Page 6 of Tremaine's True Love
“Mr. Nash is kind to Susannah,” Della said, tearing apart the last two sections of orange. “What’s more, she likes him. Where did you get this orange?”
“I still have my set of keys to the larders,” Nita said, taking the second succulent portion for herself. “Edward Nash is not a suitable husband for any of you, and that’s an end to it.”
Della drew her knees up, her dark braid falling in a ratty rope over one shoulder. She was out of the schoolroom but could still look achingly young.
“It’s not like you to be a snob, Nita. Edward is old-fashioned about some things, but Susannah is too. Help me dress, and we’ll further inspect Mr. St. Michael over breakfast.”
The offer was generous and would assure at least one other sibling joined Nita at the table. Having rested and considered the previous evening’s encounter with Mr. St. Michael, Nita was not proud of her behavior. Fatigue and delivering another baby doomed to poverty or worse had soured her manners, and a guest at Belle Maison deserved better than that.
“I’m in a green mood today,” Della said, slogging out of the bed. “Green and warm, not in that order. You were out quite late.”
That Della would notice was reassuring. “Addy Chalmers had a girl. Mother and child were doing well enough when I left.”
Della stretched luxuriously, like a small, sleek cat upon rising from a cozy hearth. “I don’t know how you stand it, Nita. Let’s hope this child fares better than the last. Velvet for today, I think, and my paisley shawl.”
Nita helped Della dress and arrange her hair, but that small comment, about hoping the child fared better than Addy Chalmers’s last baby, stung.
Della was as kindhearted as the next young woman of means and good birth, but a child’s life and death should be worth more than a passing sentiment expressed between the wardrobe and the vanity.
* * *
Tremaine endured as much conviviality from the Haddonfields over breakfast as he had at dinner the previous evening, though the informality of the morning meal meant Bellefonte could bill and coo at his countess even more openly.
Tremaine’s tolerance for billing and cooing had improved in recent months, with the reintroduction into his life of his late brother’s wife, child, and the wife’s sister, but Bellefonte’s besottedness would strain anybody’s digestion.
The earl lifted a pink Sevres teapot in his countess’s direction. “More tea, lovey?”
The countess patted his hand. “I’m having chocolate, Nicholas.”
His lordship took a sip of the countess’s beverage. “So you are. Cold mornings call for the fortification of chocolate. Ah, Nita, and who is that with you? Given the hour, that cannot possibly be our dearest little Della.”
Two Haddonfield sisters stood in the door, one petite and dark, the other tall, fair, and not as sure of herself as she had been the previous evening.
“Ladies, good morning.” Tremaine rose and held out the chair next to him, letting the invitation stand or fall on its own merit. Lady Nita obliged him by taking the seat he offered, which put her directly in the path of a sharp beam of winter sunshine.
The morning light revealed fatigue around her eyes and mouth, and confirmed that she was not in the first blush of youth. A relief, that, for reasons Tremaine did not examine when his eggs were growing cold.
“Nita reports that Addy Chalmers had a daughter,” Della said, appropriating the teapot. “Nicholas, did you leave me any cream or sugar?”
A wince was exchanged at the table, between the earl and his countess, and between Lady Kirsten and Lady Susannah. George Haddonfield, who’d been the soul of good cheer the previous evening, aimed a flat stare at Lady Della.
In the space of a moment, Tremaine gained a clear sense of Lady Nita’s situation. He resisted the temptation to squeeze her hand beneath the table.
“The cream is in short supply, Lady Della,” Tremaine said, passing the pitcher down the table, “but sugar remains abundant. I can also recommend the eggs, and I’ve seldom had bacon so delectable.”
George left off glowering while Bellefonte’s relief was written on his handsome features.
“Eat up, St. Michael,” the earl said, “If we’re to inspect the sheep, we’ll have a chilly morning.”
The earl’s observation was a little too hearty, a little too pointless. Tremaine had already been out to check on William, and the morning’s weather made “chilly” the mother of all delicate understatements.
“Nicholas, you promised me you wouldn’t leave me to Vicar’s tender mercies again,” Lady Bellefonte said. “Twice now I’ve had to brave his calls on my own, and he’s incapable of leaving while a cake remains on the tea tray.”
While Bellefonte, of course, would excel at denuding the tray of cakes, such were the accomplishments of the typical peer.
“I would never abandon you, lovey,” Bellefonte said. “At what time is His Holiness—?”
The countess clearly was not fooled by this display of guilelessness.
