Page 85 of Tremaine's True Love
“The Haddonfield sisters arede trop,” Nash replied. He probably thought himself sophisticated, but his tone marked him as a petty man. “Bellefonte has an heir in his nursery, and aging aunties are an expense the earl doesn’t need. Susannah knows this.”
No doubt because Nash subtly reminded her of it. The set was ending, not a moment too soon. Nita curtsied to her partner, some old fellow who’d nearly shot off his own foot the previous summer, if George Haddonfield was to be believed.
“Lady Nita is apparently free for the next dance,” Tremaine said. “You’ll excuse me if I avail myself of her hand.”
“Do I take it you’ve offered for Nita Haddonfield?”
Nash had spoken loudly enough that in the absence of the sawing fiddles and pounding feet, his question caused heads to turn. His complexion was flushed, and the glass in his hand trembled slightly.
Foxed, and in public, no less. This was what came of socializing with the neighbors.
“If I have offered for Lady Nita,” Tremaine said, “and if she has done me the honor of accepting, then Bellefonte will surely announce our engagement soon, won’t he? Perhaps the earl’s reticence is intended to allow others time to contribute their own good news to the general gaiety.”
Tremaine would have strode away on that observation—Lady Susannah was to be pitied her choice of swain—except Nash put a hand on Tremaine’s arm.
“You’ll not have those sheep, St. Michael. Take to wife whomever you please, but I’ve made my position on the sheep quite clear.”
Tremaine spared a moment’s pity for the sheep, who had no choice in the matter. “Best of luck then, in all your ventures.”
“You’re the one who’ll need the luck.” Nash’s jollity was forced, and every person in the assembly room would have heard him. “If you marry Lady Nita, she’ll soon bring every foul disease and noxious ailment to your doorstep. Or will you curtail her nonsense, as Bellefonte should have done when he inherited the title?”
Bellefonte was busily studying his drink four yards away, the countess’s hand tucked around his arm rather like a manacle.
Tremaine spoke loudly enough that nobody would mistake his words. No wife of his would suffer the judgment of her inferiors, much less become an object of gossip for having overindulged her charitable impulses.
“Nash, surely you comprehend that if a new husband is conscientious in the prosecution of his duties, the new wife will have no thought for colicky babies or consumptive uncles? Any lady who becomes mycountesswill have many duties, all of them as pleasurable for her as I can make them, and none of them imperiling her welfare.”
Tremaine shook free of Nash’s clutches and winked at his intended. She no longer needed to tolerate the meddling of such a disgrace, because Tremaine’s words were sincere. A husband was entitled to pamper his wife and to be pampered by her.
Also to protect her. He’d made damned sure Nita understood that very point. Nita smiled slightly, then turned to address her brother George. Lady Kirsten appeared at Tremaine’s side and aimed a feral smile at him.
“Ask me to dance, Mr. St. Michael. Ask me to dance now.”
Apparently, Lady Kirsten wanted a piece of Nash’s hide as well. Tremaine bowed over her hand. “My lady, may I have the honor?”
She curtsied, the movement having something about it of a duelist’s opening salute. Lady Kirsten danced with an effortless grace few women shared, and yet she wasn’t Nita, whom Tremaine would rather be partnering.
“Don’t look for her,” Lady Kirsten hissed. “Don’t smile that indulgent, besotted smile at her. Don’t frown at me, or I’ll tramp on your idiot foot.”
Her expression bore a cordial regard, her eyes promised murder.
The poor dear was probably jealous. In all modesty, Nita was marrying quite well—Tremaine would resume use of his French title if Nita preferred—and Lady Susannah was at least marrying. Lady Kirsten was doubtless suffering the pangs of impending spinsterhood.
“Have I offended, my lady?”
They turned down the room, the floor being considerably less crowded as a result of the choice of dance. Nita twirled by with her brother George, her smile serene.
“You have offended me, indeed,” Lady Kirsten murmured. “I wish you the joy of your damned sheep.”
A dramatist, then. Every family had one. “Nash is half-seas over, and some banter between the fellows will only cause a little talk. I suggest you aim your criticisms at the good squire, and in Lady Susannah’s hearing. Nash is really not worthy of her.”
Lady Kirsten’s foot came down on Tremaine’s, and though she was wearing slippers, she was no delicate flower.
“Nash is a presuming idiot,” she said. “We’ll find some way to deal with him that doesn’t reflect poorly on Susannah. You, however, are a fool.”
Tremaine executed the figures of the dance with the skill of any man born with both French and Scottish antecedents, while his mind considered Lady Kirsten’s apparent upset. As Nita sashayed around the dance floor, she appeared as gracious and poised as always, chatting with her brother, smiling, and in full possession of her good humor.
Her poise should have reassured Tremaine.
