by Nichole Van
Were they fated for each other like James and Emme or Georgiana and Sebastian? He had rejected the idea just a few minutes ago . . . but now.
The thought thrilled and terrified.
Marc gathered Kit even closer to him, burying his nose in her hair. Inhaling deeply.
Kit’s hands moved across his back, pressing through his waistcoat. And then she pulled away just enough to move her hands around to his chest, still pressing. She had a faint frown on her face. Marc forced himself not to study the slight pout of her lips.
That path led to danger and deep waters.
Instead, he lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Are you muscled everywhere?” she finally asked, feeling the ripples of his stomach. “It’s like you’re one solid muscle.”
He shrugged. It was a by-product of all his muay thai training.
She squeezed one of his biceps. He flexed for her.
Her eyes widened.
“I take it you approve, Miss Ashton?” he asked.
She nodded carefully and then took a cautious step back from him. Swallowed.
“I promise my muscles don’t bite.”
That got a quiet laugh from her.
“I am not entirely sure of that.”
A small pause.
“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes calm and sincere.
Marc instantly understood what she meant.
Thank you for making me feel beautiful. For shoring up my wavering confidence.
“You are welcome,” he replied just as gravely.
She studied his face, eyes unreadable. “Nothing can ever come of this . . . of us. You know that, right?”
He nodded. “I know.”
“It’s not that I don’t like you.”
“I know. I don’t . . . not like you . . . too.”
They gazed at each other in silence.
She smiled—a weak, weary thing. “Friends, then?” She extended her hand to him.
He wrapped her cold hand in his. “Friends.”
And then he tugged on her hand, pulling her back into him, murmuring into her hair, “And as your friend, I can’t let you return back to Haldon Manor until you have warmed up a bit.”
Her body vibrated with laughter, and she melted against him.
Nothing could come of it—her words echoing through the aching pang in his chest.
Nothing.
Chapter 12
The drawing room
Kinningsley, home of Viscount Linwood
February 28, 1814
Lord Linwood, thank you again for arranging this delightful party. Your estate is enchanting,” Lady Ruby said as she entered the drawing room, the purple satin of her evening gown rustling.
Following right behind, Kit watched Linwood bow politely over Ruby’s knuckles. As usual, the viscount was immaculately turned out, this time in a black coat and subtly striped scarlet-red waistcoat. Both fitted to his frame as only the most exclusive London tailor could manage. Weston, perhaps?
Kit looked past Linwood, scanning the room for Marc, noting he wasn’t there.
Not yet, at least.
Her talk with Marc in the church earlier in the week had shifted their relationship—solidifying their friendship but adding a robust layer of angst.
She could still vividly recall the feel of his arms around her, the potent breadth of his body. She had wanted to sink into his strength, to rely on someone as she hadn’t in a very long while. Cry out a lifetime of trouble and sorrow on his solid chest.
He was just so very . . . male. That sense of something wild and elemental within him. Untamed. The opposite of everything she had ever thought she would want in a man.
But she knew why.
He accepted himself the way he was. And, as a consequence, made her feel accepted just as she was. No need to change a thing.
It was odd, actually. All her life she had been feted and sought out because of who she was. Most people never bothered to see past her social station, family connections and clever wit to appreciate her for herself.
But here, stripped of everything she had ever been, she had only herself to recommend her. And how thrilling to realize she was enough. That someone could accept her.
Her throat tightened painfully when she thought about it too much. They had no promise of a future together. No matter what her treacherous heart (and shoulder angels) wanted.
For just a moment, Kit imagined dragging Marc home with her. How all her friends would squeal over an adventurer-turned-spy in tight breeches. A man who spent his time sailing the world on a clipper ship, sails snapping—sword in one hand, pistol in the other. Not that she had seen Marc brandish either weapon, but she was quite sure he would be proficient with both.
A romantic untamed rogue straight from the pages of some sappy novel.
Yes, her friends would all collectively swoon and then read her the Riot Act, listing the many, many ways in which being emotionally involved with Marc was a very, very bad idea.
And they would be right. At least on paper. Curse them.
“Miss Ashton, my shawl, if you please.” Lady Ruby walked slowly toward the roaring fire and the settee in front of it, gesturing toward the purple shawl which Kit held over one arm. Startled out of her reverie, Kit instantly crossed the opulent drawing room to her employer.
Linwood had invited everyone from Haldon Manor to Kinningsley for a brief country party. A much newer building than Haldon Manor, Kinningsley had been completed just thirty years prior by the current Lord Linwood’s grandfather. With its profusion of marble, fluted columns and soaring ceilings painted with cherubs and country scenes, the entire house was an homage to classical Greek and Roman aesthetics.
Rumors among the servants had it that Marianne had pleaded with her brother to give her some respite from the constant drain of entertaining Lady Ruby and Jedediah. Though no one doubted Marianne found Lady Ruby and Jedediah tedious company, it was hard to believe Lord Linwood would arrange a party strictly for his sister’s comfort.
But arrange the party Linwood had, inviting everyone to quit Haldon Manor and join him for several days at his estate. As Lady Ruby’s companion, Kit had been allowed to come.
