by Brenda Hiatt
Lucy stole a glance over her shoulder as Lady Kendal pulled her from the room. The earl was smiling.
“You must pardon me for rabbiting on,” the countess said a few minutes later as they sat drinking tea in a beautifully appointed suite of rooms while servants filled a copper bathtub with steaming water. “We receive so little company these days, Miss Jennet, and I’ve not had another female to coze with since months before Christopher was born. He is ten weeks old now, with a temper he must have got from me and a demanding nature inherited from his father. I am trying not to spoil him, but it is difficult to do otherwise. Kit tells me you have been governess to five young boys, so you must know how it is.”
“I’ve little experience with infants,” Lucy said, the first words she’d had a chance to say for quite some time. And just as well, since her tongue seemed to be swollen in her mouth. She was overwhelmed by these charming aristocrats and their lavish hospitality. “May I see your son? Only if that would be acceptable, of course.”
“Whyever would it not? You must run tame at Candale, Miss Jennet. Go where you will and do whatever you like. We do not stand on ceremony here.” The countess patted her hand. “I daresay you will feel more comfortable when Kit returns. And now I must leave you to your bath before it grows cold. Have yourself a good nap and use the bellpull if you require anything at all. We keep country hours, so dinner will be at seven.”
Moth wings beat inside Lucy’s stomach. “Must I join you, Lady Kendal? I’ve nothing to wear, and—”
“Mercy me! Did I not tell you? More than half the gowns in my wardrobe no longer fit since I began eating like a horse. Nursing a babe makes me voracious, and of course my breasts are swollen like ascent balloons. When Kit told us you were to pay a visit and explained the circumstances, I put a seamstress to work altering a few of my dresses to your size. It’s a hurried bit of patchwork, I’m sorry to say, but there are several gowns hanging in that armoire, and the chest of drawers contains whatever else I could think of—night rails, robes, handkerchiefs, and the like. If you require anything I forgot, you have only to ask.”
“Th-thank you. I am most grateful.”
“Piffle! You can have no idea how pleased I am to have you here.” She rose, plucking an almond biscuit from the tea tray. “Young Betsy Slate aspires to be a lady’s maid, so I hope you don’t mind if she practices on you. She’ll come to your room an hour before dinner to help you dress and show you the way to the parlor for a glass of wine before we sit at table. Kit insists on wine before dinner, and we accommodate him whenever he comes home.”
Lucy stood, dazed and uncertain what to say or do. The next she knew, she was swept up in a warm embrace.
“May I call you Lucy?” the countess asked when she stepped away. “And will you call me Celia?”
Melting under her smile, Lucy could only nod. She would never be able to address the countess by her Christian name, she was certain, but now was not the time to say so. Lady Kendal blew her a kiss as she left the room, and Lucy stood for a long time staring at the closed door, wondering how on earth she could endure another hour in this house. Every minute she stayed here would make her want more, and it would never do to become accustomed to such luxury.
As they departed the dining room Kit drew Celia aside, leaving his brother to escort Lucy to the drawing room for coffee. Her hand stiff on the earl’s arm, Lucy cast him a sulfurous look over her shoulder, the first sign of spirit he’d seen from her all evening.
“What the devil’s the matter with her?” Kit asked when Kendal and Lucy were out of earshot. “She pushed food around on her plate all evening and hardly spoke ten words altogether. Have you been beastly to her?”
“Oh, indeed. We imprisoned her in the wine cellar the entire afternoon.” Celia gave a delicate shrug. “She is a trifle uncomfortable among strangers, I daresay, although from your description, I had not expected her to be shy.”
“Well, she isn’t, and I’m not a stranger. I don’t think she looked at me above twice, though. It must be the neckcloth. I knew I shouldn’t have worn it.” He sliced Celia a grin. “Dire measures are called for, I’m afraid, if I am to get my Lucy back. Methinks a good row will turn the trick.”
“Mercy, Kit. You don’t mean to pick a fight with the poor girl?”
