I was vain enough to appreciate the compliment. Or I was until the moment I remembered he was merely playing the part of doting newlywed.
“And how is that partner of yours, Mr. Hart?” Rose asked her son.
“Disgustingly happy and still occupying half of my office.”
“I’m sure he would say the same of you,” she retorted.
“He cannot lay claim to half of my office. The rest of that I will not dignify with a response.”
“Time for the lot of you to clean up,” Mrs. Earnshaw announced. I rose with my bowl. “Not you, Lady Leighton. The cook doesn’t clean.”
I blinked, settling into both titles, wife and cook. I was suited to neither. “Davina, if you please.” It would be better than Kit hearing the title that upset him.
“Davina,” she accepted. “Would it be a great imposition to ask you to join me outside?”
“That would be fine,” I agreed.
“Thank you,” Kit added, lower.
“I’ll be right out. Do you drink?” she asked.
“Like a fish,” Kit muttered. Not quietly enough, if his sister’s laugh was any indication. Mrs. Earnshaw stepped into the kitchen while I made my way out to the porch.
Night was falling and the air was crisp. There was a comfortable-looking little bench by the door and I plopped down, wrapping my arms around my rib cage.
It was a nice enough night, clear with no rain on the air. The big tree in the front yard stood firm but the smaller branches danced in the breeze. A rope swing swayed back and forth. I could still hear the gentle murmur of conversation and the clank and splash of dishes in the wash water through the open window. Beside me, the door opened and closed.
“Kit said you don’t mind a nice whiskey?” Mrs. Earnshaw said, setting a bottle and two glasses between us. A familiar bottle. “Have you had this one? Kit brought it with him when he last visited and I quite like it.”
“It’s my favorite,” I said, rubbing a finger across the label,The Bonnie Barrel,written in familiar script.
“Perfect.” She poured a finger in each glass and handed one to me. I took a sip, savoring the sweet burn, hoping it would fortify me for another battle. Instead, Mrs. Earnshaw shocked me by adding, “I owe you an apology.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been unaccountably rude. And I owe you an apology for it.”
“No, no. We’ve imposed. Truly, it was unintentional.”
“My brother is always welcome here, not only on the best days, but the worst as well. And as his wife, you’re welcome too.”
Her offer rang hollow, particularly given my experience here today. But I replied with a polite, “I appreciate that.”
“You aren’t what I expected for my brother.”
I swallowed the instinctive indignation, forcing a steadiness I didn’t feel into my voice when I asked, “What did you expect for him?”
“Kit is a practical man. He’s not a dreamer. He sets realistic goals and works hard to achieve them. You’re the sort of girl he would’ve looked at and set aside as not for him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re a lady. In your own right, not because of Kit’s title.”
I hadn’t lied about it. I just hadn’t offered that information. But it wasn’t a difficult guess. “I am.”
“Kit wouldn’t even have thought of you, would’ve considered it improper. Except, he has a title now. I hadn’t thought it had changed him at all. He spent months researching, trying to find a way to pass the title to the next in line. Hell, trying to find the next in line. I didn’t know he ever stopped. But then he arrives with you. And suddenly, my brother is not quite the man I thought he was.”
She was so hard to read. I wasn’t certain whether that was an insult directed to myself, Kit, or a mere statement of fact.
