A Passionate Endeavor

by Sophia Nash

  She smiled, finding herself unable to form a lighthearted retort.

  “Has my limited ability frightened you, Miss Kittridge? Are you going to refuse me another lesson?”

  “Of course not. I am gratified you are willing to return for more torture, my lord,” she said, before moving her gaze from his neck cloth to his eyes, the color of the fast rise of grass in the fields.

  “I am willing because you will be my teacher.” His intense gaze made her breath quicken.

  He stood up from their cramped position offering his hand to aid her from her seat. She felt her stomach clench as she watched him bring her hand to his mouth. Warm, full lips pressed onto the sensitive back of her hand. She felt the slightest wisp of heated breath on her skin before gooseflesh covered her arms. He peered down at her and winked beneath half shuttered eyes.

  “Thank you, Miss Kittridge. May I return then in two days time?”

  “I would be honored, my lord,” she said, as he released her hand. She curtsied to his brief nod.

  Charlotte watched him depart from the room, but would not allow herself to spy on him from the window. Turning, she noticed he had forgotten his handkerchief. She pressed it to her face and breathed deeply his masculine scent. At least she would have this little memento until her conscience would force her to return it.

  She shook her head in annoyance. She would not play the tragic, longing heroine. The hero would have to return a measure of feeling other than gratitude for her to justify such passionate sensibility. And the idea of unrequited love went against the grain of her practical nature. He had no feeling for her in the least save for appreciation of her teaching and nursing abilities. A poor substitute for love, indeed.

  She would talk herself out of any tender feelings she harbored, if it was the last thing she did.

  Chapter Seven

  “For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?”

  —Pride and Prejudice

  FATHER, I am so happy you have been able to join us,” said Rosamunde.

  “Not such a grand feat, my dear, when one considers I have merely moved a sixteenth of a mile from Wyndhurst at most, and all of it by way of two very capable footmen,” the Duke of Cavendish replied with a wan smile. “But I am very glad to be a part of your picnic.”

  “I think it is most foolish of you, Richard. I shall not forgive you if you become weaker from the exertion. You are looking too pale by half. But no one consulted me,” Her Grace said, looking at Nicholas.

  “Octavia, I shall be fine—” the duke said.

  “I am, indeed, to blame,” Nicholas interrupted.

  “Nonsense, my son.” The duke patted Nicholas’s hand.

  Nicholas surveyed the gathering on the manicured middle level of the parterre garden flanking the stone abbey. The entire family and three houseguests, supplemented by the Kittridges and the vicar, Mr. Llewellyn, were happily ensconced on the lengths of cloth laid out under an old oak tree that bordered the view of the magnificent formal gardens. The scent of roses and jasmine permeated the air.

  Dr. Kittridge fussed about his frail patient while the two grandmothers had begun a fevered battle to claim the attentions of the amused and flattered vicar. If his father had had more vitality, he would have put a stop to the old ladies’ nattering and coy preening of withered flesh. Years ago the duke had forbidden his mother to have anything further to do with the vicar, save Sunday sermons. For while the aging Mr. Llewellyn was the third son of an impoverished earl, he was not to be ever encouraged to take the place of the much beloved—and long dead—Duke of Cavendish, Nicholas’s grandfather.

  It was a lovely early summer day on one of the most beautiful estates in all of Christendom, thought Nicholas. Yet, a distinct feeling of unease filled his mind as well.

  “I am certain the young ladies would like a turn about the garden, Nicholas,” said the duke.

  “Oh, my, yes. It would be a Fate Worse than Death to neglect to exercise our limbs on a day such as this.” Lady Susan moved to Nicholas’s side and linked her arm with his with admirable haste.

  Rosamunde jumped to his aid. “I think I will take a turn as well, Brother,” she said with a shrewd smile. “I am sure Louisa will lend me her arm as yours will be full,” she said to tease him.

  “Miss Kittridge would you and your brother care to join us too? Edwin?” asked Nicholas.

