledge, were like aphrodisiacs. If he were a whole man, an intelligent man, he would make an offer for her because he was so attracted to her gentle goodness. Yes, it was going to be difficult to leave her behind when he returned to his regiment.
If only his regiment could see him now, about to dabble in clay, they would be certain he had taken leave of his senses. He did not feel like the battle-hardened officer; he felt the fool.
The smoke, mud, and cannon shot seemed a long way away. And in fact, the battles were over. With Bonaparte on Elba and the wild celebrations in London and Paris, he wondered what role he would be able to play in the postwar effort. Certainly not any diplomatic post. Perhaps he would have to seek a commission fighting the Americans. He shook his head. He had little desire to fight the scrappy colonists. Nicholas felt much like an outmoded chariot: too old to fix, too young to throw on the debris pile, yet of little use to anyone.
He had had Charley write a letter, in his neat hand, to Wellington’s aide de camp. Nicholas was anxious to receive a reply. It would determine his future. In the meantime, he would better the lives of the people in the parish.
He had spent a maddening morning with his brother and Mr. Cobum, the steward Edwin had hired three years ago. They had met every single one of his suggestions concerning the brewery, the need to improve the cottages, and the growing ranks of the poor, even the rampant lack of food, with haughty disinterest. Mr. Coburn had brought forth the ledgers and indicated that there was not enough money to start expensive, ill-advised ventures without proof of future income. However, Mr. Coburn had many ideas on how to filter Nicholas’s monies into the dukedom, starting with Her Grace’s plans to redecorate the town house in London.
Edwin’s pleas were difficult to ignore. “Our sister will need to go to London to snare herself a husband. Do you really think our ramshackle pile in Mayfair will entice a rich man to offer for Rosamunde? I think not. Best hand over your blunt to help our dear sister.”
“Her Grace has also mentioned a tour for Lord Edwin,” Mr. Coburn threw in for good measure. “And for herself, of course.”
“Oh, you must help us, for what will you do with it fighting a war? Rethatching cottages is a complete waste. It will just have to be redone again and again. Furthering the lot of Rosamunde is a far better investment. Come now, you have not the head for all this.”
He had withstood the barrage with stoic fortitude as always. Even his ideas on improving the breeding stock of the sheep and cows had been met with negative response.
Well, he would not go back on his word to his father. But, he had not promised that he would not use his own funds to improve the lot of the people in the dukedom’s realm. And he had a considerable amount left to him from his mother’s family, as well as his conserved officer’s pay, meager though it was.
Nicholas was equally sure that the land deeded to him by his maternal grandparents would prove to be as fertile as needed to raise the hops and barley crops necessary for a brewery. And the spring, which provided water for his father’s needs, also ran through Nicholas’s acres.
If Edwin was unwilling to start a venture, Nicholas would do it on his own parcel of land. He could also open a portion of those three hundred acres as common land for those who had been hard hit by the Enclosure Acts. There would be plenty of room for the crops, the common land, and space for the actual brewery as well.
Miss Kittridge’s voice beyond the door, calling out to the maid, brought him back to the situation at hand. He grasped one of the dried bird forms and studied it.
He knew her sculpture meant a great deal to her, and he would show a measure of his gratitude by pleasing her with his interest. He must find a place to have these fired for her. The figures were even better formed than the ones displayed in the front sitting room. She had refined her technique.
The sound of her light steps preceded her return to the workroom.
“I found one of my brother’s shirts—after realizing you would never fit into my father’s,” she said, a little out of breath. A slight flush was in her cheeks as enthusiasm beamed from her face.
“Your brother will not delight in finding his collar ruined.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong. Anything to sway him from his future would please him, I assure you,” she said.
“Then we are alike in one way, I see.”
“My lord?”
“I am being obtuse, Miss Kittridge. A favorite pastime of mine.”
Intent on her art, she did not acknowledge his comment. She cut a square of clay, using a fine wire, and handed it to him after he had removed his coat and donned the second shirt, which proved to be too small after all. She cut a similar block for herself. Engravings of sculpture adorned the walls, and a small marble bust was in the corner. Walking over to it, he noticed that the beautiful bust of a young woman resembled Miss Kittridge in some ways, despite the old-fashioned, high-on-the-crown hair arrangement.
“Who is this?”
She turned to him. “Oh, I had forgotten it was in here,” she said, then paused. “It is of my mother when she was four and twenty.”
“The eyes are so unusual, the pupils and irises complete in form.”
“It is the technique of Monsieur Houdin. Is it not perfection?” she asked with some awe. “He is the artist I most admire, I believe.”