“That would be ungallant, m’dear, and I am a prince among men. I merely plan to invite her to a ball.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Precisely. Do me a service, will you, and extricate your husband from the drawing room before the fireworks begin.” He took her arm. “Now would be an excellent time.”
Kit watched with appreciation as Celia tactfully maneuvered Kendal from the room within a few minutes. Lucy tried to follow them, but he intercepted her before she could reach the door. “I take lots of sugar in my coffee,” he said, steering her to a chair beside the low table.
Lips set in a rigid line, she dutifully filled a cup with coffee, chipped off a sizable hunk of sugar to sweeten it, and held it out. All without once looking in his direction.
He took a sip. “Perfection. Thank you. Now, do you intend to tell me why you are blue-deviled, or must I drag it from you?”
“You know very well why!”
Well, that didn’t take long, Kit thought. There was much to be said for loving a woman with a flashpan temper.
“Men never know why, moonbeam. And why is it you females always force us to guess what we’ve done wrong?”
“Because you ought to know, that’s why.” She threw up her hands. “You are hopeless, the lot of you. But I shall explain in words even you can understand. I do not belong here.”
“If you think that, you are the only one who does.”
“I haven’t finished. I am not your fiancée.”
“A mere bagatelle. Sometimes the facts take a while to catch up with the truth.”
“What in blazes does that mean? No, don’t tell me. I am sure I do not want to hear any more of your moonshine.”
She was looking at him now, her gray eyes shooting sparks and sending heat all up and down his body. That’s my girl, he thought, readying himself for the next assault.
“Lord and Lady Kendal have been prodigiously kind, and I feel horrid to repay them only with deceit. Masquerades are defensible when there is no other choice, sir, but this one serves no purpose at all.”
“Ah, there you are wrong. It is a significant part of my plan, the one I am working on. Not all the pieces are in place, but it’s coming together, and meantime we are laying the groundwork. Consider this. When constables and lawyers and Runners start prowling around, how else to explain your presence at Candale?”
“No explanation would be required if I weren’t here. And I wish to leave. Tomorrow.”
Kit drank the rest of his coffee while he considered how to proceed. Telling her that he understood her feelings—which he did—would probably result in the coffee service being thrown piece by piece at his head. She was in no mood to be soothed, that was clear. For now, he had better concentrate on bending her to his will, which he had learned was best accomplished by confronting her with a challenge.
“You are not a prisoner here, Lucy, but you are very much needed. You are the one Diana trusts. If you abandon her, she will lose all faith in the rest of us.”
“I— Do you think so?”
“You must finish what you began, moonbeam. We can none of us consider our own wishes until Diana is free of her uncle and the man who is pulling his strings. Am I right?”
“Aren’t you always?” she grumbled, twisting a silver spoon in her hands. “But how am I of any use? What am I to do?”
“I’m delighted that you asked.” He set his cup and saucer on the tray, using the time to seize a deep breath. “As it happens, Sir Basil Crawley has invited us to a ball.”
“What?” She regarded him in disbelief. “How could he? He doesn’t know that I exist.”
“Well, technically, it’s Kendal he hopes to snag. But Kendal w
on’t go, and Celia cannot because she is nursing her son, which leaves it up to us. My name was on the invitation, too, and I would hardly attend a ball without my fiancée, would I?” He expected her to object ferociously to the whole idea, but she sat back in her chair, brow wrinkled as she considered the possibilities. Or he hoped she was considering. There was no way to tell from her expression.
“I would certainly like to meet the blackguard,” she said thoughtfully. “But what is to be gained from making his acquaintance, short of satisfying our curiosity about him?”
In his opinion, that was quite enough reason by itself. But he was a creature of the process, preferring the journey to the destination, while she required definite goals. What a perfect team they were going to make. “I mean to befriend him, if the opportunity arises. No, befriend is not the proper word. Insinuate myself, perhaps. Someone needs to take his measure, you must admit, and what better chance will we ever have?”
