Emily’s fingers to shake it. Discreetly Emily wiped hers on her skirt.
Mr. Worthmore looked the handsome young Welshman up and down in a leisurely fashion. “How do you do, sir? What brings you to Willows Hall?”
Mr. Yale took a noticeable breath and said rather firmly, “Lady Marie Antoine, if you must have it. She and I have formed something of an attachment and I’m not fond of the notion of you getting in the way of it.”
Lady Vale gasped.
Lord Vale choked.
Madame Roche tittered.
Lord Blackwood chuckled.
Mr. Worthmore’s round eyes rounded yet further as he looked from one member of the party to another. “Who in Nancy’s goat is Lady Marie Antoine?”
“It was priceless. I shall never forget his face.” Kitty sat down before the dressing table to plait her hair into a long braid for the night.
“He looks like a fish. And his voice is horrid, squeaky and far too certain of his welcome here.”
Emily plopped onto her stomach on Kitty’s bed, a high four-poster in the style of feminine froth Lady Vale seemed to favor in clothing and everything else. “I cannot understand what my father likes about him. His conversation at dinner proves he is not a clever man. Papa usually likes clever men, as long as they are rich.”
Her fingers moved deftly about a tangled mass of ribbons, picking here and unthreading there. It was the most domestic activity Kitty had ever seen her young friend perform, and yet seemed so natural. Beneath the veneer of studious plain speaker, Emily Vale was just a girl. As Kitty had once been. As she had felt for a few precious moments in a Shropshire inn, until the man she was infatuated with told her he would marry her if it became necessary.
In fact she was no longer a girl. Far from it, indeed.
“I was not speaking of Mr. Worthmore. I meant your other suitor’s face.”
Emily’s emerald eyes rolled. “He was odious.”
“He was charming. And very kind to do what he did.”
“He made a cake of himself, and of me.” She sat up, dropping the ribbons into her lap. “I have no doubt, Kitty, that he wishes me to squirm with discomfort through it all.”
“It is possible. But he didn’t look very happy about any of it either.”
“Hm.” Emily seemed to seriously consider. “At least Lord Blackwood has more sense than to be that silly.”
Kitty could not respond. At the inn, he had not assented to or declined his part in Madame Roche’s plan. But Kitty assumed he would agree. Yet tonight he had shown no indication of intending to play along.
A golden-red head peeked through the door. “Lady Katherine, may I enter?”
“Of course.”
“Amarantha, you should be in bed by now. Is Nurse not looking for you?”
“I am no longer under Nurse’s governance.” She jumped up on the bed and curled an arm about her sister’s waist. “Mama says I am old enough to have my own room. Yours!”
Emily petted her sister’s shining hair. “I rather like town, with all its museums and such, and hope to remain there. You are welcome to my bedchamber here.”
“Only to share with you, Emmie.” Amarantha popped up on her elbows. “You simply mustn’t like Mr. Worthmore. He is nasty.” A shy smile crept across her lips. “And Mr. Yale is so agreeable.”
Kitty watched a war of thoughts pass behind her friend’s spectacles.
“I am glad you admire him,” Emily finally said.
“He is very handsome.”
“One might think so.”
“How old is he?”
“It has not occurred to me to ask.”
“Emmie! A lady must always discover her suitor’s age and birth date.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “Whatever for?”
“So that she may send him a note wishing him happy upon the day each year.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mama. She does so with Papa. Every year.”
Emily seemed to digest that information with some degree of discomfort. Kitty’s chest felt warm.
To see her friend lying to her family now did not sit well with her, and she knew perfectly well why.
She could not run away forever. That night after Lambert told her he would never marry her, her mother held her while she cried for hours. Kitty had not told her everything that happened, but from the dowager’s comforting words it seemed she had understood. Why else would she have allowed her daughter to remain unwed, unless she knew she was in fact unweddable?
But now, for the first time in years, she could no longer bear the silent understanding her mother had given her for so long. She wished she had told her the truth immediately, before she had plunged into revenge and discovered her inability to conceive. Perhaps nothing could have been done then, anyway. Kitty was ruined. What man would have her? But at least she would not have been alone in her grief and anger. Perhaps her mother might have helped her free herself of it, and she would not have had to wait for the glance of a Scottish lord to do it herself.
“Mr. Yale might send you a posy, Emmie, so you must inform him of your birth date as well, but not your age,” Amarantha cautioned her sister. “You will not want him to think you are too old to marry.”
Too old and misguided and barren. But maudlin musings would not aid her now, and she had Emily’s situation to see to.
“Your sister needn’t have a care about that, Amarantha.” Kitty rose from the table and drew on her dressing gown over shift and stays, a sleeveless covering of sheerest silk. It was the greatest luxury to have all her clothing, save one gown she would never again wear. “Mr. Yale is quite as devoted to her as your parents are to one another.”
“And he is
“You said that already, Amy,” Emily muttered.
“And tall. Not as tall as Lord Blackwood, but the earl is an old man, nearly as old as Mama, I daresay! He cannot help that streak of white in his hair, although it is dashing for an elderly gentleman, and I suppose he
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
The fifteen-year-old peered queerly at her sister.
Emily blinked. “Yes. All black. Very nice hair.”
Kitty stifled a laugh. Emily slid off the bed and went to the door, casting her a narrow look.
“I am going to sleep. Amy, are you coming?”
Amarantha jumped to the floor. Emily opened the door. Gentlemen’s voices sounded in the corridor and then the gentlemen themselves walked past. They paused. Mr. Yale seemed weary; nothing in his erect carriage gave a sign to it, but his silvery eyes looked somewhat sunken.
Lord Blackwood bowed. “Leddies.”
Amarantha giggled. Emily pursed her lips. Kitty pulled the wrapper over her breasts and endeavored not to notice his gaze dipping there.
“My lord, Mr. Yale,” she said as smoothly as her voice would allow, “thank you for your fine company tonight. Lady Marie Antoine and I are so grateful.”
Mr. Yale bowed rather stiffly, then continued along the corridor. The earl met Kitty’s gaze and there was nothing of hooded indolence there, only pleasure. She stood in the middle of her bedchamber and wished Emily and her sister away and the earl on her side of the door, with it closed and bolted.
Misguided wishes. She did not need more deception in her life, from herself or anybody else.
“Good night, my lord.”
He nodded, gave Emily’s sister a lovely smile, and went along. Kitty ushered the girls out, shut the door, and sank against it, praying that Emily and Mr. Yale’s courtship would go very swiftly.
“Has it only been one night?” The Welshman tilted his head onto the chair back and
