Kit and Elizabeth

by Tuft, Karen

  “I’m sure they were,” Kit said encouragingly. She’d always behaved as the impeccable daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Marwood. She’d never put a foot wrong—except, perhaps, when her foot had been tied to his in a three-legged race . . .

  “No,” she said in the saddest voice Kit had ever heard. “I had already failed them, you see.”

  “In what way, Lady—Lizzie?” he asked. “I have never seen anything from you that wasn’t near perfection.” He realized it was true.

  Her eyes were dark and solemn. “I was not born a male.”

  Good heavens! They had blamed her for that?

  Well, of course they had.

  If Marwood were not already dead, Kit thought he might be inclined to kill the man. And though Kit would never dream of hurting a lady, he was tempted to throttle the duchess as well. “I am intensely glad you agreed to attend the dance tonight,” Kit finally said once he’d moved past his anger and found his tongue. “I am only sorry that you did it to appease me and not for the joy of dancing itself. Do you even like to dance?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she replied. “No one has ever asked me that before.”

  He held his hands up, his left arm out to the side, in position to take her in his arms for a waltz, even though the few strains of music that floated down the hallway were entirely unsuited for that particular dance. “My dear Lizzie, will you dance with me?” he asked gently. “But—and I mean this sincerely—only if you wish to.”

  She scanned his face and looked from his right hand to his left. “They are not playing a waltz,” she murmured at last.

  “Why should that stop us?” he asked her softly. “If you would like to dance, we shall simply make our own music.”

  She offered him a weak smile. “Then, I believe I would like to dance,” she said, and Kit breathed at last.

  She place her hand in his, and he took her in his arms, much too closely for the patronesses of Almack’s, but Kit didn’t care, and they began to dance. It was not a grand waltz with great tempo but slow and somehow nurturing, with Kit whispering “One, two, three” until they found their rhythm and their movements began to flow together.

  Holding her in his arms this way, Kit discovered that he could feel her ribs through the layers of her clothing. Her face, always breathtakingly beautiful, had an unhealthy cast.

  Lady Walmsley had been right in her intuitions, and Kit could not be sorry he’d agreed to accompany her to Surrey.

  He’d expected to find a young lady grieving for her deceased father and perhaps in need of a respite in London. He’d more than expected that he and Lady Walmsley were on a futile errand. He’d been prepared for those things. What he’d not expected to find was a deeply wounded soul.

  They were hardly moving now, simply swaying; instinctively he’d drawn her closer until she was nestled in his arms. The muffled sound of foot stomping and fiddle playing and laughter wafted over them like a faraway dream.

  He longed to kiss her . . .

  And that meant it was time to return her to the safekeeping of Lady Walmsley—for he couldn’t kiss her. She was not his to kiss, and certainly not in her wounded, vulnerable state.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the dance to continue for a few minutes longer.

  Chapter 10

  “Do you even like to dance?” Lord Cantwell had asked Elizabeth at the assembly room in Marham Cross. She’d pondered his question during the entire ride from Surrey to London. She’d watched him riding on horseback from her view in the traveling coach and pondered and pondered the question. And then she’d pondered the question further during the past few days since arriving in London.

  That question had raised other similar questions. Did she enjoy playing the harp? Did she even like music? Did she like doing needlework? Or painting? Or drawing? She’d taken lessons as a girl in all of these things and in others as well and had always worked to improve her skills. It had been expected of her. But she’d never thought about whether she liked doing any of them. It had never crossed her mind.

  What she had always endeavored to do was please her parents—to make them proud of her and love her; she had wanted to make it up to them for being born female.

  But Elizabeth’s eyes had been opened by Lord Cantwell’s simple question.

  She’d pondered whether she’d have preferred to have been born a male. She’d watched Lord Cantwell on his horse—his straight back and broad shoulders, the ease with which he’d guided his mount, even though it had been an unfamiliar horse leased to him by Mr. Timmons.

  Would she like to be able to maneuver a horse so ably? She was adept at riding, although she wasn’t very daring. Would she prefer boxing and wrestling and getting dirty and doing other mannish things?

  But she couldn’t be entirely sorry she was female, despite her parents’ disappointment, for she’d found watching Lord Cantwell a rather diverting pastime during the journey back to London. There was something rather fine about a strong man.

  Lady Walmsley had been a dear to her since they’d arrived in London. She’d given Elizabeth a spacious suite of rooms near her own in her townhouse, and she’d also had Sally fitted out with suitable clothes and a nice room as well.

  “Make yourselves at home, both of you,” Lady Walmsley had said upon their arrival at the front door. “I can hardly wait to see the look on Foster’s face when he learns there will be two lovely young women joining the household. He might have a fit of the vapors.”

  Foster, Elizabeth had discovered, was Lady Walmsley’s butler, and he had not succumbed to the vapors upon their arrival. He’d behaved as the consummate butler, and Elizabeth understood well what that entailed. Additionally, although stoic in presentation—as all consummate butlers should be—there was the slightest air of fondness emanating from him in the direction of Lady Walmsley. He hid it well, but as Elizabeth had never seen the likes of it from Stokes, ever, Foster’s subtle attitude was readily apparent to her.

