A Passionate Endeavor (14 page)

“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.”