Anita Mills (10 page)

“She’ll lead the dance for you,” Jack observed as the door closed after her.

“Sit up,” Sturbridge ordered.

“Call the tune also, no doubt.”

“Unbutton your shirt.”

“Alas, but I cannot—stupid complaint, I know, but whenever I move my arm, I—”

“Save the faradiddles for a female, Haverhill!” Nonetheless, the viscount began undoing the front of the shirt, muttering, “Ain’t a valet, after all. Kitty ought to have left you at the Hog and Hawk.”

“Hawk and Pig,” Jack corrected him. “And I expect she was afraid of what I might tell the magistrate.”

“Cork-brained thing to do, anyway.” He ripped the shirt off Jack’s back, jerking it savagely over his bandaged shoulder. “Egad.”

“A couple of inches inward, and I’d have been planted,” the baron acknowledged. “Inconvenient as hell to go that way—embarrassing also. Bled like a bloody pig.”

“Is everything a jest to you?” Sturbridge demanded.

“If it were not, I should have succumbed long ago,” Jack retorted. “The biggest jest of all is that I am alive.”

The viscount ringed his head with a snowy nightshirt, then lifted Haverhill’s arm, taking more care than he wanted, and eased it into the sleeve. When he looked down, the baron was nearly as white as the gown. But the worst was over. As he worked the nightshirt down, he removed the breeches, commenting, “London tailor?”

“Spanish.” Jack bit his lip against the pain, drawing Sturbridge’s attention to the leg.

“ ’Pon my word!”

“It heals. At least ’tis still there—better than a lot—of poor devils,” he gasped.

“I’ll get Kitty. Keep yourself as decent as you can.”

The viscount had one hand on the door before Jack spoke again. “Sturbridge?”

“What?”

“I hope you are never reincarnated as a nanny.”

His rival jerked the knob and did not answer.

T
HE THIN, COLORLESS
woman peered out the window of the elegant saloon. “Well, ’twould seem the rain has finally abated, my lady. Now if ’twill but dry, perhaps we shall be able to take a turn about the garden tomorrow. ’Tis so tiresome sitting inside.” She sighed.

“With naught but the crocuses out? Really, my dear Pennyman, if you are restive, you have but to say so. I am sure that Charles may be persuaded to take us up in the carriage later today.” Louise Trevor looked up from the book she had been reading, and favored her companion with a thin smile. “He was used to be a dutiful son, after all.”

“I am not at all certain he is at home,” Mrs. Pennyman ventured timidly.

“Nonsense. Where would he be on a day like this?”

“Well, Mrs. Hatcher had it of Mr. Clement that he has left twice today—once earlier, then he returned to ask Mr. Clement for a clean nightshirt and was gone again.”

“A shirt, you mean.”

“Oh, no, my dear Louise, ’twas a nightshirt. Poor Mr. Clement was quite positive on that head. And he took it with him.”

“He took a nightshirt? How very odd.”

“Mr. Clement allowed as he would pack for him if his lordship meant to leave, but Lord Sturbridge assured him that it was no such thing.” The old woman looked out again. “I am sure that I do not mind the crocuses at all.”

“Well, I do. There is no use to a garden, Pennyman, when there are no flowers to speak of.” Lady Sturbridge snapped the book shut and laid it aside, then rose to join her companion at the window. “Lud.”

The way she uttered it, Mrs. Pennyman knew she was displeased. “Whatever—? Oh.”

“Just so.”

They both watched Lord Sturbridge drive up, his matched pair stepping smartly despite the muddy, rutted drive. “He has Miss Gordon with him,” Pennyman observed. “I did not know she was to pay us a call.”

“Neither did I.”

“An unexceptional girl, I am sure,” the old woman suggested, then quailed at the look her employer gave her. “A trifle odd though,” she added hastily.

“A trifle? Pennyman, she is not at all what one could wish for Charles,” Lady Sturbridge pronounced definitely. “The girl is forward, brash, and totally lacking in feminine refinement. What he sees in her in beyond understanding.”

“She is quite lovely,” her companion observed.

“She lacks breeding, Pennyman,” the dowager retorted. “And she is American. I cannot like that—I cannot.” She looked again, seeing her son lift the object of her distaste from the tilbury, and she shuddered visibly. “If he were a second son—but he is not. One wishes better for one’s only son, Pennyman.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I shall have to redouble my efforts in that direction, I suppose.” Louise moved away from the window. “Perhaps if I encourage him to go to London early this year …” Her voice trailed off.

Mrs. Pennyman knew better than to point out that there was not a female on the Marriage Mart Louise would approve for Charles. It was a deep game the dowager played, one where she encouraged, then discouraged whenever it appeared the viscount might fix his interest somewhere. But thus far she’d not been able to throw a spoke in the wheel where Miss Gordon was concerned. He still ran tame at Rose Farm, no matter what his mother did to deter him.

“Hallo, Mama—Pennyman.” He came into the saloon with his beaver hat in one hand, Kitty Gordon’s hand in the other.

