Page 66 of Tremaine's True Love
Nita’s calm expression faltered. “Mr. St. Michael is not most men. Did you know he’s a Frenchcomte?”
A dodge, a good dodge. Had Mr. St. Michael in fact given Nita assurances that his wife was welcome to traffic in lung fevers and wasting diseases, or had Nita simply leaped to this conclusion? Shame on any man who professed to care for Nita if he encouraged her to risk her well-being on behalf of ungrateful strangers.
“I had heard there was a French title,” Kirsten said, rather than further antagonize her sister. “Della says he’s called the Sheep Count.” A play on words for those who knew their rural lore.
“I had not foreseen marriage,” Nita said, bewilderment creeping into her tone. “Then hereheis, quite sure of his objectives, among whom I apparently number. I rather like being one of Tremaine St. Michael’s objectives.”
Nita was arse over teakettle for the man, and about time. Based on her smile, her shepherd-boy-turned-nabob had done a bit more than cheat at cards and recite Scottish poetry.
“I would ask you for a long engagement,” Kirsten said, rising. “Once you’re Sheep Countess-ing, Nicholas will try to march me up the church aisle again, and I do not fancy reminding the local eligibles that I am indifferent to their charms.”
Nita rose as well and linked arms with Kirsten. “I haven’t made up my mind about Mr. St. Michael, but it’s Susannah I fear for. Edward Nash is not the great bargain he thinks he is. I trust you will agree with me on this?”
“I’m considering a plan,” Kirsten said, glad for somebody to share it with. “I’ll get myself compromised with Edward at the assembly, and he’ll have to offer for me if he wants those sheep. I’ll refuse him, and Suze will surely see he’s not worth her affections.”
The plan was half-serious. With the least provocation, Kirsten would set it in motion, though the idea of permitting Edward Nash liberties was distasteful in the extreme. He smoked a pipe, for pity’s sake, and was overly fond of pomade.
“I really do not fancy hearing those same old Shakespeare sonnets at every family gathering,” Nita said. “Compromising yourself seems a bit drastic though.”
Nita spoke so evenly, Kirsten took a moment to realize she was teasing—mostly. They were still giggling and plotting when they reached the house, and Kirsten realized something else.
Nita had left her medicinals out in the snowy garden, where, as far as Kirsten was concerned, they could jolly well stay.
* * *
Tremaine wanted to arrange for delivery of his letter when various nosy Haddonfields would not have a chance to inspect the address. He also wanted to assure himself that Lady Nita had no regrets about their shared intimacies.
And that she’d not contracted any dread diseases in lieu of breaking her fast.
“Mr. Haddonfield,” Tremaine said, finding his quarry in the breakfast parlor. “Will you escort me to the village?”
His Handsomeness paused with a toast point half-way to his mouth. “Now?”
Lady Susannah looked up from her book. “Of course he means now. Go, George. Be hospitable and pick me up more peppermints at the apothecary.”
George rose and set his toast on his sister’s plate. “I am your slave in all things, dearest Susannah. Don’t suppose you’ve a ton of books I’m to drop off at the lending library?”
“Half a dozen or so, on the sideboard in the front hall,” the lady said, taking a bite of the toast. “You might also ask if they have the new edition of—”
“You ask the next time you raid the library,” George said, kissing her cheek. “Your literary raptures with Mr. Dalrymple might as well be in a foreign tongue, and I’m sure Mr. St. Michael would like to be back from the village before spring.”
The exchange was cozy, good-natured, and loving in a way Tremaine didn’t understand. He and his brother hadn’t had that sort of repartee. René had suffered a spare’s envy and restlessness, compounded by absent and then dead parents and a grandfather’s stubborn notions.
George bowed to the countess and took Tremaine by the arm. “If we hurry, we can stop by the lending library before Dalrymple’s at his post. The man could have talked Caesar back across the Rubicon.”
“Who is this ‘we,’ Haddonfield? I’m off to arrange for the delivery of some letters.” Also to ambush Lady Nita. Lady Kirsten could join the outing or not, but George was a necessary chaperone.
Now.
Now that Tremaine had fixed on a marital objective, his intended deserved every public appearance of propriety, because that way—as every courting couple knew—the improprieties could be more easily undertaken in private.
Tremaine was donning gloves in the back hallway—the scene of a memorable kiss—when the ladies came in from the garden on a gust of frosty air.
“I vow it’s getting colder by the hour,” Lady Kirsten said, stomping snow from her boots and shaking the same from the hem of her habit. “You gentlemen are daft if you’re riding out.”
Lady Nita was unfastening her bonnet on the far side of a hanging ham. She either would not or could not meet Tremaine’s eye.
“Mr. Haddonfield and I are off to the village for a few errands, and then I thought we’d look in on the new lambs,” Tremaine said.
