Kit dared to feel contentment. Lauren’s family fit in well with his. He liked all three of them who were here, and they all appeared to approve of him. None of them had spent any time in London during the past year, of course, to have had their opinions tainted by the reputation he had courted there. Kit smiled as he remembered the interview Baron Galton had requested on the day of his arrival. He had subjected Kit to a far more thorough grilling than Portfrey had, asking about his military credentials, his present aspirations, and his future prospects. Kit had even found himself—rather foolishly, under the circumstances—asking the old man formally for Lauren’s hand. Just as formally Baron Galton had granted it.
She really would be a perfect wife for him, a perfect countess, a perfect member of his family. He had become convinced during the past few days that he could find contentment with her. As for passion—well, passion had never worked for him. At best, it had never lasted longer than a week or two; at worst, it had caused him intense misery. He would be able to trust contentment, relax into it, grow old with it. With her. If only he could persuade her during the next week or so . . .
But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of young Marianne’s voice, demanding everyone’s attention. They simply must have dancing, she declared, her hands clasped to her bosom, her pleading gaze directed at Kit. The other young cousins gathered about the pianoforte murmured their support and also gazed hopefully at Kit.
“Dancing? A splendid idea.” He grinned and strode forward. “Why has no one thought of it before tonight? We do not have to wait for the birthday ball, do we? We will have the carpet rolled back immediately.”
The murmur rose to a faint cheer, and his grandmother smiled and nodded.
While Kit supervised two footmen in the task of rolling back the Persian carpet, Marianne wound her arms about her mother’s neck and wheedled her shamelessly into providing the music.
Eight of the cousins began the dancing with a vigorous jig, which aroused much laughter among them and applause from the spectators. The next dance was to be a Roger de Coverly, Aunt Honoria announced from the pianoforte. Kit extended a hand for Lauren’s and winked at his grandmother.
“Come and dance with me, Lauren,” he said. “We will show these young sprigs a thing or two.”
They led off the set, which boasted six couples this time. He had only ever waltzed with Lauren before. But she was an accomplished country dancer too, he soon discovered. She smiled and her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled as they moved down between the lines, she along the gentlemen’s side, he along the ladies’, twirling each member of the line about alternately with each other. It was only after they had led the lines around the outside of the set and had formed an arch with their hands for everyone else to pass beneath that he realized all other activity in the room had been suspended—the card games and the conversations. Everyone was watching, not just the dancers in general, but him and Lauren in particular. The newly betrothed couple. Kit with his beautiful bride-to-be.
He sensed approval and affection emanating from them. And he felt something a little warmer than contentment as he remembered her helpless laughter, her flushed cheeks, and her bright eyes this afternoon—and her softly acquiescent kiss.
He really must prevent her from breaking off their betrothal.
They were at the far end of the line again when the dance ended, close to the windows. Young Crispin Butler, fresh down from Oxford and fancying himself an experienced man-about-town, was already demanding a waltz tune of his mother, and the dancers were eagerly taking new partners.
“Miss Edgeworth?” Sir Jeremy Brightman, Doris’s betrothed, took her hand to lead her into the dance.
“Lady Muir?” Kit bowed to Lauren’s cousin, who was still sitting on the window seat. Too late he remembered her limp and hoped he had not just embarrassed her unpardonably. But she smiled and rose to her feet and set her hand in his.
And then Cousin Catherine came dashing up, all bubbling energy.
“Sydnam,” she demanded, grabbing his hand with both of hers, “do come and dance with me. You surely cannot intend to sit there all night.”
Kit froze. Catherine had never been known for tact or tender sensibilities, but even for her this was a howler.
“I beg to decline, Catherine,” Syd replied. “Ask Lawrence. He needs the exercise.”
“I can dance with my husband any night of the year,” she said. “I want you. You were always a divine dancer, I remember. Do come—”
“Catherine!” Kit spoke far more sharply than he had intended, unconsciously addressing her as he might have addressed a recalcitrant private in his regiment. “Can you not take a civil no for an answer? Syd cannot dance. He—”
“Yes. Thank you.” Sydnam was on his feet, his face pale and set, his voice quivering with barely suppressed fury. He bowed to their cousin and completely ignored his brother. “Thank you, Catherine. On second thought, I suppose I can shuffle about with sufficient competence to avoid banging you into furniture or other cousins.”
It was a tense, nasty moment, a brief flaring of passion, most of it unspoken, which had attracted the attention of everyone in the room. Kit was well aware of the awkward silence behind him, and then the rush of sound as everyone pretended they had not noticed anything untoward.
He closed his eyes briefly. He felt suddenly dizzy and even nauseous. He had been trying to help, to protect Syd from embarrassment. But he seemed to have accomplished just the opposite—and had been soundly rejected in the process. Again! The prospect of turning around to face the room, of smiling at Lady Muir and dancing with her as if the past minute had never happened, was so daunting as to be quite impossible.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, bowing hastily to his partner. “Please excuse me.”
He turned and hurried from the room without looking at anyone as he passed.
Chapter 15
He turned upstairs rather than down, though he had no particular destination in mind. His room, where he could hide out for the rest of the evening? He was at the top of the flight when a voice stopped him.
“Kit.”
He turned and looked down. She was standing with one slippered foot on the bottom stair, one slim hand on the banister. He was feeling grim and humiliated— and grief-stricken, as if he had just lost all that was nearest and dearest to him. His first instinct was to tell her to go back to the drawing room. He was no fitting company for her or for anyone else at the moment. But he did not want to be alone, he realized suddenly. He could not bear to be alone.
“Come,” he said.
He watched her until she was halfway up and then turned to take a candle from a wall sconce. He knew where he would go, where he would take her. He did not wait for her to reach his side, but strode away from the bedchamber wing toward the western wing and the family portrait gallery, which stretched the full width of the house.
The door was kept locked, but he knew that the key was kept in a not-so-secret hiding place inside the large marble urn that stood on the floor nearby. He reached inside for it, unlocked the door, and stood aside while Lauren preceded him into the room. He locked the door behind them.
His single candle threw darting, ominous shadows across the floor and up the walls. It was quite inadequate to light up the whole gallery. And it was cold up here. Sometime during the evening the wind had come up. He could hear rain lashing against the windows. All Lauren had with which to cover her arms was a thin cashmere shawl. He strode along the room, shadowy, barely visible ancestors gazing silently down at him from their heavy ornate frames on the walls, and Lauren followed. Neither of them spoke until he came to the great marble fireplace in the center of the long wall, flanked by wide, velvet-covered benches with low backs.