Follow the Heart (26 page)

Dorcas waved Kate over to join her in an otherwise unoccupied corner. She glanced furtively at her elder sister, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “I am sorry you have not been able to join us the past few mornings, Cousin Kate. We have been eating breakfast early so we can walk out with the men when they go shooting. And, I believe, so Edith can avoid inviting you. I hate to think of you spending so much time by yourself.” She truly appeared saddened by the idea.

“Do not trouble yourself. I have enough to do to occupy my time.” She could not bring herself to tell Dorcas of her daily walks with Stephen Brightwell through the gardens. “Did you lose the men in the park this afternoon?”

“They are just now changing, but they should join us shortly. We parted from them after luncheon, and, apparently, the shooting was so good, they stayed out late.”

Kate perched on the edge of her seat, knowing better than to get too comfortable during teatime. Edith preferred everyone to move about the room rather than stay in one place. “And is there a young man of the party whose presence you particularly enjoy?”

There was nothing delicate about Dorcas’s flush. Her ivory skin burned scarlet. “Edith says I mustn’t settle my regard on anyone before we go to London. She told me that until I am presented, I cannot make any attachments—for I do not know whom I will meet afterward.”

Kate glanced at the girl’s older sister, holding court in the cluster of chairs and settees nearest the fireplace. “I see.”

“Do you agree, Cousin Kate? Should I wait, not give my heart, until after I am presented?”

Kate turned back to Dorcas. “I cannot say that I absolutely agree with your sister, but in principle, yes. You are so young, have experienced so little of life. You should wait to give your heart until you are absolutely certain of the man to whom you award it.” She patted her cousin’s hand. “Come, let us join the others.”

Kate pretended not to notice how she was ignored when she and Dorcas joined the other women, but took her seat with dignity and as much gracefulness as she possessed.

“Can you believe for three days he has chosen to stay at the house and read rather than going out with the others to shoot? And today he made up an excuse to ride to his home rather than walk out with us.” Edith’s blue eyes flashed, and the other women shook their heads, expressions of disgust on their faces. “It is too bad his younger brother is off in India. From what I understand, he covered himself in glory as an Army officer, and now as a member of the ambassadorial staff. He would not choose reading over sporting. And everyone knows bookish men tend to be sickly. I would imagine Stephen Brightwell will not be viscount long.”

Edith’s audience nodded their agreement, and she finally acknowledged Kate with a look that challenged her to contradict her assessment.

Kate raised her brows but said nothing. A stirring among the other ladies drew her attention toward the door. One by one, the male guests arrived, and the party moved to where tea had been set up at the far end of the room. Once fixed with refreshments, everyone spread out, occupying several of the groupings of chairs and sofas in the large room.

However, even with the women separated and engaged in conversation by men, the change in the room when Lord Thynne entered was palpable. He paused, swept the room with his gaze, and then walked to the tea table.

Edith bounded from her seat and intercepted him there. “Lord Thynne, I hope you had a pleasant ride to Greymere today.” She poured his tea for him. It seemed an odd thing for her to say, as Kate knew through Nora that Edith had already seen Stephen since his return.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Buchanan. The work proceeds apace.”

“You have the most beautiful horse, my lord. I understand you brought it from South America with you.” At his direction, she added milk to the tea.

“Yes. He is a Criollo—an Argentine breed descended from the horses the first Spaniards took to the New World with them in the sixteenth—”

“And such pretty coloring. One does not often see a gray horse with black mane and tail. But he is too heavy-limbed to be a hunter, is he not?” Edith ducked her chin and looked longingly into Stephen’s face.

“He is—or was—a working horse, bred for endurance during the long days on the ranch herding cattle.” Stephen took a step back. “If you will excuse me, Miss Buchanan.”

Edith opened her mouth to protest, but Stephen walked away . . . and straight over to take the empty chair beside Kate.

“Miss Dearing, I am sorry I could not walk with you this morning as planned. A note arrived early, necessitating a ride to Greymere to solve a problem so the work on the house could continue.”

