She knew she oughtn’t to ask. “What is it? Have I a smudge on my gown? Why do you look at me in that manner?”
His eyes shifted upward and a hint of a grin played about his lips.
“Be there ony manner in which A might look at ye that ye woud approve, lass?”
Mr. Yale chuckled.
The earl’s gaze slipped downward again. “’Tis the dress.”
“My gown?” The finest, thinnest woolen carriage dress she’d ever owned, sewn with tiny beads and embroidered about the collar and wrists, all in the loveliest shade of green imaginable. “What do you mean to say is wrong with this gown?”
A single dark brow rose. “’Tis a wee bit snug, nae then?”
Kitty’s cheeks went hot, her palms damp.
“It fits remarkably well, in fact.” She should turn and walk away. She should not encourage this impertinence. She could not stop looking at his eyes. “What do you know of ladies’ gowns, my lord?”
He shrugged, a rough, careless gesture.
“Nothing,” she supplied, “of course.”
“Maun be the girl in it, than.”
Kitty got warm—deep and central. He called her a girl. No one had called her a girl in years. She was Katherine Savege, redoubtable spinster, and gossips remarked on it regularly, in parlors and in the columns. They wondered why her brother, the Earl of Savege, had not wed her to one of the few suitors who dared pursue her despite her stained character, no doubt for the dowry attached to her marriage. They questioned why her mother had not insisted on it. And endlessly they speculated: she flouted convention merely to fortify her vanity; she preferred salons and political meetings to the joys of the nursery; she was secret mistress to a great man.
Only some accusations bit. A nursery was never to be her joy, not according to the doctor Lambert had taken her to see after so many months when she did not conceive, just before he pointed out to her in the park the daughter he had fathered upon a former lover.
And no married man would ever call her mistress. Watching her mother suffer the indignity of taking second place in her husband’s life after his mistress had assured that.
She peered at the earl, apparently lazy yet not in fact when one looked carefully. Instead, unnervingly still. Far too still for a man of his supposed habits and character.
He was wrong. She was not a girl. A woman who had sent a man into exile could not be so called.
A woman who had used her body for revenge and who had lied—over and over again—to effect that revenge had nothing left of innocence in her.
“Here she is, mum,” Ned chirped.
Mrs. Milch set a tray of food on the table. “I found some cheese.” The gray pouches beneath her eyes seemed to lengthen her narrow face when she spoke. “And we’ve got a keg of ale and turnip soup.
It’s not what the Quality expects.”
“I am certain it will suit. Mrs. Milch, an uninvited guest has visited my bedchamber. A very small one.”
“It’s them mice again.” Ned shook his head, snags of hair sticking out at angles. “The cat’s fixing to drop a litter. She’s run off and the snow’s kept her gone. Probably snug and warm at the smithy’s cuddling with half a dozen tiny mites this minute.”
“Fetch the broom, boy.”
“Yes, mum.”
“Gi’ the lad a rest.” Lord Blackwood came to his feet. “He’s dane a loud o’ wirk already the day.
The dugs’ll rout the vermin.” He gestured and the wolfhounds unfolded themselves from the floor and followed him to the stair.
“I shoveled a path to the road, mum, and another to the stable,” Ned said. “The gov’nor helped.”
He looked wistfully at the dogs padding behind Lord Blackwood up the stairs.
On the landing the earl paused and gestured to Kitty, much as he had to his pets. She had no choice but to follow.
Four doors let off the corridor, and another smaller door to the attic. She went to hers.
“Did you really help Ned shovel snow this morning, my lord?”
“Aye.” He was right behind her, closer than he ought to be. “A man’s got tae busy his hauns whan there’s naught else tae dae.” He was very tall, and were she to allow it he could trap her between him and the door with little effort. Then he might busy his hands quite usefully.
“You could have played cards with Mr. Yale.”
“Nae wi’ a brassic whelp, I wadna.”
“Brassic?”
“Pockets tae let.”
“Ah. I shall remember that if I succumb to his entreaties to play.” Her fingers around the doorknob were slippery. She imagined she could feel the heat of his body along her back.
“Weel ye open the door, lass,” he said quietly at her shoulder, “or dae ye prefer tae wait on the wee one tae come frae beneath it?”
She sucked in breath and pushed the panel wide. “I suspect the mouse is long gone now.”
The dogs entered around his legs. The larger one, as high as Kitty’s waist, moved to the hearth, sniffed about in the ashes, and sneezed. The other padded toward the window and set its nose to the ground. Lord Blackwood folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorjamb.
Subtly wiping her damp hands on her skirt, Kitty forced herself to look at him. His attention was fixed on the floor before her feet, his jaw oddly tight.
He lifted his gaze.
“I am not afraid of mice.” Her words came too quickly.
A lengthy silence ensued during which they stared at each other as though gentlemen and ladies who were barely acquainted frequently stared at one another without note.
“Whit be ye afeared o than, maleddy?”
“Very little.” Rather, the staccato rhythm of her heart, a condition caused by the proximity of a large, handsome man to her bed. A titled gentleman who spoke like a barbarian and helped little boys shovel snow. A man of such staunch Scottish loyalty that all of society knew him to be still mourning the horrible loss of his beloved bride years ago, engaging in flirtations for brief amusement only, never sincerely.
But his tragic story had no relevance to Kitty.
Except one night three years ago, it had. That night when he had looked into her as though he could see her soul and, without a word, seemed to tell her that weakness must no longer rule her, that she was worthy of better. On that night she had finally left her anger at Lambert Poole behind. She had broken free from wicked games.
She tore her gaze away. “Your dog seems to have found something.” The animal snuffled at the rear of an old wooden chest.
The earl crossed the chamber and crouched, setting his hand on the beast’s neck. The other dog pressed its head into the space between him and the box. Gently he nudged it aside. His back was wide, shoulder blades pronounced. Pale light slanted over his thighs revealing fine muscle starkly defined by his breeches. Kitty’s breaths shortened. She felt hot.
She should flee. This could not be happening to her, this foolishness. This preoccupation. It was irrational when directed at such a man, for every conceivable reason. But his body, his sheer masculine presence…
As though drawn by a pulley, she moved forward. His coat tugged across his shoulders as he pushed the heavy box at an angle away from the wall. She leaned in closer.
“Aye. Thar’s the hole.” He stood abruptly, coming toe-to-toe with her. He looked down at her.
“Best tae shore it up,” he added as though her brow weren’t two inches from his chin.
She swallowed against the hard pulse in her throat. “I shall ask Mr. Milch for appropriate stuffing.
Thank you, my lord.” She backed toward the door.
He moved to her in two strides, took the door in his hand, and pulled it to. Retreat cut off, she backed up against the post. He loomed over her, broad and dark-eyed and staring quite intently. But he said nothing.