“Most unusual,” he replied, then turned to compare her face with that of the bust. “You favor her.”
“Perhaps I have something of her eyes and mouth, I suppose. But I did not inherit her inherent wit, and loveliness, and charm. My character is all my father’s doing,” she said with a sigh.
“I fear you have been misled somewhere along your life’s path, Miss Kittridge. You have never failed to show me, at one time or another, all of the characteristics you attribute to your mother.”
“Your memory is not as good as I had surmised, my lord,” she said. “I am not sure you found me charming and graceful when I forced ministrations on you and helped deliver a certain large foal several weeks ago.”
“You are incorrect again, Miss Kittridge. I found you most lovely when you were covered in blood and straw while saving the mare and foal. And most charming when you wheedled me into your way of thinking while I was half-delirious.”
He had silenced her. Miss Kittridge’s shyness forbade further comment.
She guided him to a high stool beside her own, and they sat side by side in the sunlit workroom, which looked out into the shrubbery and vibrant green of summer in the Wiltshires. After a comment or two on forming clay, she left him to his thoughts and solitude. From time to time he looked at her fine-boned profile as she concentrated on sculpting the round, diminutive form of a nuthatch. Where had she ever formed the opinion that she exhibited less than a perfect display of charm and grace?
He looked toward her mother’s bust again. The sole variation was in the regal, aristocratic tilt of the cold marble head and chin. Who was her mother that such a sculpture was commissioned of her? He had encountered a distinct silence on the subject, which he had then abandoned out of politeness to the émigrés. Without a doubt, she had been French, and the father thoroughly English—from his ruddy cheeks to his London accent. Nicholas would have questioned Miss Kittridge further but sensed her discomfort on the topic.
The clay would not take the shape of any sort of winged creature. His attempts were childlike and he had no doubt that he had no talent for the medium, unlike his love of music and the pianoforte, an instrument forbidden to him from the age of sixteen, when he had infuriated his stepmother outrageously one final time.
Nicholas rolled the hard clay between his hands and formed a thin, long column and laid it on the table littered with clay dust. He coiled it into a fat snake, pinching a diamond-shaped head at the end. He unrolled it and formed it into the letter S with the head at the top. He took a larger piece of clay and formed a solid N, and finally an A. He had no idea what else was needed to write “snake.”
She looked at his effort and immediately formed the rest of the word. “Take a closer look at this N and see how it is formed from all angles,” she said, placing the letter in his hand. “Perhaps it will help unlock the mysteries of the difference between N and the M and W.”
A certain stillness invaded his being as he studied the letter from every angle. The solid figure did not dance, nor did it seem confusing in any way, shape, or form. She handed him an M she had formed. It was as if someone had handed him a key that unlocked a thick door in his brain. The M was very solid, immobile, clear. He turned the letter upside down and could see the W quite clearly. The key was looking at the letters in three dimensions.
Nicholas looked toward Charlotte and saw wordless comprehension. He couldn’t speak, afraid to break the spell of sudden understanding. They each turned to the mound of clay and formed crude letters of the alphabet, rushing their efforts in their excitement. In ten minutes time, the forms were complete. He picked up each one and turned them at all angles. After the first ten or so, he stopped and shuddered as he inhaled deeply. He felt overwhelming emotion—a great weight lifting from his shoulders.
“Perhaps we should hold off a bit,” she said.
“No. I want to look at all of them.”
“All right.”
She handed each one to him, and rearranged them carefully when he was done. Only the sound of the raspy crickets and an insistent blue jay could be heard from the open window. A small but profound transformation had begun in the recesses of his mind. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply again after laying aside the Z.
When he reopened his eyes, Miss Kittridge had arranged a line of letters on the table. “Can you read this?” she asked.
Slowly, he spelled the word, “r-e-m-e-m-b-e-r, re- remember,” he said in wonder, the word he had ironically always failed to read or remember.
She formed a few more letters and made a sentence.
He stared at the words. “You-can-read,” he said without pause. His hands were shaking. She took his hands in her own and gave them a little squeeze.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “I don’t even want to question why. All I know is that something has changed by looking at these figures. I am afraid to walk away from here and lose this feeling.”
He closed his eyes and willed himself not to show the emotion welling up in his throat and threatening to escape from his eyes. Most unmanly, these emotions were. He gave a shaky laugh and stood up, pushing back his stool. She stood in front of him, holding both his hands and staring up at him, her eyes filled with tears.
