“What did I tell you about being modest, girl?” Rose asked from a few seats down.
“She’s right, Davina. It’s exceptional,” Kit added.
The children, Rory, and Alfie added their own nods. “Thank you,” I said, turning back to the stew, my cheeks heating.
Mr. Earnshaw turned to me. “I’m given to understand your brother is in Scotland?” he asked. “Forgive me, I never would have guessed from your accent.”
“Oh, Xander only moved last summer. My family is from Yorkshire, but my mother prefers town.”
“How did your brother end up in Scotland?” he asked.
The truthful answer, which was that Gabriel won the property in an ill-advised wager and handed it off to his younger brother as a bit of a lark, would not impress these people. Before I could come up with some plausible falsehood, Kit replied, “I believe he wanted a change.” It was as good an answer as any, not offering much room for further questions.
“And what does your brother do now?” Mr. Earnshaw asked.
“At present, I believe he has sheep.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. I’d received more than one letter complaining about the sheep on the estate, and, on occasion, in the house.
“Sheep?”
“Well, one sheep. I’m given to understand she’s rather recalcitrant.”
Silence echoed for a few seconds and beside me, Kit’s shoulders shook with barely restrained laughter. I gave his shin a sharp tap with the side of my foot.
“Sheep will do that,” Mr. Earnshaw finally settled on saying.
“How is Katie?” Rose asked the tight-lipped man beside me.
“Hoping to see me wed—” He broke off with a cough when I gave him another kick but recovered quickly. “Well settled into the earldom.”
“And little Henry?”
“She’s determined he shall be called Harry among the family. But she’s the only one who does so.”
“Why is that?” Mr. Earnshaw asked.
“Well, he hasn’t got much. Hair, I mean. It seems cruel to use the nickname.”
I caught my lower lip between my teeth to keep from laughing.
“You should be forewarned, Lady Leighton,” Mrs. Earnshaw said. My gaze shot to Kit, but he didn’t react outwardly to the title. “We Summers folk have particularly unattractive infants.”
“Oi,” called the eldest boy, finally pulling away from where his head was buried in the stew. He was the only one close enough to monitor our end of the table. The rest of the children were absorbed in what were surely inappropriate stories from Rory and Alfie.
“You grew into the nose, darling,” his mother replied, laughter in her tone.
The boy grumbled good-naturedly, returning to his supper and whatever thrilling tale Rory was entertaining them with that involved wide gestures that seemed particularly sword-like in nature.
“That’s you and Kate, Lizzie. There’s no indication that unfortunate infants are a part of the male line,” Kit volleyed back.
“No, but tragically the brow is a part of my line,” I added quietly.
Kit turned to face me, gaze flitting across my face as one corner of his lip tilted into his familiar not-quite-a-smile.Without warning, he traced a finger along the aforementioned brow. “I quite like yours.”
“I had to grow into it. Ask Cee, there was a year or two when she despaired of me ever being fit to be seen. Mama as well. She still finds them to be unseemly.”
“Rubbish, you’re perfect,” he said, turning back to his soup. Kit said it so simply, so easily. As if it were an absolute fact, just a truth of life. The sky was blue, the year was 1817, and Kit believed I was perfect.
No one had ever considered me perfection before. Striking, with my pale skin and dark hair and brows—yes. Noteworthy, with my bright fashions in the latest styles—absolutely. But perfect? Celine was perfect. I was interesting.