“No apology is necessary, my lord.” Kate frowned at him. She didn’t understand. Why would he choose to come sit beside her after what Edith revealed to him?

“I planned to ask you to join me for a walk when I returned this afternoon, but I was waylaid by some . . . unpleasant business.”

Kate almost choked on her tea, assuming the unpleasant business he referred to was Edith’s revelation to him of Kate’s true status in this house. “And were you able to conclude the unpleasant business to your satisfaction?”

Stephen swallowed his bite of watercress sandwich. “I am attending to it. I need additional information before moving forward.”

The cup and saucer rattled in Kate’s trembling hand, so she set it down on the table beside her. “I see. If there is anything I can do to help . . .”

“I will be certain to accept that offer if the need arises.” Stephen saluted her with his cup, then drained it. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak with Sir Anthony before dinner.” He inclined his head to Kate before leaving the room.

Kate wished she had not eaten the cookie with her tea, as it now roiled in her stomach and threatened not to stay there. Stephen would go to her uncle with Edith’s tale. Sir Anthony would confirm all of it. And even if Stephen did not leave Wakesdown because of it, he would most definitely keep clear of Kate.

But the idea of being ostracized no longer threw her into such a whirlwind of fear as before. Not now that she had the possibility of a position at Mrs. Timperleigh’s school. While it would not support her family in the manner to which they were accustomed, between herself and Christopher, they could keep them from starving.

A few minutes after Stephen left, Kate excused herself and returned to her room. Other than Dorcas, no one of the party wanted Kate there. And if she left, they could talk about her the way they’d been talking about Stephen when she arrived.

She picked up her letter to her stepmother and half sisters where she left off, trying to sound as if she enjoyed being in England much more than she really did.

At the dressing bell, Athena appeared to help her change. She suggested another gown—ivory satin with blue stripes and pink flowers—as being more appropriate to the occasion, but Kate held firm in her choice. She liked the way the dark purple accented the coppery tones in her hair, making it appear almost auburn. And the fall of black lace around the scooped neckline made her bare shoulders look creamier than usual.

“You look like you’re in mourning.” Athena wrinkled her nose.

Perhaps she was correct. But Kate didn’t care. She loved the dress and liked how she looked in it. And with the confidence she felt, she could walk into the hornets’ nest downstairs with no fear of being stung.

Amethyst jewelry and a purple ribbon woven into the intricately pinned mass of curls at the back of Kate’s head finished the look. She examined herself in the cheval glass. No longer did she see a plain spinster trying to be a beautiful and captivating flirt. No longer did she see a preying, penniless woman sponging off her charitable relatives while trying to snare a rich husband. Instead, she saw a woman with hope for a future regardless of her ability to make someone like Stephen Brightwell fall in love with her.

And if she once again held the reins to her future, maybe, just maybe, she would be able to marry for love. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, remembering Andrew’s lips there, and prayed that would not be the only time she kissed the man she loved.

She timed her arrival downstairs just right—following the butler into the sitting room to hear him announce dinner. As a member of the family, Kate took her place behind Florie and before the other guests in the order of precedence, escorted into the dining room by Mr. . . . oh, the one with the dark hair and bushy eyebrows who cleared his throat every few seconds.

Because of the number of houseguests and the seating arrangement being changed every evening by Edith, Kate ended up at the opposite end of the table from Stephen and her cousin, who sat across from each other at Sir Anthony’s right and left. Thankfully, Florie was almost always seated near Kate.

Tonight, Kate ended up beside the Honorable Mister with the curled hair who’d flirted with her the first night of the house party. And his name . . . his name . . . something starting with an O. At least she was almost certain it started with that letter.

Mr. O—or was it his first name that started with an O?—looked around him halfway through the first course. He leaned a little closer to Kate. “I like to see a woman with a generous appetite. It seems healthier than those who take only one or two bites and are finished.” He then leaned away, closer to the young woman on his other side. “Of course, women with healthy appetites do tend to become portly spinsters once they reach their middle twenties.”