  “Are you certain you won’t join me?” Lady Walmsley asked for the second time this afternoon after reminding Elizabeth that she had promised to call on her friend, Lady Iverson. They were in the front parlor, a room Elizabeth had found particularly cozy. “She keeps to herself, you know—rarely goes out, rarely sees anyone these days, other than her son and his family and me, of course. And she’s getting forgetful, poor dear, so you needn’t worry about her spreading any gossip.”

  “You’re very kind to invite me, but I think I’d rather not call on people yet,” Elizabeth replied for the second time. “Soon, Lady Walmsley, I promise you. But not quite yet.”

  “Very well, dear,” Lady Walmsley said. She tied the bow on her bonnet, and Foster carefully laid a woolen shawl around her shoulders. “Not this shawl, Foster! I shall bake like a meat pie in this one. My lace one, please. We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” he said, looking decidedly unhappy as he helped her remove the woolen shawl.

  “He thinks I shall die of a chill if someone were merely to blow a puff of air on my face,” Lady Walmsley muttered. “There, there, I can do it,” she said to him as he tried to straighten the lace shawl he’d draped around her shoulders this time. “I should take you with me to call upon Lady Iverson. You could fuss over her to your heart’s content, poor, dear woman, and she wouldn’t even remember you’d been such a mother hen.”

  Foster only nodded. Elizabeth had to give the man credit for not returning verbal fire. Stokes would have stalked off, muttering under his breath.

  “Well, I’m off,” Lady Walmsley said. “Too bad Lady Iverson’s son is already married . . . although, why I said that just now, I don’t know. He’s not the one for you, my dear. Someone else is for you. But I always thought him a fine, young man, and he’s been a doting son to his mother. Wed a sweet girl and has given dear Alice the loveliest grandchildren. I do envy
her that. Poor Walmsley and I could never have children of our own.” She sighed. “But never mind. What is done is done, and one must learn to accept things about one’s life and make the best of it, I always say. Farewell, then.” She leaned over and kissed Elizabeth’s cheek and then swished out the door Foster held open for her and was gone.

  Elizabeth touched her cheek where Lady Walmsley had kissed her. She was alone with her thoughts again. She’d been alarmed when Lady Walmsley had brought up the subject of Lord Iverson and marriage—and the idea that there was someone else for her. Elizabeth didn’t think she ever wanted to marry. Her whole life had been directed toward her future marriage, and circumstances had certainly turned out badly there.

  A knock at the door startled her, and she realized she’d been staring out the window at Lady Walmsley’s small garden for who knew how long. “Come in,” she said.

  Foster stepped inside. “Are you at home for callers, my lady?” he asked. “There is a gentleman here to see you.”

  Only one gentleman knew she was even in London, and that was Lord Cantwell. She hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived in Town, and her heart skipped a beat as Foster handed her the gentleman’s calling card.

  It was indeed Lord Cantwell.

  “Please, show him in,” she said to Foster.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Cantwell said in greeting a few moments later as Foster left them alone, discreetly leaving the parlor door open several inches. “I hope you are settling in comfortably?”

  “Lady Walmsley has been the most gracious of hostesses,” she replied.

  “Yes, that is what I expected you to say,” he replied as he bowed over her hand and then sat in the chair next to hers. “But what I wished to hear was how you were feeling in your new circumstances. Perhaps I should have been more direct. Allow me to try again—”

  “It is all a great adjustment,” Elizabeth responded. “I suppose I have no other way to describe it. But Lady Walmsley has indeed been the most gracious of hostesses.”

  “Ah,” Lord Cantwell said with a slightly puckish look. “I believe I have nettled you a bit. Excellent.”

  “Why is it excellent?” she asked. If she hadn’t actually felt nettled by his comments before, she could tell she was now. What an odd thing to discover. “Is it your goal to alienate me? Do you wish to end our acquaintance?”

  “Not at all,” he answered, still with that mischievous glint in his eye. “I wish to challenge you, not alienate you. So I ask you again—how are you feeling about your change in circumstances?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “What are you feeling right now?”

  “Irritated,” she said, because she was—and because she actually knew she was.

  “Excellent,” he said again, this time with a smile, which only annoyed her further.

  “You wish me to feel irritated?” she asked him, incredulous.

  “No,” he replied. “I wish you to recognize that you’re feeling irritated. There’s a difference.”

  It was not a satisfactory answer at all, to Elizabeth’s way of thinking.

  “I am going to assume that you haven’t left the house since arriving in Town,” Lord Cantwell said. “Would I be correct in that assumption?”

  “Perhaps,” she said noncommittally.

  “So, if I were to say, ‘Let’s take a drive through Hyde Park,’ you would refuse?”

  The idea of riding through Hyde Park where all and sundry could see her made her shudder.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “But I am itching to do something after spending the morning in the House of Lords listening to everyone pontificate for what seemed like hours on end. And gallant gentleman that I am, I have chosen to visit the fair Lady Elizabeth.”