“Ah, Miss Kittridge, do not say a word. You will force me to behave disgracefully, and you would not like that.” He could see she was trying to smile with great effort. And suddenly, it didn’t matter. He felt a tear escape the far corner of his eye and he pulled her roughly in his arms, squeezing the breath from her, he feared.
“I daresay I have put clay all over your gown, Miss Kittridge,” he whispered into her ear as he continued to embrace her. “That is two gowns I owe you.”
He could feel her smile as he rested his cheek on hers. “That is quite all right, Lord Huntington, as I owe you at least one pair of boots from our recent escapade in the rain, and one coat made of the finest cloth,” she said, dusting off a place high on his shoulder. “We are even.”
“No, I owe you, Miss Kittridge. How I will repay you, I know not, but I always attend to my debts.”
She leaned back from him, a hint of tears still residing in her gray eyes. Her lashes were very long, he noticed. Nicholas leaned down without thinking, and brushed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you…” He looked deep into her eyes.
A knock sounded, forcing him to release her. Miss Kittridge hastily rearranged her gown and called out, “Yes?”
“There’s a gen’leman come to call, miss,” the maid said from the other side of the door. “I told him the doctor was with His Grace, but he insisted on waitin’.”
The door opened and a figure loomed large behind the maid. “Now see here, I told you, I am a relative of the family. Lady Charlotte would want to see me immediatement!” a deep baritone intoned behind the maid. He pushed past Doro, a quizzing glass firmly planted on his aristocratic face. His haughty countenance looked amused. Only the smallest trace of a French accent marred his perfect English. The gentleman looked the two of them over from a high tilt of his nose, assessing the situation. He looked back to the maid. “But I thought you said your mistress was in this—” he looked at the room again, “this atelier.”
“This be Miss Kittridge, sir,” Doro said, trying to imitate his puffed-up air. Clearly the maid did not take well to glorified French dandies.
Again the eyepiece was brought up to his face, making his eye look unnaturally large and quite amusing.
Nicholas’s exuberance had been doused with all the thoroughness of a bell in a chaotic schoolyard. He wanted to yell at the stranger to get the bloody hell out of the room. He needed to be alone with Miss Kittridge—to keep reading and to make sure this newfound ability would crystallize in his brain and not disappear, only to leave him frustrated and tortured all over again.
“I believe you were invited to wait for Miss Kittridge in the front sitting room, sir. I suggest you do not compromise your welcome.” He looked toward Miss Kittridge and tried to regain his composure. “I am sure the lady will join you there momentarily.”
The gentleman executed a slight bow and departed, mumbling something in French as the maid closed the door.
Miss Kittridge stared after them without saying a word. Nicholas came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
“Who is he? Are you acquainted with him?” Not waiting for her answer, he continued, “I will be happy to toss him out on his pompous derriere, if you would like,” he said with a cultured intonation of the Gallic word.
“You speak French?”
“A fair amount, and Spanish too, given the necessities of war.”
“Any other language, you fraud?”
“Fraud? I am most insulted, Miss Kittridge.”
“You call yourself an ignorant.”
“Ah, that. Yes. Well, to return to the original question, which I believe you are very skillfully attempting to avoid. The name of the gentleman in question?”
“He is a guest. Actually a distant—very distant relation who will be visiting us, probably for a very short period,” she said, looking up to him. “He is Viscount Gaston, to answer your question. We have been expecting him. But—”
“But what, Miss Kittridge?”
“But, I do not think he recognized me, nor do I think he was expecting us to be living in this—this fashion,” she said, indicating the room with her sweeping hand.
“In that case, you should count yourself lucky, for given the gentleman’s obvious lack of manners, perhaps a curtailed visit would be far preferable.” He dusted off the dried bits of clay on her shoulder. “Well, I shall leave you to your distinguished guest.” Nicholas looked toward the clay letters on the worktable. He hated to leave them behind.
She followed his gaze. “Lord Huntington, I shall wrap these for you once they are dry.” He kissed her hand without another word and left the room.
My God, he could read. No, he could possibly read, his more rational self insisted. He fought to hold hope at bay. He had hoped too many times in his life and failed. He must get inside that miraculous workroom again—alone with her as soon as possible. This first taste of comprehension had been like tiny sips of ambrosia to a man dying of thirst.
His mind raced, thinking about the dueling topics of where he could have fired the clay letters, the winsome Miss Kittridge, and the absurd visitor at the doctor’s cottage, as he walked down the hall.
Nicholas hoped the gentleman’s visit would indeed be short, perhaps a week’s duration would be most preferable. No, two days would be better, two hours best of all. But it was not to be, he decided, when he saw three large trunks blocking the door.