Part 19 (1/2)
”You do that even when I look like a washerwoman.” Her brow furrowed. ”Seriously, do I look fit to be your fiancee?”
Seeing her concern, he forced himself to concentrate. Perhaps some would not call her a beauty because she didn't have cla.s.sically perfect features and that spectacular red hair looked distinctly naughty. But she was allowing her strength and warmth and intelligence to show, and to him, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Beautiful, and more. ”You are every inch a refined lady,” he said seriously. ”You've always been beautiful. Letting the world see that beauty must make you feel more confident, and that makes you even more beautiful. But I am a bit jealous because now everyone will see you as I do.”
”I'm glad I look sufficiently ladylike.” She brushed her fingers through his hair, very much his Ca.s.sie despite her new appearance. ”Though otherwise you're not making a lot of sense, and you smell of beer. Are you drunk?”
”Yes,” he said meekly.
She touched his bruised cheek. ”Were you in a fight?”
”Yes. But I won.”
”What did you win?”
”The right to buy the fellow a beer.”
”I suppose that makes sense to males.” Her laughter was soft. ”Are you happy?”
He sighed and pulled her closer. Lovely decolletage. Lovely gown. He wanted to take it off her. ”Yes. Especially now that you're here. Would you like to go upstairs so I can make mad, pa.s.sionate love to you?”
”Later, perhaps, but at the moment, I wish to feed another appet.i.te,” she said. ”The Powells serve supper to anyone in residence and Kirkland intended to stop by if he had time. Join me, for you need some food and some strong coffee.”
”I expect you're right. I believe that I forgot to eat.”
”It's good that you're a happy drunk rather than a mean one.” She descended the last few steps. ”My lord, will you give me your arm to take me into dinner?”
”Let me see if I remember how to be gentlemanly.” He made a sweeping bow without falling over, then straightened and offered his arm. ”If you would do me the honor ...”
As she stepped toward him, he stroked her hair, enjoying the silkiness and bounce. The bright auburn had to be natural, for it suited her complexion much better than the dull brown. ”How did you manage to transform yourself so quickly?”
”Kiri did it all. I just obeyed orders. Kiri's sister is near my size and she contributed several lovely gowns. Kiri's own modiste came personally with some partially made up garments, plus seamstresses for instant alterations. Kiri even managed to get cards engraved and printed for me.” She pulled a card from her dainty little reticule and handed it to Grey. ”The ink is still damp, but they look very proper.”
”I'm surprised to see you carrying a purse too small to conceal a weapon,” he remarked as he took the card.
”I've weapons concealed elsewhere,” she a.s.sured him, amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.
He glanced at the card, then read it again, startled. ”The Honourable Catherine St. Ives. Your father was a peer? You've always implied that you're from a lower order of society. In fact, you said your family was not the rank of mine.”
She shrugged. ”My father was a mere baron, the third Lord St. Ives. We're merchant stock, not old and prestigious and wealthy like the earldom of Costain.”
”Close enough. You come of n.o.ble blood.” It was another piece of the puzzle that was Ca.s.sie Fox. Or rather, Catherine St. Ives. Returning to her childhood station after spending a lifetime as peasant and peddler had to be ... supremely disorienting.
”That meant nothing when I was cleaning out chicken coops in France,” she said dryly. ”And it means even less now.”
”Your brother would have been the heir,” he said. ”Who inherited instead? Or were there no heirs so the t.i.tle went into abeyance?”
”My father had a younger brother, and he had three sons. The two oldest were around my age.” She made a dismissive gesture. ”There was no shortage of heirs.”
”Haven't you ever written your cousins?” he asked. ”Surely they would be glad to know that you survived.”
”Catherine St. Ives died,” she said impatiently. ”She would have stayed dead except that resurrecting her for the next week or two will make me a more convincing fiancee. When I leave Summerhill, she will return to her French grave, this time for good.” She turned on her heel. ”Enough of this nonsense. I'm hungry.”
As she headed toward the dining room, Grey slipped the card into his pocket. She might not be interested in her family, but he was. He'd have a word with Kirkland.
He caught up with her and offered his arm again. She laid her hand lightly on his forearm and they progressed to the dining room as if they were entering a grand ball. Kirkland, Mr. and Mrs. Powell, and a nondescript young woman Grey hadn't met were eating family style around the table.
Everyone glanced up as Grey and Ca.s.sie entered. There was a stunned silence as everyone, particularly the men, stared at Ca.s.sie.
Kirkland was first to rise to his feet. ”Miss Fox.” He inclined his head and permitted himself a small smile. ”I always knew you were brilliant at disguise, but I didn't recognize that your greatest disguise was concealing your natural beauty.”
”Flatterer,” she said without heat. ”The credit goes to Lady Kiri and the helpers she summoned to transform me.” As Grey pulled out a chair for her, she continued, ”I am not Ca.s.sandra Fox at the moment. I decided using my birth name will best suit this particular charade.” She gave Kirkland a card.
His face became very still. ”Your father was the third Lord St. Ives?”
She nodded, her expression opaque.
When she didn't say more, Kirkland continued, ”Since you're traveling to Dorset as a lady, you need a maid, so one of my a.s.sociates will take that role.” He gestured to the girl next to him. ”Miss St. Ives, may I present Miss Hazel Wilson? I think you'll find that she has the usual skills of a lady's maid's, and a few more as well.”
”I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson,” Ca.s.sie said formally. ”Thank you for taking this position on such short notice.”
”Call me Hazel, miss,” the girl said with a London accent. She stood and curtsied. She had brown hair and a pleasant if unremarkable face. Her blue eyes showed humor and intelligence. ”This would be Lord Wyndham, I presume?”
Grey bowed with the respect due one of Kirkland's agents. ”Indeed I am, Hazel. Thank you for your willingness to leave London for the wilds of Dorsets.h.i.+re.”
Hazel bobbed her head. ”I look forward to dressing your beautiful hair, miss!”
Ca.s.sie blushed. ”I hated my red hair when I was a girl. I was called the Carrot.”
”Any girls who teased you then are now envious, and the boys will be languis.h.i.+ng for your smiles,” Grey said as he took his own seat.
”Your gilded tongue is in good working order,” she said with amus.e.m.e.nt.
”He's right, miss!” Mr. Powell blurted out.
”I think the la.s.s is more interested in shepherd's pie than flattery,” Mrs. Powell said, giving her husband a stern glance. ”If you pa.s.s your plates, I'll fill 'em up.”
Grey and Ca.s.sie obeyed. As he smelled the steaming-hot pie, Grey realized he would enjoy this common fare more than the elaborate meals served in his parents' homes.
Though his appearance was once more that of a gentleman, he was a very long way from the young Lord Wyndham who had left Summerhill ten years earlier.
Chapter 32.
London was dark when they left the next morning. The journey from London to Summerhill could be made in a day if the roads were dry, but it was a long day with numerous changes of horses. Ca.s.sie and Hazel spoke occasionally, but Grey mostly gazed out the window, disinclined to talk as he watched the familiar landscape go by.
How often had he made this journey? Very often. He knew every town and village, every posting inn, and he'd known a few friendly barmaids on this route as well.