  “No one asked you to,” she said and then threw her hand over her mouth. The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Marwood would never have made such a churlish comment.

  He laughed.

  He laughed?

  “Brava, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, clapping his hands slowly. “That is precisely what I’d hoped you would say—well, maybe not those exact words because my male ego would have liked to hear how thoughtful I am and how delighted you are to have my company for the afternoon—but that you spoke what came to mind . . . now, that is what I’d hoped for.”

  “I don’t understand you at all,” she said.

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he replied. “In the meantime, I have another question for you: How daring do you feel within the safety of Lady Walmsley’s house?”

  The question sent a tingle down her spine. What the tingle signified, she wasn’t entirely sure. “Your question is unsettling.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he acknowledged.

  “I cannot answer it until I know more of the specifics.”

  “But, sadly, I’m not going to give you any. You must simply decide if you can be daring. Or not.”

  The tingle in her spine radiated down her limbs and made her nearly vibrate with some unknown . . . something. She hardly knew how to describe the sensation to herself. It was utterly new. Daring, he’d said. She had never been truly daring in her life.

  He sat there next to her, his arms crossed, waiting for her to reply. He’d thrown down a gauntlet and wanted to see if she’d accept the challenge, whatever it may be.

  Her choices in the past had resulted in some terrible consequences . . .

  But they were here in the safety of Lady Walmsley’s home. And how daring could it actually be if they were to remain here? Well, with what little she knew of Lord Cantwell, she supposed it could be something, rascal that it seemed he was. Could she trust Lord Cantwell? She supposed that was part of being daring.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, very well,” she said at last. “Although I’m sure I’m going to regret it.”

  ***

  Kit could hardly believe his ears; Lady Elizabeth had agreed to his challenge. He hadn’t actually thought for a minute that she would, even though he’d brought the requisite items needed for what he had in mind, and they were currently stashed in a large bag out in the entry hall.

  He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. “Well done, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “Now, please retire to your room to change your clothing. And then we shall meet up again in Lady Walmsley’s ballroom.”

  She froze. “What do you mean, change my clothing?”

  “Certainly you wouldn’t think it daring were I to challenge you to a game of piquet?” he asked.

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “And you already know how to dance?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I couldn’t have been suggesting we elope to Gretna Green, for I mentioned that we would stay in the safety of Lady Walmsley’s house,” he said.

  “I understand that,” she replied with impressive equanimity, especially when he could tell she was beginning to panic, if the fluttering of her hands was any indication. “But—”

  “Daring, by definition, means doing something that requires boldness—”

  “Gretna Green?” she said as though she had only just recognized the words.

  “It was merely an example,” he explained. Why it had come to his mind, he wasn’t entirely sure. “We’ve waltzed before, so it wouldn’t be that either. So what else might come to mind when I suggest you attempt something daring that we are able to do indoors?”

  “I have no idea, and I’m not sure I wish to speculate. It might only give you more ideas.”

  He laughed. “Then you shall have to trust me. Come along, Lady Elizabeth. I intend to introduce you to an art form with which you have no experience.” He led her out to the entry hall and stooped to open his bag. He could sense her peering over his shoulder, trying to see inside.

  He removed a cou
ple of items and closed the bag and then picked it up. He intended to keep his plan a secret for a few minutes longer. Best not to overwhelm her all at once. “Here,” he said, handing her the items he’d removed. “I’d like you to put these on. It will make our daring activity a bit easier to do.”

  She examined the items. “A man’s shirt? And breeches?”

  “I’m sure Sally can find some pins to hold the shirt closed and a belt or something for the breeches,” he said.

  She was shaking her head.

  “Come now, Lady Elizabeth. They’re laundered and not in current use. I don’t see why—”

  “I cannot, simply cannot, show my legs in such a fashion. I have never in my life worn”—she gestured with her free hand toward the breeches clutched in her other hand as though she had no idea what to call them—“these . . . these . . .”

  Since she was obviously at a loss for words, Kit took pity on her. “My dear Lady Elizabeth,” he said, hoping to sound gently persuasive. “You do realize that men have been wearing such articles of clothing for years, nay, centuries, with very little scandal. Women have easily discerned that we, as a gender, have legs. It shouldn’t surprise you at all that men have always known that women, too, have legs. Hidden under skirts, true, but we have always known they were there all the same.”

  “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head furiously.

  “Daring, remember,” he reminded her. “Being bold. And for what I have intended for us this afternoon, these are much more practical. Besides, I have seen your ankles, you know, and did not feel the urge to swoon at the sight of them.” He smiled reassuringly at her, hoping his little joke would help to calm her.

  “What are we going to be doing?” she asked.

  “Not piquet,” he said.

  “I know that, but what?”

  Ah, she was beginning to come around, Kit thought. She had phrased her question in such a way as to suggest that she intended to participate. Good. “If you wish to find out, you will have to trust me and change into the clothing I have provided for you and meet me in the ballroom. Stockings and dancing slippers would be a good idea too.”