Kit had driven herself and Fanny the few miles to Linwood’s estate in Arthur’s gig. There was no room for them in the family coach, particularly as Marianne insisted tiny Isabel accompany them, stating over and over how besotted her brother was with his baby niece. Kit kept her opinions about that to herself.
Despite everything, the invitation had cheered Kit immensely. Which was truly pathetic, when she thought about it too much. It was more than just a change of scenery (though that too was decidedly welcome). Kinningsley afforded her a different landscape to look for Daniel.
The past few days of searching had proved futile. Marc kept a low profile but frequently rode into Marfield to snoop about. He updated her each day about what steps had been taken and what their next step would be.
Daniel had disappeared, as usual.
Though lovely to have help, she was still nervous about Daniel and Marc meeting. Who knew what Daniel would say?
Certain undisclosed aspects of her family needed to stay just that—undisclosed. Would he understand the danger in telling Marc too much?
Kit settled Lady Ruby onto the settee in front of the fireplace near the vicar and his wife, arranging Ruby’s purple cashmere shawl precisely as she liked it (two pleated folds, draped on the shoulders so the shawl hung at precisely the same length on each side).
Jedediah joined them, taking a seat next to his mother, tugging on his pink velvet tailcoat, raking Kit with his gaze. Ruby inspected her shawl, satisfied with Kit’s efforts, waving her away with an impatient flap of her hand.
Set free, Kit wandered over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows which had a clear view of the drawing room door. It also gave her a chance to study the room’s ceiling. Gilded moldings held panels depicting pastoral scenes of the various stages of courtship with misc
hievous cupids wreaking havoc amongst it all.
Kit couldn’t help darting a surreptitious glance at Linwood, wondering why the stuffy viscount tolerated naughty cupids frolicking in his drawing room. Maybe he secretly enjoyed them.
The thought put a smile on her face.
Kit ran her hands down the front of her gown. Marianne, bless her good heart, had found several evening gowns which had belonged to the former Georgiana Knight. It was not atypical for members of the aristocracy to pass along unwanted clothing to genteelly-born servants. A few items to help Kit feel less out-of-place while hovering around Lady Ruby and the other house guests. It was yet another example of Marianne’s thoughtful goodness.
Kit was taller and decidedly more curved than Georgiana, but Fanny had helped Kit refashion one of the dresses in time for this evening. A simple red silk gown with tiny puffed sleeves and low neckline. The color had never really flattered Georgiana’s fair complexion, which is why it had been left at Haldon Manor. But wine-red suited Kit to perfection, giving her skin and eyes a bright gleam. Kit had forgotten how much she loved the feel of silk against her skin.
It was amazing what an elegant dress did for self-confidence. That extra bounce in one’s step when wearing something stunning, making it just that much easier to feel poised and collected. Kit had even managed to waylay Fanny for a few minutes to help with her hair, which was now more artfully arranged on top of her head with loops and curls.
All in all, she felt a bit more like Katherine Ashton tonight. A little more like her full self.
She was so absorbed in her cupid watching and dress-musings, she nearly missed Marc’s entrance.
He walked through the door with that confident swagger of his, assured his dark green evening coat and understated green-and-gold-shot waistcoat fit him to perfection. A scoundrel dressed up in gentleman’s clothing.
Which accurately described him, she supposed.
Marc scanned the room, his eyes drifting right past her. Seeming to look for Kit, but not seeing her. With a faint frown, he strode into the room.
And then his eyes swung back her way; he instantly froze. Recognition flaring, his head rearing back in surprise.
And then that languid smile of his made an appearance, moving straight through a grin into a full-blown laugh. Head back, eyes crinkling.
Kit found it particularly gratifying.
You have absolutely no hope of a future together, Virtuous Angel unhelpfully reminded her.
Exactly. Which is why you need to soak up every second of being in his delicious presence, Wicked Angel said. Maybe he will even let you touch his muscles again.
She and her shoulder angels shared a joint collective sigh at the thought.
That would be so lovely.
Marc stopped in front of her, surveying her clothing from head to toe. And then bowed.
“Miss Ashton, shame on you. Placing all other ladies in the shade with your radiance.”
And just like that, her knees turned to jelly.
He winked and gave her a naughty grin. He knew exactly what such comments did to her.
Kit returned his saucy look and willed her traitorous knees steady.
He moved to her side and pretended to study the room. Kit peeked at him out of the corner of her eye.
“You have about thirty seconds before Lady Ruby notices us talking and calls me away,” she murmured. Even now, Jedediah shot a backwards glance at them, leaning in to his mother’s ear, causing Ruby’s shawl to slip. Thirty seconds might actually be somewhat optimistic.
Marc nodded and looked upward, examining the ceiling, all nonchalance.
“So what is our boredom-busting theme going to be tonight?” he asked under his breath.
“I am not telling any more of my secrets.”
He shrugged. “Neither am I. But that doesn’t mean we can’t play.”
“But if a secret isn’t the penalty, what will the forfeit be?”
He was silent for a moment, still studying the ceiling. “A boon. If one of us laughs, we owe the other a favor of their choice.”