“What an awful day to have this lovely child out,” his mother chided, acknowledging Kitty’s presence. “Lud, but you will catch your death—won’t she, dear Clara?”

“Oh—yes, yes, I should think so. Cold out,” the old woman agreed.

“But as she is here, you must ring for tea—or would you prefer ratafia, Kitty dear?” Then, before the girl could answer, she decided, “It ought to be tea—small females are more susceptible to illness, don’t you think? What Charles can be thinking of, I am sure I do not know.” Smiling brightly, she ordered, “Come give me a kiss, child, and tell me how dear Isabella fares. ’Tis an age since last I saw her, after all, and just this morning I was tell Pennyman that we ought to call on her, you know.”

There was no help for it. Kitty moved closer and stood on tiptoe to brush a quick kiss against Lady Sturbridge’s cheek. As she drew away, the woman caught her hand and held it. “La, but what cold hands you have, my dear! I fear you are chilled to the bone. Charles, you must be careful of her health.”

“I am fine, Lady Sturbridge. Indeed, but I am never ill.”

“Nonsense. Small females are noted for their delicate constitutions.” She surveyed Kitty’s face, then frowned. “Your skin chafes easily, does it not? You must remind me to send some lotion home with you for that.”

“Mama.” Charles cleared his throat and waited to gain her attention. “Mama, wish me happy—Kitty and I are betrothed.”

Kitty could feel his mother’s fingers stiffen in hers, and she wished she were at a greater distance. The woman seemed to have gone rigid for a moment, then she let out her breath slowly as though she counted for control.

“Betrothed? ’Tis a trifle sudden—I mean, well, ’tis not summer even, and—” She looked down at Kitty and forced a smile that did not begin to reach her cold gray eyes. “You naughty girl—I’d not even suspected. Well, this calls for more than tea, I should think. Pennyman, have Bittle bring Charles’s best wine.”

“Uh—”

“Lud, a daughter. I shall not know how to go on with a daughter, Charles.”

“I told you she would be more pleased than you thought,” Sturbridge reminded Kitty.

“You thought I would be displeased? Wherever had you that notion?” Louise asked. “What an ogress you must think me, child. I have always known that Charles would one day wed—the title, you know.”

“Well, the wedding is not to be soon,” Kitty hastened to tell her.

The dowager seized upon that glimmer of hope, and her smile broadened. “Of course it isn’t! So much to be done, after all, I am sure. You will wish a London modiste, for they are so much better at concealing flaws, my love. I daresay with a great deal of contrivance, they will be able to make you appear taller. You must tell dear Isabella that I have the name of a shoemaker who excels in building up heels, will you? He works rather slowly, but as there is no hurry … Well, you must allow me to accompany you when you travel to town. Between us, we shall make you presentable.” She cast a reproachful look at her son. “ ’Tis the busy time now, though, what with everyone coming to town for the Season. If you would have waited a few months, I am sure—”

“Mama, I like the way Kitty looks.”

“Of course you do! But then you are besotted, after all,” Louise murmured. “If she is to be Viscountess Sturbridge, she must be more elegant.” She studied Kitty for a moment, shaking her head. “ ’Tis always difficult to make short females appear other than dumpy, but we shall manage, my love. You have good bones, so all is not lost.”

“La, a wedding! I have ever loved weddings,” Mrs. Pennyman admitted, then recalled herself. “That is to say—well, when is it to be?”

“I had thought perhaps August,” Charles murmured.

“August! I should think not, not at all. Too soon by half, dear boy.” The dowager favored her son with a look that told him such haste was unseemly. “Why, there is far too much to do, is there not, Kitty, my love? It ought to be a year, but Christmas at the very earliest, I should say. After all, if ’tis too soon, there will be those who suspect things are not as they ought to be.”

“Uh—”

“She cannot possibly be ready by August,” Louise continued definitely, disposing of the possibility. “I shall simply have to confer with Isabella on the matter.”

“Mama—” Sturbridge was interrupted by the arrival of a footman bearing the wine and glasses. Not wanting to dispute anything before the fellow, he forbore saying anything more. Lady Sturbridge handed Kitty a filled glass before taking one for herself.

“I do not drink much wine,” Kitty admitted, eyeing it doubtfully.

“Nonsense, my dear. Dr. Kimball assures me ’tis most beneficial for delicate constitutions—so soothing, you know. And we must take care of you now that you are to be our own.”

“Mama, there is nothing wrong with Kitty’s constitution—she is healthy as a horse,” her son protested.

“Well, I should not put it quite that way, Charles! Poor Kitty cannot like the comparison, can you, dear? So tiny, so delicate—no, I should not call her a horse at all.”

“But I am never ill,” Kitty repeated. “Never.”

“You look a trifle peaked now,” the dowager insisted. “Don’t you think so, Pennyman? A little air—not too much, mind you—and you shall revive directly. Pennyman, you will take Miss Gordon to the garden to show her the crocuses.”

