Kit and Elizabeth

by Tuft, Karen

And then she’d blurted out those awful words about Alex and St. George’s. And she’d watched Kit’s expression change.

  He hadn’t needed—or deserved—a reminder of Alex’s death. Alex had been his best friend, and he’d been with him when the riding accident had occurred. Had been at his side when he had died, from what she’d been told.

  It was insensitive of her to have brought the subject up.

  She’d been utterly selfish, and she needed to rectify the situation. Doing so was what was expected . . .

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “We will play your game. Name two things, and I will chose one.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, raising his head as he ran his hands through his hair, leaving it a bit tousled.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Very well. We will start with simple choices: blue or green?”

  This was simple? Maybe this game was a mistake after all. “Blue or green what?” she asked.

  “Just blue or green.”

  “Blue or green fabric? For dresses or for upholstery? The sky or trees? I like both colors for different reasons,” she argued.

  “You said you were willing to play the game,” he said. “So choose one.”

  “I will qualify my answer first by saying once again that I like both blue and green. But if I have to choose one . . . I suppose I choose green.”

  “Very good,” he answered. “Cats or dogs?”

  “Oh gracious,” she responded. “Probably dogs—although, there’s an old cat at the manor that became a dear friend of mine during the past year. What about you?”

  “Oh, dogs, definitely,” he answered. “They are so much more like me in disposition.”

  “What about blue or green?” she asked.

  His eyes caught hers and held them for an electric moment. “Blue,” he said.

  Her breath caught.

  “Here’s another for you,” he said, continuing on and breaking the spell. “The city or the country?”

  “The country. I can be myself much more easily in the country than in the city.” The game seemed to be getting easier to play, Elizabeth’s choices easier to make.

  “Balls or musicales?”

  “Musicales,” she said without thought. She enjoyed dancing, but knowing her parents had been watching her like hawks and limiting her exposure to other young gentlemen and trying to bring Alex to heel had been wearing.

  “Really?” Kit replied. “I’d much rather move to the music than sit in a chair and listen to it.”

  “I see your point,” Elizabeth said. “I think I’m beginning to enjoy this little exercise. I’ve never been asked for my opinions in this way before. One simply did what one was expected to do. I think I shall find a notebook and begin a list of the things I like. Does that sound odd?”

  “Not at all,” Kit said. “And if I may be so bold, I would like to assist you in making that list.” He paused and tapped his chin in thought, but there was a smile on his face. “For example, would you put fencing on your list as an activity you like?”

  She actually giggled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d giggled. “I don’t know that fencing will end up on the list of things I like, especially if it’s categorized as something I like to do, but I certainly have a newfound appreciation for it.”

  “I’ll accept that answer.”

  “This all feels a bit reckless,” she admitted. “Saying that probably sounds absurd, but when one’s life has been—well, I’m not sure I know how to put it into words, exactly.”

  “I was my father’s heir,” Kit said, turning toward her. “There were expectations placed upon me, even from an early age, that were not placed on Phillip. At times, I relished that, as it provided extra time with my father that Phillip didn’t have. At other times, I resented it. Phillip would probably tell you the same thing, but for reasons of his own. So I understand, at least in part, what it is like to feel as though one lives under an obligation.”

  “But at least you were your father’s heir, and he had a spare in Phillip, which ensured the earldom through his own family legacy. My father was not blessed with one.”

  “He was blessed with you,” Kit said softly.

  “I have ever only been a disappointment and have been making amends for it since the day I was born.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. She realized sadly that Kit was the only male she knew who had ever held her in such a manner. Her father had never held her this way, even as a tiny girl. It wasn’t until Alex had proven resistant to their marriage that she’d finally understood that she was a commodity in her father’s eyes and nothing more. And she had failed him even in that. What is wrong with you that the young fool would have preferred death to marriage to you?

  She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on the steady pulse she could feel in Kit’s throat while he simply held her. He rested his cheek against her head.

  “If that is what he thought,” Kit murmured eventually, “then he was an even bigger fool than I ever imagined.”

  And she wept.

  Chapter 12

  Lady Walmsley looked up from her book as Elizabeth entered the sitting room and kissed her on the cheek before taking a seat near the window. “What is that notebook you’ve been carrying around with you everywhere you go, Elizabeth?” she asked. “Are you writing a Gothic novel? Now that would be an exciting endeavor, would it not? I finished the last one I was reading, you know; this is poetry I’m reading now, not nearly as delightfully terrifying but pleasant enough. You’ve had that notebook with you for the past three or four days, scratching away on its pages with that little pencil of yours. It has made me exceedingly curious. I simply must know!”

  “Nothing as exciting as a Gothic novel, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth said. “I am making lists of things I like. You are on that list.”

  Lady Walmsley beamed. “I like you too, dear; the feeling is entirely mutual. But you must let me take a look inside, for I should dearly like to see what you’ve written; it would be so enlightening. Such an entertaining idea, to make a list like this, so happy in its nature. I presume you haven’t included anything unsuitable for an old lady’s eyes on any of those pages.”