A favor? Wicked Angel nearly giggled with glee. I know exactly what we’re asking for.
Virtuous Angel rolled her eyes. I don’t know how I put up with you sometimes.
Ruby had leaned forward, engrossed in a conversation with the vicar, causing her shawl to sink another six inches. Kit had maybe fifteen seconds more.
“Done,” Kit whispered, barely moving her lips. “What should our game be?”
“Are those naked babies with arrows?” Marc shifted, craning his head sideways.
“Cupids. They’re cupids.”
“And naughty ones too, it seems. Please tell me Linwood specifically requested cupids—”
“Focus, Marcus.”
“Right. Perhaps we could read each discussion as a coded conversation for something else?”
“Mmmm, like incontinence?”
He turned from the ceiling with a raised eyebrow. “My, my, Miss Ashton. Are all ladies perpetually twelve-years-old?”
Teasing, awful man.
She chose to ignore his comment.
“Theater aliases,” he continued.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Ashton.” Lady Ruby’s voice carried across the room. “My shawl has slipped.”
Kit shot Marc a wry look.
Turning her head toward her employer, she said, “Coming, my lady.”
And then turned back to Marc, giving him a polite, extremely slow curtsy. Marc responded with an equally lingering bow.
“During dinner, combine a color from the clothing of whoever is speaking with the food they are eating,” he murmured. “It will become that person’s theater name.”
Kit nodded and then turned to leave.
“I dearly hope my alias will be Emerald Bacon,” he said to her retreating back.
Kit bit off her laugh just in time. Wicked wretch. He nearly won the first round without trying.
Marc tried to focus on dinner. Honestly he did.
But his brain was mush.
That dress . . .
Blood red silk that clung to Kit’s frame, accentuating rather than hiding.
He had grown used to her shapeless clothing. It was part of her whole shtick. Clever, witty, no-nonsense . . . all hidden behind mousy clothing.
And then she had to go and sucker-punch him with that dress. It had taken two sweeps of the room to recognize her. And when he had . . .
How was he supposed to maintain emotional distance when she looked like that? Even worse, he wasn’t the only man to notice her charms judging by the admiring looks sent her way.
The woman didn’t fight fair.
Though speaking of games . . .
So far, Lady Ruby had been renamed Violet Wine and Jedediah had become Pink Oyster, on account of his glaringly bright tailcoat.
But the coup de grace had come from Linwood in his red waistcoat, who took a bite of fowl while discussing the possibility of rain with Arthur, officially naming himself Scarlet Partridge.
Kit had choked on her wine.
Now they were all gathered back together in the drawing room, listening to Jedediah ramble on about his exploits at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon. Though tedious in the extreme for Marc, at least Linwood seemed to be suffering too, judging by how the man drummed his fingers against his thigh.
Marc deemed it a win.
“I managed to land a cross-punch to my opponent when he failed to duck—”
“Enough, dear boy.” Ruby cut off Jedediah, thankfully taking pity on them all. “I believe I have had enough excitement for one night. Miss Ashton, if you will, I should like to retire.” Ruby rose to her feet, prompting everyone to rise. A chorus of bows and curtsies ensued.
Kit shot Marc a resigned look as she followed Lady Ruby from the room, taking all of Marc’s fun with her.
Arthur and Marianne agreed to play whist with the vicar and his wife, leaving Jedediah, Linwood and Marc to g
aze tensely at each other.
Yeah. He was not going to spend what remained of his evening with those two.
Marc bowed and excused himself, saying he wished to consult the library for a book to read. Anything to escape the drawing room.
Situated across the large domed entry hall, the library wasn’t difficult to find. A soaring space of white-washed bookshelves, dotted with tables and a large desk. Someone obviously took their learning seriously. A fire crackled in the fireplace.
Marc had only gone a few steps into the room when a voice accosted him.
“Vader, may I have a word?” Linwood’s ultra-cultured accent grated.
Or should Marc call him Scarlet Partridge?
Marc turned with a raised eyebrow. The viscount stood inside the library door, his face as inscrutable as ever.
“If you wish, Linwood.”
Marc strolled over to the fireplace and leaned a shoulder into the opulent marble mantel. Arms folded across his chest. Waiting.
He was quite sure Linwood viewed their relationship like some giant game of chess, where each conversation was a strategic ploy. To what end, Marc was unable to say. He just found perverse pleasure in watching Linwood try to make heads or tails of Marc’s presence in Marfield.
The viscount could make the first move.
Linwood studied him for a moment and then walked over and lifted a thick book from one of the tables and returned to Marc, handing him the book.
Marc reluctantly took the proffered volume. Never breaking eye contact with Linwood.
“A reading suggestion?”
“Something of the like.” Linwood shrugged. Even in the dim firelight, the viscount’s eyes were unnervingly pale.
Marc raised his eyebrows, questioning.
Linwood gestured toward the book. “I was hoping you would be able to explain to me where the Barons Vader are to be found.”
Marc tilted the book into the light and read the title: Debrett’s Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland.
Ah. So that was how Linwood intended to play.
“I have searched the book thoroughly and have yet to find any reference to a Lord Vader.”