A whorl of cold air rushed into the parlor, stirring the hearth flames. Mr. Pen stomped into the chamber, his jowly face ruddy with cold
“Road’s passable, miss. A coach and six passed long ’bout a quarter hour ago. Driver said it’s fair going all the way to Oswestry.”
“Oswestry? So distant.” Emily’s voice had not yet recovered.
“The melt’s happening right quick. We’d be better to set off now before there’s floods on the road.
I’ll go ahead and hitch up the teams and we’ll be at the Hall this evening.” He tromped back outside.
Madame Roche’s face wreathed in smiles. “
“Then I suppose we must pack.” Emily released Kitty’s hand and headed toward the stair with purpose. Kitty followed, imagining the earl’s gaze on her and wishing she were not about to be obliged to watch him flirt with another woman, even her friend, and even in play.
Especially not in play.
Her Christmas idyll was over. Her fantasy of escape had been played out to no one’s harm but her own.
Chapter 13
Willows Hall rested on a gentle hill not five miles distant from the town and castle of Shrewsbury and only two from the tiny inn in which Kitty had spent Christmas making love to an exasperating Scot. Built sturdily of gray stone, with a single Tudor-style gable rising above the front portal and a well-proportioned portico of limestone columns and rails, it seemed far too modest a manor for Emily’s fashion-conscious parents.
The carriage approached along a circling drive, the park spreading along the slope through copses of oak and willow. Draped in snow, a terraced garden spread off to the manor’s south side, evidenced by a fountain and statuary poking out of the drifts. In the distance the wide Severn sparkled as it made its way slowly south and east.
As Pen handed them down from the carriage and the gentlemen dismounted, six girls, all in white frothy skirts and pinafores, and of descending heights and ages, burst from the house and tumbled down the slushy steps with vociferous glee. Each of them but one sported delightfully pale gold locks like Emily’s, the sixth and apparently eldest, with hair the color of fire.
“Sister!”
“Emily!”
“You are home!”
“Reesey!”
“Hooray!”
“Oh, Madame!”
They swirled about Emily and her companion, hugging their waist and legs, a jumble of white and gold and arms and smiles.
“The petticoat set,” Mr. Yale murmured at Lord Blackwood’s shoulder.
“Behave yourself, whelp.”
“Especially with the redhead, I daresay.”
“Most especially.”
Stomach hot, Kitty moved out of range of the earl’s undisguised voice. For that it must be; he spoke to his friend as an Englishman. She ought to be furious. But, foolishly, she hurt. Her capacity for hearing what she was not intended to hear was not doing her service now.
Emily’s parents appeared at the top of the stair. They were a handsome pair. Lord Vale was perhaps a decade his young wife’s senior, at one time probably athletic but now going to seed, and dressed to the nines in collars to his ears and wasp-waist coat with enormous gold buttons. He made a leg and drew his wife forward. Lady Vale extended small hands dripping with Italian lace and encrusted with gems to grasp Kitty’s.
“Dearest Lady Katherine, how we have anticipated your visit.”
Kitty allowed her hostess to kiss her on the cheek, momentarily sucked into a cloud of pale curls, organza, and lily.
“Your home is quite lovely. How do you like the snow?”
“It is tiresome, to be sure! But Lord Vale sees that I am happy.”
Generally, Kitty found Emily’s mother to be silly, with little sense and less conversation. Her single accomplishment seemed to be doting upon her doting husband. But they appeared at least as enamored of each other as of their own reflections, so she admired them. They were honest.
Emily came up the step. “Hello, Papa. Mama.” She allowed herself to be embraced by her mother.
“My darling Emily! And Madame Roche, of course.” Lady Vale bowed her head to the older, striking Frenchwoman, her employee.
Emily went into the house, followed by the little girls and her companion, leaving only the sister with the fiery hair. The girl lingered, casting shy glances toward the gentlemen who followed the footmen bearing their traveling trunks up the steps.
“My lord and lady,” Kitty said, “may I present to you the Earl of Blackwood and Mr. Yale? We met them upon the road and they kindly escorted us here.”
Lady Vale’s lashes flittered. “My lord, do not tell me you must go on any farther today! Lord Vale and I would be so happy for you to remain as our guests.”
“Not only for the night, I trust.” Lord Vale bowed. “I have been cooped up in this house for far too many days with seven females and now it shall be more—begging your pardon, Lady Katherine.” He bowed again, and Kitty heard the distinct crack of stays. “I’ve only Mr. Worthmore to keep me company. We would be glad for a third and fourth at the table, and, Lord Blackwood, I know you are a fine card player.”
“’Twoud be ma pleasure. Thank ye. An maleddy.” The earl bowed to Lady Vale. No stays. Nothing but pure muscle and sinew, Kitty knew.
Coats and cloaks shed, they entered an overheated drawing room appointed in the latest stare with white and yellow striped wallpaper and claw-footed chairs and tables trimmed in gilt. Kitty welcomed the chamber’s excessive warmth, moving as close to the hearth as possible. Then anyone might attribute her flushed cheeks to the fire, and perhaps she would not even feel the heat jumbled inside her at the memory of his naked body.
Madame Roche and Emily appeared at the door, a gentleman in their wake.
“Ah, Worthmore! Come meet our guests.”
“He is only a guest too, Papa.” Emily moved swiftly into the chamber. Mr. Worthmore traced her progress across the room with round, protruding eyes. Otherwise his appearance was unremarkable.
He was over middle age and not at all handsome like his friends, but just as smartly dressed, with gleaming Hessians capped with white and a gold quizzing glass hanging from his waistcoat pocket, glittering with diamond chips.
“Emily, come make your bow to Mr. Worthmore,” her father said pleasantly, but with a firm edge.
“You and he must become well acquainted.”
She recrossed the chamber to Mr. Worthmore.
Mr. Yale followed her.
Madame Roche grinned like a cat and glanced at Lord Blackwood.
And so it would begin. Kitty wished to flee, but a treacly fascination held her. The earl would join the game and she would have to watch how he would fool them all just as he had fooled her.
“How do you do, sir?” Emily curtsied. Mr. Worthmore took her hand and lifted it to his mouth.
Her nostrils flared, her fine-boned jaw tight.
“My dear, your parents have told me so much of your beauty, I am your humble devotee already.”
“Worthmore, I’m Yale.” Mr. Yale thrust out his hand. Mr. Worthmore was obliged to leave off making love to