  “Certainly not,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Unless it would scandalize you to know that I have discovered I have a weakness for figs, of all things. But I’m not sure I’m ready to let anyone read what I’ve written in the notebook yet. Do you mind if I ask you to give me a little more time before I share it?”

  “Not at all, my dear. It is your notebook, after all. I’m disappointed; I’m a curious sort, as you know, but I shall live. I do so like the idea of a notebook dedicated to the things one likes. Perhaps I will do the same. In fact, perhaps that will be my first entry: ‘I like keeping a notebook dedicated to the things I like.’ Ha! It would be a nice diversion from needlework and reading, and when one is feeling low in spirits, one may read one’s notebook and be reminded of all the things in life that give one joy. Well done, my dear.”

  Elizabeth hadn’t thought of it that way, but Lady Walmsley’s words held merit.

  “And I also like that you agreed to attend Lady Bledsoe’s musicale with me this evening. I shall add that to my notebook as well,” Lady Walmsley added. “That’s two things. I must remember them until I purchase a notebook for myself. Although, beginning my list on a piece of paper so that I don’t forget anything until I get a notebook would be a good way to begin. Yes, that’s precisely what I’ll do.” She stood abruptly, set her book of poetry aside, and crossed the room to the door, which she opened. “Foster! Oh, there you are. I was just going to find you,” she said to the butler, who remained out of sight in the corridor. “I should like to have my writing box brought to me, if you please,” she said and then returned to her chair.

  Lady Bledsoe’s musicale. Elizabeth had
been fretting about it for the past two days, ever since she’d reluctantly agreed to attend, and Lady Walmsley’s mention of it brought it back to the forefront of her mind and, with it, a churning knot in her stomach. It would be more difficult to avoid greeting the people in attendance there than it had been attending church services. She would also need to dress appropriately for an evening’s entertainment, and that meant deciding once again if wearing mourning—or not—was the right choice.

  Oh, she hated these decisions, the pressures that came with having to behave a certain way as the daughter of the Duke of Marwood or how they might affect Mama’s acceptance in Society once she had moved past her own grief. Each time Elizabeth stepped further into Society’s eye, the decisions came around again.

  “I believe I’ll go to my room,” she said, hunting up a smile and rising from her chair. “What time did you say we would be leaving for Lady Bledsoe’s?”

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Lady Walmsley said. “You are not going to hide in your room and fret over who will be there and what to wear and how people will react to seeing you. I forbid it.” She popped up from her chair once again, marched over to Elizabeth, and pointed her finger at her. “I am going with you, and I shall help you decide what to wear—oh, never mind, Foster, I’ve changed my mind—”

  “Very well, madam,” he said, and he turned.

  “Wait! Have the footman bring my writing box to Lady Elizabeth’s room. I will begin my list there. And you, my dear Elizabeth, are going to this musicale looking the beautiful young lady you are, with no apology in your presentation or in your attire. Attending church should have convinced you that those who understand and sympathize and are impressed by your poise are the only ones who matter. Those who don’t—pfft!” She snapped her fingers. “I don’t care, and neither should you.”

  “You make it sound so easy, and yet it’s not,” Elizabeth said. “You cannot imagine how difficult it is to change how one was taught to think and act.”

  “Oh, dearie,” Lady Walmsley said, setting her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “What a time you have had of it all. Come, let’s go decide on a gown together. I cannot say I won’t make my preferences known, but I promise you that I will let you have the final say. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Elizabeth thought about it. Her mother’s words pierced her. You will never impress him wearing that boring thing. He’s a man of taste, as is your father, and so you must wear something more fashionable. More alluring. You must bring him to heel.

  Was Lady Walmsley any different?

  You know very well that you’ve mourned long enough. People are going to talk anyway . . . You deserve better than that.

  You deserve better than that.

  “Yes, that it agreeable,” Elizabeth said. “And thank you.”

  ***

  Kit arrived at Lady Walmsley’s townhouse to escort her and Elizabeth to Lady Bledsoe’s musicale with barely enough time—assuming the ladies were ready to leave—to reach the Bledsoe’s home before it began.

  There were at least a hundred other places Kit would rather be tonight.

  The last time he’d been with Elizabeth, she’d cried. Again. Kit thought he might rather stick a fork in his eye than listen to a woman cry. He always felt so . . . inept. It was going to be difficult enough to greet her as though she hadn’t wept in his arms after talking about her father. And Alex.

  But he had given his word to Anthony. He was to be there for Lady Walmsley, and that meant playing escort to Elizabeth as well. If nothing else, he was a gentleman of his word.

  He kept a smile on his face and his manners about him while he knocked on the door, greeted Foster, greeted the ladies—Elizabeth was looking particularly fine in a demure gown of cream silk shot with gold—and saw them securely into his carriage. He chatted with Lady Walmsley about the weather, the soloist who was to perform this evening—a violinist Lady Bledsoe was particularly enthusiastic about, and Lady Walmsley’s newfound enthusiasm for keeping a notebook of things she liked. The latter ought to have been amusing, except that Elizabeth remained too quiet for his liking during the entire carriage ride.