Heat flared in Kate’s cheeks, and she took a deep breath, reassuring herself with the resulting pressure that her new corset made her look just as slender through the waist as Edith Buchanan, though Kate had more curves above and below.

“The same is true of gentlemen, of course.” Kate gave Mr. O what she hoped was a sickeningly sweet smile. “Those with healthy appetites when they’re young and active tend to need larger waistcoats as they age to accommodate their growing girth.” She looked across the table at Florie and winked. “And gentlemen do not often make use of
contraptions
to help their waists look smaller as they gain flesh.”

Mr. O—
no,
Mr. C-something—laughed, but the amusement did not reach his haughty hazel eyes. “Naturally, that is something about which you do not need to worry, Miss Dearing. A woman of your statuesque height can afford to eat as she pleases, unlike a more petite woman, like Miss Buchanan.” He raised his glass in a silent toast to their hostess at the other end of the table, who glanced his direction and inclined her head imperiously, though Kate was certain her cousin could not have heard their conversation.

Once again, he leaned conspiratorially toward the woman on his other side. “Of course, men much prefer petite women when it comes to social occasions, as they are much easier to dance with and escort than those who tower over all other women. And no man wants to be with a woman taller than he. For what would his friends think?”

The petite young woman opposite him fluttered and simpered. “Oh, how droll you are, Mr. Carmichael.”

Yes, Carmichael. The Honorable Mr. Oliver Carmichael. Though Kate questioned his
honorability
, given the course of his current conversational tactics.

“I must say, Miss Dearing, that I enjoy being seated at the dinner table beside a woman who speaks her mind. It makes for great entertainment.” He speared a bit of meat with his fork and leaned away from Kate toward the young woman on the other side of him. “Of course, while it is pleasant for a dinner companion to speak her mind, a woman like that would not be considered suitable marriage material. For a man does not want a wife who will embarrass him by shocking others with opinions on anything other than fashion and the latest gossip from London.”

“How droll of you, Mr. Carmichael.” The young miss batted her lashes and tentatively touched the sleeve of his black dinner frock coat.

He kept his attention on her. “Yes, men of the world prefer conversing with women who have been out a number of years, as young misses have nothing in their heads but lace and ribbons. However, they prefer to marry debutantes.” This time, he glanced around Kate and down a few chairs at Dorcas.

Kate sincerely hoped he was not setting his sights on the middle Buchanan sister. Dorcas deserved so much better.

The second course was served, and Kate, though hating herself for doing so, took less food than she wanted—conscious of the gazes of Mr. Carmichael and several other guests on her.

Mr. Carmichael looked at the woman on his other side as if seeing her for the first time. “What a lovely necklace. The emeralds catch the light exquisitely.”

Miss How Droll giggled and touched her fingertips to the collar necklace. “Why, thank you, Mr. Carmichael.”

He leaned toward Kate. “My grandmother favored paste jewelry as well.”

Now on the receiving end, the poor miss, flushing a deep crimson that clashed with her pink dress, apparently no longer found Mr. Carmichael’s cutting humor droll.

Kate had been on the losing side of this game far too often in the last ten years to be offended by Mr. Carmichael’s remarks. But she still found it incomprehensible why men thought they could gain the affection of one woman by insulting another woman to her face. Even if the insults came on the heels of a supposed compliment.

Men. All men? No. Kate could not imagine Andrew Lawton toying with women’s affections in such a way. This was a game of the upper crust, the set for whom courtship and flirtation were the sole occupation.

The gentleman on her left paid no attention to Kate but kept his focus entirely on Dorcas, who sat on his other side.

Kate entertained herself by imagining Andrew seated next to her instead of Oliver Carmichael. He would not insult her. Nor would he spend time cultivating a foppish air and bearing.

At the thought of Andrew sitting beside her at Sir Anthony’s table—as her husband, as a valued guest and member of the family—Kate’s insides tingled, and she had a hard time catching her breath. He could converse on many topics, though she knew they would talk of gardening most of the time. He had enough reserve and self-possession that his table manners would be impeccable—even though he had never dined in such company before. Or so she assumed.