“There are other difficulties to consider. I have nothing to wear, I have not danced since lessons at school, and I may kill him on sight.”
Kit burst into laughter. Only Lucy would say such a thing. And mean it, too. “The ball is Friday night, so we have four days to rig you out in style and practice our dancing. As for your homicidal instincts, I am inclined to share them. But we’ll keep each other in check.”
“You’ve already sent an acceptance, haven’t you?”
Flames darted up his cheeks. “Maybe.”
She shook her head. “I may be towed to the gallows for murdering you long before I get my hands on Sir Basil.”
At least the fire was in her again. She was Lucy once more, not the pale, nervous creature he’d sat to dinner with two hours earlier.
“And no one would blame you for it. I am a great trial to all who know and love me.” He grinned. “Have I groveled sufficiently, or must I go on?”
“Oh, I think you must, but at a later time. Let me sleep on this, Kit. I know it’s a perfectly stupid idea, attending the ball, but I confess that I am tempted. At least I’d be doing something instead of wafting around this enormous house, getting in everyone’s way and feeling indebted to strangers, however kind they may be.”
He held out his hand. “Come with me, moonbeam. I want to show you something.”
The nursery was lit only by a single candle when he led her inside. The young maid keeping watch from a chair near the cradle stood, curtsied, and withdrew to the passageway, closing the door gently behind her.
Holding back, Kit watched Lucy approach the cradle on tiptoe, clearly fascinated and a trifle reluctant. She stopped about two feet away, bending forward to look down at the sleeping infant.
“He’s so very small,” she whispered.
“And so very fierce,” he said, moving to stand beside her. “He rules this house and everyone in it. The rest of us can only stand in awe of him. He is a miracle, Lucy. All children are miracles. The world is their inheritance, and we are no more than caretakers. One day he will stand, gazing down on his own son or daughter, and think the same thing as we are thinking now. This is what matters… love and family and children. This is what we are born for, and why we live.”
She gazed up at him, candlelight dancing over her smooth, flawless cheeks. “I think I don’t understand you at all, Kit.”
“That’s why I brought you here. If ever you wish to know me, past the smuggling and the willfulness and the constant irritation I provide you, remember what I just said.” He took her arm and led her to the door.
“For now, I mean to sit with the Terror of Candale for a time. I shall see you tomorrow, Lucy, when I’ve returned from visiting Diana.”
Chapter Twelve
Lucy stood precariously on a footstool while the assistant seamstress draped her with yet another swath of glittering material.
“Tiens!” The mantua-maker shook her head. “With hair of such a color, she is most difficult to clothe. And I regret to say she has not enough bosom for the pattern she has chosen.”
“Then I shall select another pattern,” Lucy said irritably. She could scarcely grow larger breasts in three days. “Any of them will do, Madame Broussard. It matters little how I look.”
“I cannot agree. My reputation must be considered, mademoiselle.” She turned to the countess, who was observing the proceedings from a sofa. “Will you leave this in my hands, Lady Kendal? In the shops, I shall discover a fabric to suit both the young lady and the gown I have in mind for her.”
“What think you, Lucinda? Shall we give Madame Broussard carte blanche?”
“By all means.” Lucy jumped down from the stool. “If it means an end to this poking and prodding and measuring, she may outfit me in a burlap sack.”
“Bon.” The mantua-maker beckoned to her assistant, who began to gather up the lengths of material strewn over the furniture. “On Thursday, the gown will be ready for fitting.”
Remembering her manners, Lucy smiled. “Thank you, madame. I am certain to like it enormously.”
“Certainement. You are a beauty, mademoiselle, and I shall create a gown to bedazzle all the gentlemen.” Two hawkish eyes examined Lucy one last time. “Have you any pearls to wear?”
“Yes,” said Lady Kendal before Lucy could reply. She stood. “A tray of refreshments will be sent up for you, madame. Lucinda, will you join me in the nursery?”