  “You have convinced Lady Walmsley of the merits of your lists,” he said, hoping to ease Elizabeth into the conversation more fully. “I am glad to hear it. And what other things have you discovered you like since the last time we spoke?”

  “Rain,” she said. “I think, overall, I like rain. Although I also like sunny days.”

  “But rain brings mud and chill and dampness and drooping coiffures and bonnets and aching bones,” Lady Walmsley said. “I am not adding rain to my list, I can tell you.”

  “I do not like wind,” Elizabeth said.

  “On that, I would agree,” Lady Walmsley said. “What would you say to that, Lord Cantwell?”

  “I believe I can tolerate the wind . . . when it arises from the sea or the hills. But I do not like it when it originates from the mouths of the members of Parliament.”

  Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth, and Lady Walmsley whacked his knee gently with her fan. “Oh, you are bad,” she said with a chuckle. “I imagine there is a lot of wind gusting about in that situation, especially considering how puffed up some of the members are.”

  Elizabeth squeaked.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Lady Walmsley asked. “There, you see, Lord Cantwell, she squeaked, but I did not. We can inform Foster of the fact, and he can wring his hands over Elizabeth now instead of me.” She turned to face Elizabeth. “As you know, dear, the man has been driving me mad, draping me with shawls, making sure my tea is piping hot, having the maids stoke the fires in my room until I think I shall expire from the heat or, perhaps, believe I am due to expire and will not be going to heaven as I’d hoped, and they are trying to prepare me for my eternal environs.”

  Elizabeth burst out with a laugh.

  “You would be doing me a great service if you would squeak just a time or two around him,” Lady Walmsley added.

  “Goodness,” Elizabeth said once she’d gotten control of herself. “The both of you are utterly ridiculous. And I like it very much.”

  “Thank you. You may add it to your list,” Kit said, his heart lifting a bit.

  “Just be sure to squeak a time or two,” Lady Walmsley said. “I intend to point it out to Foster if he doesn’t notice it on his own.”

  Elizabeth laughed again.

  Perhaps tonight would go better than Kit had thought.

  They arrived at the Bledsoe residence a few minutes later, and it became readily apparent that the musicale, which Lady Walmsley had assured Kit, and most likely Elizabeth as well, was to be an intimate affair of family and close friends, was actually a huge crush. Carriages were lined up, awaiting their turns to deposit their guests, and guests congregated outside the entrance, awaiting their turn to greet their hosts.

  “Oh dear,” Lady Walmsley said when she peered out the carriage window.

  “You said it was going to be a small affair,” Elizabeth said. Her countenance, which had been light with laughter, paled with fear and held a look of betrayal.

  “That is what Lady Bledsoe told me,” Lady Walmsley said with indignation. “I had no idea her notion of ‘small’ was so much different from everybody else’s. I shall have a word with her.”

  “I can’t . . .” Elizabeth began before trailing off, her eyes growing huge, her face going paler.

  “You will have us by your side,” Kit said firmly. “We are already here, you look absolutely stunning”—and she did—“and sooner or later, you must see all of these people. Let’s get it done in one fell swoop. What do you say?”

  She started shaking her head back and forth.

  Their carriage was nearly at the entrance. Lady Walmsley looked at Kit with worry in her eyes.

  He leaned forward, took both of Elizabeth’s hands in his, and squeezed them. Hard.
“You are not the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Marwood tonight—nor, perhaps, ever again. You are Lady Elizabeth Spaulding, intelligent and strong and beautiful. I have never met anyone who has had the determination and self-discipline you have had your entire life to be the best you could be. If anyone can face this crowd with grace and dignity, it is you. I believe that with my whole heart, Lizzie.”

  He watched her face contort, her brows draw together, and lines appear in her forehead as she fought for control of her emotions. Kit longed to take her face in his hands and kiss away the fear and anguish he saw. But he didn’t; he couldn’t—not with Lady Walmsley sitting there, watching and fretting.

  Elizabeth was the one gripping his hands now, as though he were her lifeline.

  He held on to her and continued to hold her eyes with his own. Giving her his own strength.

  “This shouldn’t be so hard,” she eventually whispered.

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “But it is. And we will see you through all of it.”

  “Absolutely, we will, my dear, sweet girl,” Lady Walmsley said, placing her hands on top of theirs. “And you shall prevail.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and swallowed, and Kit held his breath. Eventually, she nodded. “Very well, then. With your help, I shall do this. I’m ready.”

  Kit had never served in battle as Anthony had, but he knew he had just witnessed a great show of courage that could compare with any on the battlefield. Her anxieties weren’t merely about facing a group of people in a social setting; they went much deeper.

  He admired her greatly. He knew he would do anything within his power to help her overcome her difficulties. It would be an honor to do so.

  Their carriage arrived at the entrance, and a Bledsoe footman opened the carriage door. Kit assisted both of the extraordinary ladies with whom he’d been entrusted down to the pavement and then offered each his arm.

  ***

  Elizabeth should have anticipated such a huge crowd. It followed the kind of bad luck she had experienced over the past year or two. Or four.