Page 7 of The Trouble with Tigers
She picked up the remaining sliver of her precious rosemary and lavender soap, and held it to her nose, inhaling long and deep before soaping-up. She could be forgiven this one small extravagance, couldn’t she? It wasn’t as if anyone would draw near enough to notice the feminine scent on her skin.
Now to don her servant’s garments. She didn’t mind the rough-hewn mud-brown trousers, jacket, and plain white shirt. The boy’s garb represented freedom, and she gave thanks every time she dressed.
The hated wrap was another story. Grimacing, she unfurled it and bound her breasts till her torso resembled a prepubescent lad’s.
She eyed the wig. When she and the earl conceived their plan, she’d thought wearing one might be fun. Certainly—if one’s idea of fun included denying the mad urge to scratch one’s scalp. All. Day. Long.
Still. The disguise, the wrap, the wig were all small prices to pay. She could be married to Garrick, living her own personal hell.
Regarding herself in the mirror, she braided, knotted, and pinned her mass of dark curls.
A vision of her grandfather formed in her mind, when he was still spry, his face lit with a fond grin. “How you remind me of your grandmother, Kitty, love. She had the same mane of raven black hair and frosty green cat’s eyes. One look and she had me. Just like you.”
A lump formed in her throat, and she pushed the memory from her mind. She must not give in to her grief. Not now. Not till she was free.
Using both hands, she tugged on the wig and studied her reflection. Regardless of the fact the jet black coloring matched her eyebrows, the bowl shaped cut looked ridiculous. A bad do was a bad do.
She beetled her brows and toughened her jaw, wiping away all traces of her gender. Hello there, Kit. She saluted herself, let herself into the corridor, and started for the stairs.
Behind her a chamber door opened with a whisper. The hair on the back of her neck bristled. She picked up her pace.
“You, there.” The whip-crack voice of Lord Ezekiel Thurgood.
She halted, inwardly cursing her bad luck. A few more seconds, and she would have been out of eye shot. Measly seconds.
Chapter Two
“Turn around and face me, boy.”
Kitty did as commanded, her eyes locked on the brown tips of her boots. She forced herself not to ball her hands into fists at her sides even as her belly fluttered with trepidation.
The still air of the guest wing corridor swirled as he strode toward her.
“You’re the earl’s helper, are you not? Don’t nod dumbly, lad, speak up. What’s your name? And look at me when I address you.”
She lifted her eyes to his cravat and cleared her throat. “My name is Kit, my lord.”
He said nothing.
Curiosity pulled her gaze higher. Her eyes widened in awe before she could catch herself. He was breathtaking, even more so than she realized last night. His aristocratic features did nothing to detract from the rugged, slightly menacing air about him. Perhaps it was his burnished skin from days spent on theopen sea, or his strong, square jaw, now set in unmistakable irritation.
Toward her. She flicked a glance behind her toward the stairs. How far would she get if she ran?
He took a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest. The crisp, male scent of his cologne flowed over her like a summer breeze.
Her urge to run vanished, replaced by the oddest desire to lean forward and inhale deeply to capture more of his intriguing scent.
“Kit,” he said as if trying out her name on his tongue. “What are you doing on this floor, Kit?”
Her gaze dropped again to her boots. If he thought it odd to find her roaming the halls, he would definitely take issue with her reason for doing so. There was nothing for it.
“My chamber is at the end of the hall.” She gulped, then hastened to add, “My lord.”
He rocked back on his heels. “The hell you say? Show me.”
Her head snapped up. “My lord?”
“Lead the way.”