  “Thank you, yes, Lord—” Miss Kittridge began.

  “Oh, yes, Miss Kittridge, you must join us,” Lady Susan interrupted, her nose held high. “It is only fair that you be given the chance to rub elbows with us occasionally. Edwin, do condescend to squire about Nurse Kittridge.” She tightened her grasp on Nicholas’s arm.

  “This will not do. Miss Kittridge, I would be honored if you would join Lady Susan and me,” Nicholas said.

  “I am capable of walking along unaided, but thank you.” Miss Kittridge turned and hurried away. Lady Susan tugged his arm, urging Nicholas toward the gardens.

  Nicholas shook his head. “That was unkind.”

  “Yes, it was very rude of her.”

  “I was not referring to Miss Kittridge.”

  “I don’t understand, my lord,” she replied.

  Nicholas looked down at the aura of petite femininity that graced his arm. Wide, cornflower-blue eyes looked back at him and fluttered. The white flowers entwined in her pale blond hair together with her white muslin dress painted a pretty picture, indeed. She was a very fetching little devil in disguise.

  “It is such a lovely time of year to take the air, is it not, my lord?” she asked.

  Ah, they would embark on the safe topic of the weather—a skill taught to well-bred young ladies early in life. “If one doesn’t mind the irritating little insects that plague us all,” he said, swiping at one of the offending gnats.

  “Yes, of course, my lord,” she said, crestfallen.

  How Nicholas longed to drop back to take part in the intelligent conversation behind him. He could hear Rosamunde engaged in a conversation with Miss Kittridge about the rapid recovery of her mare Phoenix. Lady Susan propelled him along despite his injury.

  “Do you not think that a folly would look beautiful at the center of the garden? Just here, surrounded by rosebushes.” Lady Susan indicated a spot in front of them.

  “It might be difficult to enter without getting a thorn or two.” He looked over his shoulder to find Miss Kittridge.

  When he returned his attention to Lady Susan, she appeared on the verge of tears. He had to try to be polite, lest the creature dared to create a scene. “But there is a folly a mile or so from here, overlooking a lake. It has fallen into disrepair, however, as it is not a walk that is favored by most of the family,” he admitted.

  “Do you favor it?” she asked tremulously.

  “Actually, yes. It was a favorite haunt of mine in my youth.”

  “I should like to see it then Above All Things,” she said, with a look of rapture.

  Nicholas had not failed to note her disturbing tendency toward the cliché. He glanced once again toward Miss Kittridge. “I am afraid the shrubbery has grown a bit wild and difficult to navigate in delicate footwear such as yours,” he said.

  They both looked down at the tiny white satin tips of her slippers. He looked at her and could almost see the calculating nature of her mind at work. Would she sacrifice her shoes in an effort to win him over?

  A gleam appeared in her eye. “Perhaps you could help me over the small stretches of rugged terrain?”

  He had underestimated her talents.

  “Lady Susan, I could not bear to mar a single flounce on your gown. I will not hear of it. We must not leave our guests at any rate,” he said, smiling at her. “I could not steal the brightest flower from their midst now, could I?” He looked into her eyes and forced himself not to wince at the ridiculous sentiment.

  “No, I suppose you are right. I would not want the others to be deprived of our superior
conversation.”

  He bit his tongue to stop from laughing or making an unsporting remark. “Shall we return to the party, my dear? You must be quite famished.”

  She looked happy to return. The conversation had been altogether too taxing on her bird-sized brain.

  Despite the pain in his leg, he helped all the ladies, along with the other males in evidence, to the shade of the ancient tree. He maneuvered a seat between Rosamunde and Miss Kittridge as the liveried footmen and maid servants brought forth the picnic fare—cold roast beef and pigeon pie alongside early artichokes and cheeses of Wiltshire. Conversation lulled during the consumption of the excellent foodstuff. A few oohs and aahs were heard at the arrival of the tarts and custard dessert trays.

