Page 67 of Tremaine's True Love
“There are more?” Lady Nita asked from her side of the ham.
“The Christ Child could reappear in that sheep byre,” Lady Kirsten said, “and I’d be more interested in a hot cup of chocolate. I bid you all good day.”
The lady had a way with blaspheming, and she winked at Tremaine as she marched past him.
“Will you join us, Lady Nita?” Tremaine asked, shifting so he needn’t put his question to her around a joint of pork.
“Do come, Nita,” George said. “You can listen to Dalrymple complain of his mother’s chilblains, while St. Michael and I have a toddy at the inn.”
“Is Dalrymple a follower of Lady Susannah’s?” Tremaine asked. If so, then Nash had competition or could be made to believe he had competition.
“Alas, no,” George said, whipping a green scarf around his neck. “Dalrymple is old enough to be Susannah’s papa, and his mother accurately recounts life before the Flood. The man can talk books though. Shall we be off?”
George bustled out the door, leaving Tremaine alone with Lady Nita, despite a kitchen full of chattering servants a few yards away.
“My lady, how are you?” Tremaine could see that she was tired—also in want of kissing.
“Addy’s baby had a touch of croup. She should be well enough in a day or two.”
He kissed Nita’s cheek. “The child will thrive a while longer, thanks to you. Will you come with us? I’ve missed you.” Spoken like a callow swain, God help him. A sincere, smitten callow swain.
“Atlas has already been unsaddled,” she said, tucking Tremaine’s hair back over his ear and letting her hand rest on his shoulder.
“Take another mount, then.” He kissed her other cheek, a charming Continental custom insufficiently appreciated in Britain.
“I should change.”
Because she wore the same dowdy, cabbage-scented habit she’d worn on their other outings to the Chalmers residence. In the warmth of the hallway, that scent blended with smoked meat and wet wool, and dragged Tremaine back to his childhood.
“You should come just as you are. I’m sending a letter by messenger, George is returning books for Lady Susannah, and something was mentioned about stopping by the apothecary for peppermint drops.”
Nita’s expression changed, and her hand disappeared from Tremaine’s shoulder. “I left my bag.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tremaine dropped a kiss on her mouth and something inside him settled agreeably lower.
“My bag of medicinals,” Nita said. “I forgot it in the garden, on a bench in the gazebo. If we go to the apothecary, I can stock up on some of the depleted stores. I left all of my peppermint oil with Addy, because if one child falls ill, the others could easily follow.”
Nita retied her bonnet ribbons, her movements brisk.
“You’ll accompany us, then?”
She shot a look over Tremaine’s shoulder, longing in her gaze. “I shall.”
“Grab something to eat,” Tremaine said, because she’d missed breakfast and food was hardly abundant in the Chalmers household. “I’ll fetch your medicinals and let the stable know you need a mount.”
“My thanks.” She strode off in the direction of the kitchen, damp hems swishing.
Tremaine admired the view, though his joy in the day dimmed.
He’d made passionate love to the lady not twelve hours earlier, but this morning, she showed more enthusiasm for a hot cup of tea than for his kisses. Was her reticence a result of fatigue, preoccupation with the ailing child, or disappointment in his amatory overtures?
* * *
Nita would forever associate the scent of damp wool with Tremaine St. Michael’s kisses. She gulped her tea at a kitchen window so she could watch him retrieve her medical bag from the gazebo, then stride off to the stables.
He should wear a hat in this cold. If she were his wife, she could scold him—remind him—to wear a hat.
If she were his wife, she would have kissed him back too.
