If I were a better person, I might feel badly for her loss. But I wasn’t a better person and I did not.
Because I knew now, Kit wasn’t just the least objectionable option for a woman of a certain situation. He was kind, noble, and roguishly handsome—at least with the hint of a beard. I had no interest in marriage, not ever if I could arrange it. But if one had to wed, they could do far worse than Kit Summers. It was even possible they could do no better.
That, however, was not a thought I was going to entertain any further. First, because I had no need to wed anyone. Second, because he would certainly never wed me. And third, because Kit was turning that odd shade of putrid green again as he sat there, resolutely pressing his eyelids closed in the rear-facing seat.
“Are you ready to give up yet?”
“Don’t know what you mean,” he grumbled, the corners of his mouth dipping down even farther.
“You’re positively chartreuse.”
“’M fine.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’d be better if you stopped asking about it.”
So whoever he married would be saddled with a particularly stubborn husband. One couldn’t expect to find perfection in a single soul.
Eleven
BELL AND CROWN, STILTON—APRIL 11, 1817
KIT
My desperate attempt tocling to the hint of propriety I’d wrenched from this situation was a bit of a disaster. It took less than a mile before my stomach protested the swaying of the so-called carriage.
I was left to maintain propriety from her side. My efforts were certain to go as well as they had yesterday.
My hand dipped into my waistcoat pocket, and I tightened my fingers around Davina’s hairpin. The edges of the metal bit into my palm—a sharp reminder.
Meanwhile, we’d made surprisingly good time, particularly given the state of the couldn’t-really-be-termed-a-carriage, and we were perhaps a half day’s journey from my sister’s farm.
I trailed Davina inside the inn pathetically while Rory veered off to the stables, leaving Alfie to re-buckle the door.
Unlike the inn where we took supper, the furnishings of the Bell and Crown were well worn, too well. Every table was scarred from many previous patrons and coated with a thick, tacky layer of something I didn’t wish to consider that shonein the morning light even through the grubby windows. The housekeeper, a short, stout woman wearing an ugly pink cap, grunted a greeting, and Davina took that as permission to seat ourselves, with a raised brow at the sticky oaken table.
Wordlessly, the housekeeper deposited a plate of bread, no butter or jam, and two teacups.
“Do you have coffee?” I asked.
“No,” she growled.
“Tea it is then.”
“Butter?” Davina pressed.
The woman grunted again and walked away. I turned, wide-eyed to Davina. “Is she coming back with butter?”
“I think that was a no.”
“Well, with such exceptional bread as this, I can see why she wouldn’t want to ruin the flavor with butter,” I whispered, then plucked a piece off the plate and held it aloft, peering with one eye through one of the massive holes.
Her giggle was bright, bell-like. “How do you suppose they managed to get it like that?”
“Under-risen dough,” I explained, sniffing it hesitantly.
“How do you know that?”
