Page 44 of Counting on a Countess
“The devil you didn’t!”
After glancing away, Tamsyn said, “I got to thinking about how he’d make me care about him, and I can’t do that.”
Nessa crossed her arms over her chest. “Men of his station want heirs, and you don’t find babes floating down the Thames, like Moses in the bulrushes.”
Tamsyn threw up her hands in exasperation. “I know!”
“You’d best harden your heart and open your legs, or he’ll file for an annulment, and then where will we be?”
Rubbing her forehead, Tamsyn groaned in frustration. “You aren’t helping.”
Nessa sighed. “It’s not precisely an enviable place you’ve found yourself, ’tis true.”
Tamsyn shot Nessa a dry look. “Can you at leastpretendto cheer me up?”
“Ah.” Nessa forced a smile on her face. “Everything will work out fine and you’ve nothing to fret over.” She looked at Tamsyn expectantly. “How was that?”
“I feel much better,” Tamsyn drawled.
When she’d finished changing into her nightclothes, and Nessa had gone for the night, Tamsyn climbed into bed. It was the finest bed she’d ever lain in, and yet with her thoughts in a furious jumble, the mattress felt stuffed full of tacks and glass. Sleep didn’t come, not for many hours, but she told herself that she wasn’t waiting up for Kit.
Yet she was still awake at four in the morning, when she heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone paused outside her door. Her breath caught and held as she waited.
But then the steps moved on, and she remained alone.
Chapter 12
His billiard cue balanced in his hands, Kit tried to line up his shot. It ought be a straight trajectory to the corner pocket—but then, very little in his life seemed to follow a direct course lately.
The turmoil ought to have passed by now. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since he’d learned of Lord Somerby’s stipulations, which should have been enough time for Kit to settle into this new mode of being.Should have beenbutwasn’t.
Fighting to steady his hands, he took the shot. The ball rolled toward the pocket. Kit held his breath in anticipation.
The ball clipped the corner and went spinning off into the expanse of green baize covering the table.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered as he straightened.
A man at the next billiard table coughed at Kit’s language. Kit fought from rolling his eyes. It wasn’t as though profanity had never before crossed the threshold of White’s. But the club could also be stodgy and straitlaced. He should find another club—except all of his friends belonged to White’s and he wasn’t certain if foul language should be the hill upon which he should die.
“Marriage has certainly sanitized your vocabulary,” drawled Langdon as he chalked up his cue.
Kit shot him a warning look. “You’re so amusing you should join a company of strolling players—and stroll away.”
His friend feigned a look of horror. “I’m not amusing? But... Mother always said I was witty!”
“Go find her, then,” Kit growled. “She’ll be at her favorite gin house across from the soldiers’ barracks.”
“You wound me, sirrah,” Langdon said pleasantly.
Kit exhaled roughly. “I came here seeking solace.”
“A pity that you found me, instead.” He peered at Kit. “But why should you need solace? I assume Somerby’s money has been transferred.”
“It has. Signed a mountain of papers yesterday.”
Langdon thumped him on the shoulder. “Felicitations, old man. Welcome to the world of wealthy, titled wastrels.”
“Here I believed I already lived in that world,” Kit said drily.
