you catch your breath, so to speak.”
The good Lord did answer prayers. In His own good time, but at least Kathlyn could rest easy for now.
Not so his lordship. Nanny was shoving him into his greatcoat. “Get on home with you now, our Miss Kathlyn needs her sleep.”
The chit hadn’t been here an hour, and she was “our” Miss Kathlyn, Courtney thought with a degree of resentment commensurate with the discomfort of a cold, hungry drive back to Choate House.
“I’ve packed up some of my liniment in a jar,” Nanny told him on the way to the door. “You can heat it when you get home. Your stableman will know how, if you can’t do it.”
The stableman? No one was going to massage Courtney’s leg or listen to his troubles? No one was going to make sure he was warm and dry and well fed? Bloody hell, even old Wolfie was curled at Miss Part-land’s feet while Nanny was tossing out the owner of the house. Courtney fumed, pulling his collar up and his hat down; he’d pulled some rubbishing waif out of a blizzard and now he was yesterday’s kippers? And it was still snowing, Courtney observed in silent outrage as he rehitched his horses to the curricle without Little George’s assistance. Little George, who had to stoop to pass under the doorframe, was carrying water for “our” Miss Kathlyn’s bath. Blast!
* * * *
Kathlyn slept the night through. She awoke to find herself in a damask-draped bedchamber, in her own cotton nightgown. A weak winter sun was beginning to peek through the pulled curtains, so the storm must be over. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth, and a cup of chocolate rested on the bedside table along with a buttered roll. Kathlyn ate, drank, smiled, and went back to sleep.
Not so his lordship. Viscount Chase ate—cold chicken—and he drank—more brandy than was good for him—but he didn’t sleep. Since he hadn’t bothered with the liniment, his leg was aching too badly for him to get comfortable. Besides, Courtney had an idea. It was an idea so grand, so marvelously comprehensive, that he couldn’t wait to share it. In one fell swoop, one night and an outlay of blunt, he could resolve all of his problems.
Miss Partland needed a position. Courtney needed a mistress. How simple! She was too honorable, or too unyielding, he thought, to go back on her word of confidentiality once given. Furthermore, she didn’t know anyone, anyway, so she couldn’t gossip. His secrets would be safe.
And she wouldn’t need a mask at the Cyprians’ Ball, not to hide those magnificent eyes. Instead, Lord Chase decided, there in his study a long way from Kensington, he’d costume Miss Partland like a houri, with her inky hair flowing down her back and a diamond hanging from a chain at the center of her forehead. He’d have her bare governess bones covered in filmy, flowing drapery so no one could think he was too miserly to keep her well fed. Scheherazade, he saw in his mind’s eye, with bells on her fingers and her ankles bare. Oh yes, and she’d have a gauze veil over her nose (in case it was still red) and the lower part of her face, adding mystery, allure, and hopefully silence. Perhaps the shrew would even keep her mouth shut, with that caustic tongue in it.
He’d parade her around for everyone to see. No, that didn’t match the air castle he was building, not with his limp. He’d arrive late, that was it, and make a grand entrance. The sultan and his odalisque? Too obvious. He’d wear his own dress clothes instead, with a sapphire in his neckcloth, perhaps, if he could find one to match her eyes. No mask, for that would defeat the whole purpose.
A brief appearance would be enough to establish his reputation as a connoisseur of women. Then he could go courting. The viscount was determined to wed this very Season, to be done with clacking tongues and cold baths. He’d find himself an innocent young bride, and he’d make dashed certain of it this time, sweeping some rosy, rounded,
The good Lord did answer prayers. In His own good time, but at least Kathlyn could rest easy for now.
Not so his lordship. Nanny was shoving him into his greatcoat. “Get on home with you now, our Miss Kathlyn needs her sleep.”
The chit hadn’t been here an hour, and she was “our” Miss Kathlyn, Courtney thought with a degree of resentment commensurate with the discomfort of a cold, hungry drive back to Choate House.
“I’ve packed up some of my liniment in a jar,” Nanny told him on the way to the door. “You can heat it when you get home. Your stableman will know how, if you can’t do it.”
The stableman? No one was going to massage Courtney’s leg or listen to his troubles? No one was going to make sure he was warm and dry and well fed? Bloody hell, even old Wolfie was curled at Miss Part-land’s feet while Nanny was tossing out the owner of the house. Courtney fumed, pulling his collar up and his hat down; he’d pulled some rubbishing waif out of a blizzard and now he was yesterday’s kippers? And it was still snowing, Courtney observed in silent outrage as he rehitched his horses to the curricle without Little George’s assistance. Little George, who had to stoop to pass under the doorframe, was carrying water for “our” Miss Kathlyn’s bath. Blast!
* * * *
Kathlyn slept the night through. She awoke to find herself in a damask-draped bedchamber, in her own cotton nightgown. A weak winter sun was beginning to peek through the pulled curtains, so the storm must be over. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth, and a cup of chocolate rested on the bedside table along with a buttered roll. Kathlyn ate, drank, smiled, and went back to sleep.
Not so his lordship. Viscount Chase ate—cold chicken—and he drank—more brandy than was good for him—but he didn’t sleep. Since he hadn’t bothered with the liniment, his leg was aching too badly for him to get comfortable. Besides, Courtney had an idea. It was an idea so grand, so marvelously comprehensive, that he couldn’t wait to share it. In one fell swoop, one night and an outlay of blunt, he could resolve all of his problems.
Miss Partland needed a position. Courtney needed a mistress. How simple! She was too honorable, or too unyielding, he thought, to go back on her word of confidentiality once given. Furthermore, she didn’t know anyone, anyway, so she couldn’t gossip. His secrets would be safe.
And she wouldn’t need a mask at the Cyprians’ Ball, not to hide those magnificent eyes. Instead, Lord Chase decided, there in his study a long way from Kensington, he’d costume Miss Partland like a houri, with her inky hair flowing down her back and a diamond hanging from a chain at the center of her forehead. He’d have her bare governess bones covered in filmy, flowing drapery so no one could think he was too miserly to keep her well fed. Scheherazade, he saw in his mind’s eye, with bells on her fingers and her ankles bare. Oh yes, and she’d have a gauze veil over her nose (in case it was still red) and the lower part of her face, adding mystery, allure, and hopefully silence. Perhaps the shrew would even keep her mouth shut, with that caustic tongue in it.
He’d parade her around for everyone to see. No, that didn’t match the air castle he was building, not with his limp. He’d arrive late, that was it, and make a grand entrance. The sultan and his odalisque? Too obvious. He’d wear his own dress clothes instead, with a sapphire in his neckcloth, perhaps, if he could find one to match her eyes. No mask, for that would defeat the whole purpose.
A brief appearance would be enough to establish his reputation as a connoisseur of women. Then he could go courting. The viscount was determined to wed this very Season, to be done with clacking tongues and cold baths. He’d find himself an innocent young bride, and he’d make dashed certain of it this time, sweeping some rosy, rounded,
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