  Miss Kittridge was quiet, as he had noticed was her way with a group of people. She sat with a graceful curve to her arched back. Her gray silk dress had been allowed out of its confinement, he could see, as it was on important occasions such as this. He smiled, happy to see his sister conversing with her.

  James Kittridge soon captured the attention of Rosamunde, and Miss Kittridge withdrew a bit from the group, taking a slim volume from her pocket. He focused on her beautiful lips—the upper crescent so full and inviting. His interest moved to the little dark freckle under one eye and her chestnut hair falling a bit from its perch.

  For the merest moment, Charlotte looked up from the page to glimpse at him, then returned her wise gray eyes to the parchment. He shook his head and moved his glass of wine away. He must stop staring at her heady features lest he embarrass her. “And what are you reading, Miss Kittridge?” he asked.

  She blushed prettily. “Miss Nichols was kind enough to lend me a new book she brought down from London— Mansfield Park. It is a—novel,” she said, appearing self-conscious of her admission. “It is by the same author as Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Ah, you are taken with this writer?”

  “Yes, her works are very amusing and entertaining,” she said softly. “But, my father would not agree. He does not approve of exposing the mind to the nonsense of novels.”

  “I promise not to reveal your secret, Miss Kittridge,” he said with a smile. “We all must have our secrets. And now that I know yours, I will feel more secure in mine’s safety.”

  She arched her fair eyebrow. “You are stooping to blackmail, I see, sir,” she said, turning a page and ignoring his gaze. “It is beneath you.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Miss Kittridge, you are delightful.”

  Edwin moved to sit next to Miss Kittridge and offered a glass of lemonade to her. “What is this? Did I hear rightly the mention of blackmail? Do not tell me that my brother has used you ill in any way, my dear. I could not let that stand,” he said, smiling to both parties. “Shall I slay the beast for you?”

  Miss Kittridge smiled. “I think not. For then I would be called to nurse the dragon back to good health. An unwelcome task, I do assure you, for he is a most uncooperative patient, as you know.” She turned her gaze on Nicholas. “But there is a fortitude that is unmatched. I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone heal so quickly in my life. But I fear he doesn’t reveal the pain all his vigorous activities cause him.”

  Nicholas detested when someone could see through him.

  “Ah, but my brother has never complained about anything in his entire life,” Edwin offered. “He made it very difficult for a younger brother to follow in his footsteps.” Edwin smiled. “And never a false step. He always played by the rule book, always followed the straight and narrow, and all that—a difficult act to follow.”

  Nicholas sat up straighter, ignoring the pain in his thigh.

  “You are jesting, Edwin. It was you who brought all the fine marks from university. We were all so proud of you.”

  Edwin smiled and preened just the smallest amount. “It was a jolly time there, I do admit. I was lucky how easy it all came to me. Barely had to study. How could I, with all the other sport… er, rather, fun there was to be found.” He appeared to enjoy flustering Miss Kittridge. “Knowing your scholarly pursuits, Miss Kittridge, you would have enjoyed the academic life. It is too bad the female mind is not capable of expanding to a male’s superior limits.” He looked first at her and then to Nicholas. “Or at least, those of most men. I must admit there are some gentlemen whose abilities are of a… lesser quality.”

  Miss Kittridge’s eyes appeared very large in her face. “Lord Edwin, but I must beg to differ.”

  “I am not surprised, my dear, not surprised at all.” Edwin looked between the two of them knowingly and winked at her. “I understand my brother has taken to haunting your cottage as of late. Have you been showing him your sculpture? Or maybe other matters occupy his time there. Perhaps I should make an effort to pay my respects more often as well, my dear.”

  He would fry Edwin’s kidneys for breakfast. His brother had never crossed the thin line of courtesy before. Oh, he had toyed with insults toward him in the past, skirting the issue of Nicholas’s ignorance on occasion, but he had never seen him behave this badly.

