Page 51 of Counting on a Countess
She took a bite and had to focus very hard on enjoying her meal, but he was so blasted distracting. “For what?”
“For finding myself in the enviable position of being your husband.” He served himself and began to eat.
A drink of wine didn’t cool her heated cheeks. “You’re awfully adept at flattery.”
“I was in the army, ma’am,” he answered. “Flattery is hardly worth a ha’penny when you’re struggling to keep your men fed and your brains firmly ensconced inside your skull.”
Talk of his service piqued her interest. In the time they’d been together, he seldom mentioned that period. “Then you don’t miss it,” she wondered.
“What’s to miss? Maggots in the bread or some Frenchman wanting to shove a bayonet in my chest?” At her appalled silence, he muttered, “Apologies. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly.”
“There are men in my village who went off to war,” she answered gently. “Only some of them came back. I imagine it takes a great deal of strength to live with those memories.”
His jaw tightened as he determinedly cut his capon into bite-sized pieces. “We all have our ways of enduring.”
Perhaps that was why he’d devoted himself so wholeheartedly to being a libertine. It was a means to keep thoughts of the War at bay. She’d seen veterans at taverns drinking with single-minded determination, washing away the faces of the fallen and the sounds of battle.
“Come, let’s not spoil this evening with dull topics,” he said with determined lightness. “Tell me about your life in Cornwall.”
Panic chilled the back of her neck, but she tried to soothe herself with the rationalization that he knew nothing about her illicit activities. “You’d find it very dull compared to London life,” she demurred.
“Whenever you speak of Cornwall you go bright as a star.”
Heat pervaded her cheeks. Compliments were rare—the men and lads in Newcombe respected her too much to say anything potentially untoward, and she had been such a poor matrimonial prospect in London that few gentlemen had taken the time to dole out honeyed words.
“What do you want to know?” she finally answered.
He waved his fork. “Anything. Everything.”
A laugh burst from her. “Sizable topics.”
“I’ll be more specific. Who do you dine with? Besides your aunt and uncle.”
“There aren’t many genteel families within easy distance of my house,” she explained after taking a bite. “Though when my parents were alive, we had guests nearly every night. The vicar, of course.”
“Of course.” Kit nodded gravely. “Can’t leave out the man of God.”
“Yeoman farmers,” she continued, “some merchants from Newquay or Truro—they’d stay the night.” A smile touched her lips at the memory. “No shortage of company. My mother played the pianoforte and we’d dance.”
She recalled the feel of the smooth leather of Father’s shoes beneath her feet as she stood on them in her stockings, and they would sway back and forth as Mother plinked out “Sweet Nightingale.”
She started at the touch of Kit’s fingertip on her cheek.
He turned his finger to show her the sheen of moisture that gleamed on his skin. Her hands flew to her cheeks, and to her horror she found them wet with tears. Quickly, she brushed them away.
“Lord,” she said in a muffled voice, turning her head away, “I haven’t done that in ages.”
“There’s no harm in it.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle. “You loved them.”
Gratitude surged within her at his kindness. Surreptitiously, she dabbed at her nose with her napkin. “I lost them so long ago.”
“And life with your uncle and aunt?” She must have made a face, because he said with wry sympathy, “As bad as that?”
“They’re...” She searched for the right way to phrase it. “Related by blood, but it’s not much of a bond.” After nudging around the food on her plate, she went on. “Where I’m concerned, it’s benign neglect. They leave me to my own devices.”
“But...?” he prompted, his expression one of intense listening.
Anger welled up and she balled her free hand into a fist. “The house is nearly a ruin because Jory refuses to maintain it. ‘Why keep up a moldering heap of bricks?’” She gritted her teeth in frustration. “He’d rather spend money on trips to Penzance and Falmouth, or even Cheltenham. Gwen doesn’t care what the house looks like so long as she’s kept in Chinese silk and Indian shawls. And the way they care for the village—” She stopped herself a moment before blurting anything incriminating. Yet it was too easy to talk with Kit.