She turned again to Kitty. “They are so lovely this year that I cannot credit it. You run along with Mrs. Pennyman, and I shall send Sturbridge after you directly.”

“Mama, it has been raining all morning! She’ll soil the hem of her gown. Besides, you yourself said ’twas too cold.”

“I meant she should not be out at length, Charles. A little air is invigorating, too much is dangerous. Go on, dear—Pennyman, watch for her gown, will you? And if ’tis too cold, do not let her stay out overlong.”

“Really, dear ma’am, but—”

“Nonsense.”

It was obvious to Kitty that his mother wished to read a peal over him, and there would be no end to her pointed solicitude until she did. Charles nodded, and Kitty capitulated gracefully.

“I have never seen a flower that I did not like,” she declared, following Lady Sturbridge’s elderly companion to the door.

“I’d hoped you would approve of her, Mama,” Charles admitted.

“How can you think I do not?” Louise countered. “La, but the choice is yours, after all. And Kitty is a dear girl, I am sure—a trifle long-toothed, but still young enough to have your heir.”

“Mama, she is but four and twenty,” he reminded her.
“You would have it sound as though she is at her last prayers.”

“I never said any such thing, Charles Trevor, and well you know it. No, no, you mistake me. I shall love her dearly, though I own I could wish her a trifle taller, which I am sure you will understand. I mean, what if the boys should take her height? ’Tis so very difficult for a man to be short, you know—it makes them so very sensitive.”

“As I am nearly six foot myself, I should not worry,” he answered dryly.

“La, foolish me! How good of you to remind me, dearest boy—I daresay you are quite right.” She looked up at him wistfully. “Lud, but I shall not know how to go on when you are married, you know.”

“Mama—”

“But I suppose ’tis a good thing you have chosen a neighbor girl—’twill be more like a family that way. Though I admit I had hopes of Miss Merriman, you know.”

“You did?” he asked in surprise.

“Well, I must admit a certain partiality there, for I have known her all her life. Miss Gordon, being from America, is nigh a stranger to us, after all. No, I’d been less surprised had it been sweet Jessica—such a delightful girl, Charles. In truth, I am surprised you did not note her.”

“Yes, she is wonderful,” he owned.

Louise pressed her advantage. “And so lovely! Not a delicate girl like Kitty—taller, too. And such pretty manners! I have never heard it said that she did not know how to go on, for she has been bred here. But—” She sighed deeply. “But you know what you are about, of course.”

“I did not know you liked Miss Merriman.”

“Like
her? Charles, I have positively doted on her for an age! Indeed, but I have often considered taking her to London myself, for it seems such a shame that the Merrimans never presented her. Such unexceptional manners! Such a lovely complexion! Unlike Kitty, she will not turn brown.”

‘ Ί keep hearing you say it, but there’s naught brown about Kitty. She’s fairer than Miss Merriman even.”

“Ah, yes, but ’tis precisely what I mean—once she gets into the sun, she is more like to throw spots.”

“There ain’t a freckle on her,” he declared.

“Yes, well, you must admit there has been no sun to speak of, so you cannot know but what there will be. Americans are not at all as we are, after all.”

“Kitty Gordon is as English as you are—her papa was born in Sussex, and her mother was a Whitwood from Kent.”

“But she is a Gordon, and I cannot quite like the connection. Byron—”

“Is no relation to her, and well you know it.”

“There must be some connection, I am certain of it, dearest, for all Gordons come from Scotland, do they not?”

“The distance would have to be too great to note,” he muttered. “Besides, you like Miss Merriman, and she is related to the Gordons also.”

“Well, I am sure you are right—foolish me to worry,” she admitted doubtfully. “Still, one can but wonder at the influence of a wild place like America on a young character.”

“Mama, I have offered for Kitty,” he reminded her grimly. “The announcement will appear forthwith, and I should hope that you will be agreeable to her.”

“Charles, how could you think otherwise?” She favored him with a wounded look. “I would not for the world be anything but kind to your betrothed.” Then, seeing Kitty returning with Mrs. Pennyman, she sighed. “I shall simply have to make her more presentable, that is all. The Merriman woman never goes to town and cannot know what befits your viscountess, I’ll be bound. You deliver Kitty into my hands, Charles, and I will see she is a credit to you.” As Kitty came through the door, she held out her hands. “Ah, dear—we were just saying how wonderful ’twill be to have you in the family. I shall delight in dressing you, I promise you.”

“I thank you, but Aunt Bella—”

“Bella Merriman is a wonderful woman, Kitty dearest, but she is a trifle behind in the world. No, no—you must turn to me for direction, my love.” She walked closer, surveying Kitty much as a buyer for a horse. “Yes ’tis not hopeless at all—a challenge merely. With the right clothes, we shall contrive to make you appear taller. Hmmm—have you considered drying your hair with lemon juice on it? ’Twill make it less brass and more gold, you know.”

Perceiving that Kitty’s jaw was taking on a decidedly mulish set, Lord Sturbridge hastily intervened. “Mama, it grows late, and I’d best take her home.”