  “Perhaps the sun has gone to your head, Edwin. Apologize to Miss Kittridge, and take yourself away, before I do something we will both come to regret later,” Nicholas said.

  Edwin jumped to his feet. “Miss Kittridge, I do beg your pardon. I had no idea my words could be construed in a way to offend. Perhaps it is my brother who misunderstood, as he sometimes is wont to do,” he said, then continued after taking one look at Nicholas, “But please do accept my apology.” He finished with an exaggerated bow.

  The entire party of young people had become aware of the conversation, and had one by one stopped their discussions to hear the interesting exchange.

  “Charlotte, what did he say to you?” inquired James. “I shall not stand for him to insult my sister, even if his family provides our bread and butter.”

  “No, James, I shall not hear of it. It was nothing, nothing at all. Do let us talk of something else.” Miss Kittridge rose. “I must go and speak with Father. He might need something for His Grace.”

  Rosamunde stood up and offered Miss Kittridge her hand. “Oh, please, Miss Kittridge, will you do me the honor of allowing me to go with you? I am so sorry for anything my brother might have said. I am mortified by his behavior,” Rosamunde said, with contrition written across her fine features.

  James Kittridge had jumped up to accompany the ladies, who were joined by Louisa Nichols.

  Miss Kittridge, her face still colorless from the exchange, looked at Nicholas for a moment, and then the group was gone.

  Nicholas was obliged by courtesy to remain behind with Lady Susan. He was forced to endure the calculating little smile decorating her porcelain face and her cloying perfume fouling the air—and another half hour of wretched words that could not be mistaken for any sort of clever conversation.

  After, he would think how best to make certain that his brother would never consider making insidious insults to Miss Kittridge ever again, if Edwin treasured the idea of saving his neck for further displays of frothy cravats.

  It was the heat that had done it. That was the conclusion drawn by Dr. Kittridge and his daughter in private. They could not go against Her Grace, who was convinced that it was the very nature of the air outside that had brought on the duke’s relapse.

  Charlotte hastened outside the duke’s vast chambers, daring to leave His Grace alone for a few moments to communicate the necessary ingredients—cinchona bark and licorice—to make a tea to soothe the duke’s cough and reduce his fever. She could hear him still coughing violently as Lord Huntington appeared on the stair’s landing.

  “How does he fare?” Nicholas asked, hope and fear vacillating in his expression.

  Charlotte frowned. She despised this part of her position, that of imparting bad tidings. “He has worsened with each passing hour, my lord. Perhaps you could bring a measure of comfort to him now. Let us go in.”

  His father l
ay motionless on the bed, eyes closed. The duke’s flesh was stretched over bone, showing the all too apparent skeleton that loomed beneath. His prominent forehead was as still and white as marble.

  “Father,” exclaimed Nicholas as he grasped his hand.

  “Nicholas, my son—so glad you came back. Wanted you to know this before I am gone,” he rasped, his eyes opening a crack.

  “I am glad I came back as well, Father. I missed you over the years,” Lord Huntington admitted.

  “I am sorry you went away, even if we all agreed it was for the best,” the duke said hoarsely. “But I missed you… I missed you more than I can say.” On the last words, he began to cough. The effort required to do so seemed to rob the old gentleman of an energy he did not possess.

  Charlotte supported the man’s frame as he continued in a long spasm, advising him to talk less. The duke lay back upon the many pillows she then arranged to his liking.

  “Is there nothing to ease his discomfort?” Lord Huntington gave her a haunted look.

  She took his hand to comfort him. “Yes, my lord. There is a soothing tea for the throat that is being prepared.” He did not surrender her hand.

  The duke was looking at them through half-shuttered eyes.

  “Miss Kittridge, how can I thank you?” Lord Huntington asked, covering their clasped hands with his free one.

  “There is no need.” She felt embarrassed under the old gentleman’s gaze, and excused herself without delay. “I must see about the tea. My father should arrive any moment, Your Grace.” She gave a quick curtsy and removed herself from the room.