When a Scot Loves a Lady

brows went up.

“All right, then. With whom do you usually go to church?”

“No one you would know, I’ll merit,” Kitty’s escort murmured.

Kitty pressed her fingertips into Mr. Yale’s arm and he slanted her an apologetic glance, then a grin.

“I suspect you are correct,” Emily said, apparently not minding his teasing today, “although my companion, Madame Roche, always seems to know everybody and introduces me to the most remarkable people whenever we are about. Two weeks ago I met a dozen chimney sweeps at the market.”

By the time they ascended the church steps, swept clean and the remaining film of white already melting in the sparkling sunlight, Kitty was breathing hard from the exertion and possibly because the earl was right behind her. He had yet to speak, but in company he was taciturn at best. In the company of more than one, that was. Alone with one person he spoke French verse and, in perfect English, said delectable things she had not dreamed any man would ever say to her.

The tiny church was nearly full, villagers crowding the pews despite the snow. But the building was tidy, white-washed inside and out, with modest decorations and a minister standing behind the pulpit dressed in an oversized black jacket.

Kitty screwed up her brow. “Marie, isn’t that your coachman?”

“By George, it is. What are you doing up there, Pen?”

The coachman came out from behind the pulpit. Kitty recognized the coat of casual cut yet fine wool. Lord Blackwood had removed it for a trio of jacks the previous night.

Mr. Pen reached up as though to tip his cap and tugged on his bushy gray hair instead.

“Happy Christmas to you, miss. Milady. Milord. Sirs.”

“Pen, what on earth is going on?”

“Well, don’t you know, milady, the vicar ain’t been seen since the snow hereabouts.” His clear baritone filled the little church. He shook his head sorrowfully. “When His Lordship were looking about for someones to preach services this morning on behalf of it being the birthday of Our Lord and Savior, well, I don’t mind telling you, I was happy to step up to the job.”

“Are you an Evangelical, Pen?”

“Methodist, miss.” He tugged again at his nonexistent brim.

Mr. Yale chuckled. “Let the man get on with it,” he said. “It’s cold as a desert night in here.”

“Ye’ve niver been tae the desert,” Lord Blackwood murmured, defraying Kitty’s own chill by sending little eddies of warmth through her entire body.

“Well, I couldn’t very well say it’s as cold as a Bengal summer, could I?”

“Yer forgitting the muntain.”

“Perhaps intentionally.”

“Lord Blackwood,” Emily said, “did you really ask my coachman to say the service today?”

Mr. Yale chuckled. “Someone had to.”

“Now ladies and gents, if I’m to get to our lesson today, I’d best be starting.” Mr. Pen retook his place at the pulpit.

Kitty could not say what the coachman’s sermon was about, although she heard the word virgin a number of times, perhaps because she was primed to hear it through mingled ecstasy and shame.

He had lived in Bengal and had traveled in the mountains, presumably the Himalayas. He could recite French poetry. He had arranged for someone to provide a Christmas sermon, albeit a creative alternative.

When the bright notes of a violin echoed throughout the high-ceilinged building, matched by Mr.

Pen’s baritone and Mrs. Milch’s thin alto, Kitty dragged herself from her study. Emily and Mr. Yale sang, and Mr. Cox at the end of the row, his cheeks bright.

She looked over Emily’s bonnet. The earl stood with his head slightly bowed, his beautiful mouth a straight line. As though he sensed her regard, his eyes flickered up, and he met her gaze. He smiled.

But the steely glint was back, and Kitty’s nascent pleasure wavered.

They walked back to the inn in pleasant company, Mr. Cox and Mr. Pen providing most of the conversation in spirited form. The others came along the narrow path behind and before, the innkeepers, Ned, and the villagers invited to take a mug of ale at the inn and a slice of Christmas pudding.

“Pen, did you shovel this path to the church as well?” Emily asked.

“No, milady.” Ned’s piping voice came cleanly across the snowy street as he plodded along, wolfhounds at his heels. “Me and milord did it yesterday. Finished it up this morning just in time, didn’t we, gov’nor?”

“Aye, lad. An yer playing was verra fine at the kirk.”

The stable boy winked at the lord of the realm.

Within the inn, Kitty stripped off cloak, bonnet, pattens, and gloves and took a chair by the fire, warming her toes. Emily settled beside her, then Mr. Cox. The inn filled with people, villagers arriving to stomp the snow from boots and hems, throw off coats, and take up a pint.

“Why, it seems to be a regular party,” Mr. Cox said with lifted brows. “Isn’t it, Lady Katherine?”

“Madame Roche would like to see this, farmers and artisans talking so freely with gentlemen of rank,” Emily said. “She is a Republican.”

“His Lordship condescends with such a natural air, almost as though he enjoys it.” The gentleman’s eyes seemed intent on the earl and not particularly kind. A prickle of discomfort slipped up the back of Kitty’s neck.

“I believe it is his disposition.” Like fixing broken roofs and shoveling snow, which certainly explained his physique. She was dying to simply look at him, but she must immediately thereafter drag her gaze away for fear that she would linger too long.

He met her regard. She lingered. When he finally looked away she might have sighed like the perfect ninny she was, if not for her pique. She was after all quite weary, having not slept perfectly well or really at all. He’d left her with many questions. And now she had more.

Her need for answers was to be eternally frustrated. Toasts were made—many, many toasts; pudding was consumed, despite its rather leathery texture and flat flavor (no nutmeg had been found); and revelers only began departing well into the afternoon.

Contrary to her earlier warnings, Mrs. Milch set a roast goose on the table, as well as basted turnips, apples braised in brandy, and a loaf of fresh bread. The party roundly congratulated Emily for her contribution and they dined in relative splendor. Mr. Yale and Mr. Cox entertained with stories from their travels abroad. Kitty might have been vastly diverted if she weren’t so preoccupied with endeavoring not to glance at a handsome Scot. Every time she did, he seemed to already be looking at her, and they could not very well stare continually at one another throughout dinner.

Outside, the sun shone at long angles on the snow as the innkeepers cleared away the remains of dinner. Mr. Yale settled into a chair by the fire, glass in hand and a week-old journal atop his knee.

Emily and Mr. Cox set about mapping out Shropshire topography with raisins and nuts on the table. It all had the happy, peaceful aura of home and holiday about it, and Kitty wished she could enjoy it. But she must content herself that her friend seemed distracted from worries of that which awaited her at her real home as soon as the road was passable.

Lord Blackwood came to Kitty’s side, bearing her cloak.

“Maleddy, care for a daunder?”

She could not look at him, but she allowed him to place her cloak around her shoulders. She drew her hood up. “Daunder?” It must be unremarkable; about him now hung no air of roguery.

“A stroll,” Mr. Yale explained. “Bit cold out, isn’t it, Blackwood?”

“Care tae come alang, Yale?”

“Thank you, but do go on without me.” He lifted his glass in salute. Kitty felt as transparent as crystal. She could refuse the earl. She could once again embrace propriety. Emily and Mr. Cox did not raise their heads from their game.

Kitty went.

“Where to, my lord?” She glanced about at the snow-laden street, pale in the late afternoon sun.

“Back to the church?”

He shut the inn door behind them.