The cider-toned stones were a bridge between the cherry-red dress and her red hair, and they picked up details of the beaded tapestry belt. The diamonds sparkled. She put in the matching earrings herself.
“I have another gift,” he said. “Which will also suit, I believe.”
Kitty hadn’t noticed that Henry had brought something wrapped in white muslin. Unwrapped, it proved to be a gorgeous shawl in shades of brown, red, and gold. As soon as Kitty touched it, she knew it was genuine cashmere, made of wool but smooth as silk, with the design all hand embroidered. Imitation shawls were woven in Britain, but this must have cost a small fortune. He’d purchased these things in London between proposal and wedding.
She didn’t know whether to gush thanks or be careless about it, so she simply said, “Thank you.”
Henry arranged it, draping it over Kitty’s elbows so that the fringes on both sides fell just short of the ground and the lush end embroidery was displayed. Undoubtedly, she looked magnificent. Magnificent enough to be a duchess rather than a mere viscountess.
He’d provided the weaponry she needed.
She turned to him. “I feel I should have a wedding gift for you, but I’ve not so much as embroidered you a handkerchief. If I had, it wouldn’t have been a treasure. I’m not an elegant seamstress.”
“You’ve made a gift of yourself, my dear. I could want nothing more.”
A suitable thing for any bridegroom to say. Weak of her to wish it meant more.
Kitty told Sillikin that she’d have to stay in the room, where she had food and water. She’d swear the dog sighed. Probably she was missing the lively atmosphere of the parsonage.
They went downstairs, and Kitty again felt as if she were going onstage. Was Isabella watching from the gallery? She hoped the girl was, and would see she was outmatched.
Even so, it was a relief to enter the small dining room, but even there she couldn’t be entirely comfortable. Quiller supervised, and two footmen served them. Kittywas strongly tempted to order them away so she could relax, but for today at least, she would attempt nobility.
“Have you traveled to Kashmir, my lord?” she asked as she ate some excellent clear soup.
“Never farther east than Turkey. The court there is known as the Sublime Porte, after a gate that leads into the state apartments.”
“Rather like British administration being referred to as Whitehall, after a street?”
“Very like.”
He went on to speak of foreign places of interest, and she supplied the occasional question. As the next course was laid, they moved on to the war, where she could contribute some of Marcus’s stories. Braydon dwelt on Marcus’s glory at Roleia, and she realized that was for the servants. She was the widow of a hero. She dropped Cateril Manor and Lord and Lady Cateril into the stream of words. Her husband had been of the aristocracy. Neither of them spoke of her more humble origins.
At last she could rise to leave him with his port and brandy, but he rose to go with her. “As the drawing room is unheated, my dear, perhaps we can take coffee in your boudoir.”
“Of course, my lord.” Kitty turned to Quiller. “Please let us know when it’s time for the toast.”
They went upstairs and into her sitting room and closed the door. They looked at each other and Kitty asked, “Do actors feel like this as they come offstage?”
“I have no idea, but you played the part extremely well.”
“I did my best with the reality,” she countered. “This is who I am now.”
“You say it with the voice of doom.”
“Do I? Like flies to wanton gods? But no. Unlike you, I had a choice.”
“Regretting it?”
Kitty was saved by a noise. “There’s Sillikin scratching at the door.” She opened it, and the dog rushed in as if deprived of her company for weeks. Kitty picked her up for a cuddle, but Braydon was waiting for an answer.
“No regrets. I’ve had a more purposeful day than in a long time and I’ve found it satisfying.”
“And tiring?”
She almost said yes, but realized he could be delicately asking if she would be too tired for her duties.
“Not at all,” she said with a bright smile.