Lucy suspected that she was in for a well-deserved chiding. “I was terribly rude, wasn’t I?” she said on their way upstairs. “But this all seems so… frivolous.”
“Under the circumstances, I am certain that it does. You may be sure, however, that madame took no offense. She is herself rather plainspoken.”
“That is no excuse for my reprehensible conduct. Everyone has been so kind, and all I do is snap and snarl.”
Lady Kendal paused outside the nursery door. “You are on edge with worry about your friend, which is perfectly understandable. And somewhat nervous about the ball, yes? But the dance lesson went exceedingly well this morning, Monsieur d’Alacoque informs me, and before Friday you will feel quite confident taking the floor with Kit. He is a splendid dancer.”
That was not what she needed to hear. “We are going to this ball only to scrutinize Sir Basil Crawley. It will not be necessary to dance.”
“That would be a shame, but you must do as you wish. Take care that Kit does not stampede you. The Valliant men, at least the two I have met, are fond of having their own way.”
And generally got it, Lucy thought sourly. “I would not mind so much if Kit would cease introducing me as his fiancée. How will it reflect on your family when nothing comes of our supposed engagement?”
“That doesn’t signify in the least. We are quite accustomed to Kit’s scandals, you know. And compared with a jailing, a mere jilting is of no consequence whatsoever.” Lady Kendal smiled. “To be sure, we shall be sorry if you decide not to wed him after all.”
“There can be no question of marriage! Did he not make it clear that this betrothal is only another of his games?”
Celia looked evasive. “He said something to that effect, I suppose. You have probably discovered that it is sometimes difficult to tell when he is being serious. May I give you a word of advice?”
“Oh, yes,” Lucy replied hastily. “Please do.”
“When I was in difficulty, Kit was a rock. You may trust him.”
Lucy waited, but that brief pronouncement was the total of Lady Kendal’s counsel. And it wasn’t very helpful. Lucy was not inclined to trust anyone, let alone a highborn scoundrel like Kit Valliant. “Thank you, ma’am. I shall hold in mind what you have said.”
“Fustian! You are thinking that my situation cannot compare with your own, but you are quite mistaken. My mother was the daughter of an impoverished baronet and my father… well, the less said of him, the better. I was so eager to escape him that I married an elderly man who bred chickens.” She shuddered. “But this is a long story, and as I can hear my son squalling for his l
uncheon, I shall save my tale for another time. Just know that I was not born into Lord Kendal’s world, and I well understand how it is to feel an outsider.” She opened the nursery door. “You won’t mind if I leave you now? While nursing Christopher, I can think of nothing but him.”
Unable to speak through the knot of envy in her throat, Lucy waved a hand and turned away. Her breasts, the ones Madame Broussard had dismissed so cavalierly, began to ache as she imagined how it would be to hold a babe in her arms and feel its tiny mouth suckling at her nipple.
The fantasy possessed her all the way to the stable, where she fled for refuge from the imposing house and any possibility of encountering Lord Kendal. He had been kindness itself since her arrival, but he intimidated her nonetheless. She was far more comfortable in the company of Fidgets, who had settled into the stable as if she owned it.
My only child, she thought. An owl! Well, one must make do with what one has. And at the moment she desperately craved a bit of affection, whatever the source.
As she stepped inside, a redheaded lad of about nine years looked up from the saddle he was polishing. “C’n I help you, milady?”
“I came to visit Fidgets, if she is anywhere about.”
“Right over there.” He pointed to a ladder propped against the wall. Fidgets was perched on a middle rung, regarding her sleepily. A moment later the shiny eyes closed.
So much for birdly love. Sighing, Lucy sat on a bale of straw beside the stableboy. With young boys, at least, she always felt at ease. “Will you mind if I keep you company for a little while?”
His freckled face lit up. “I likes company. Mr. Reese sez to tend to the saddles, though, so I gots to keep workin’.”
“Do go on. I am Miss Jennet, by the way.”
