PROLOGUE
The Earl of Stratton was hallucinating.
Perhaps it was the noise of the coaching inn or the lack of sleep catching up to him, but as Kit stared down at the sums he'd been adding in his notebook, he could have sworn the numbers had started to move.
With a sigh, he slammed the notebook shut. It wasn't as though the exercise was doing him any good anyway. The numbers hadn't changed since he'd last done this tally.
His quarterly allowance, minus the payment due at the end of the month, minus the cost of this journey, minus the amount he'd scraped together from the sale of a rather fine pair of cuff links he'd been fond of—it left him with approximately six weeks.
After six weeks, he would need a miracle. Well. A miracle or…his aunt.
Yes, he definitely required his aunt's help. It was not easy for any grown man to admit, least of all an earl. But Kit Stratton was a courtesy earl with no estate, no income, and no funds beyond what his father, the Duke of Ashworth, deigned to dole out each quarter.
So really, he was just a man with an expensive name and an impressive seat at dinner.
Still. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. A man with an expensive name ought to be able to solve his own problems without running to the Dowager Duchess of Ashworth for help.
But Aunt Philippa was the only person in England who might come to his aid. And that was only if she was in a generous mood, which she frequently was not.
And only if he could think of a reason to ask that didn't involve telling her the truth, which he could not.
But he'd think of something. He always did.
A footman jostled past him, brushing his shoulder and bringing Kit back to his very current predicament. He was still waiting for his carriage's horses to be changed.
What was taking so long? It was a busy afternoon, to be certain. But even so, he'd been waiting an age. He'd already seen four sets of guests arrive and depart as he waited for news of his carriage.
The current crowd all had that air of chaotic dishevelment that could only be found at an inn. Even now, a merchant was arguing with the innkeeper about the bill. Nearby, a child was nibbling on a bread roll while her distracted nanny flirted with a footman. And at a table near the fire, a young woman was talking to her maid with such animated enthusiasm that the maid appeared to have given up any hope of participation and was simply holding her teacup like a shield.
Kit could hear the woman's sweet, melodic voice, even through the din of the crowded room.
"—and I shall simply tell him that I spoke with the marquess myself." Her eyes were wide and bright in a way that suggested she might have a fever. "And that there is no obstacle, truly none," she continued without pausing for breath. "Because the marquess was perfectly reasonable about the whole thing. Well, perhaps not reasonable exactly, he was rather terrifying, honestly… But the point is he agreed and so there is nothing standing in our way, nothing at all, and I?—"
She broke off, pressed her palms flat on the table, and started again. "No. No, I should begin with the bit about the letter. Or should I begin with how I felt? Is that too much? It might be too much. Mary, is it too much to lead with feelings?"
"I couldn't say, miss." This came from the maid across from her.
"You're right, I'll lead with the facts. Facts first, then feelings." She nodded firmly as if a critical decision had been made. However, a second later, her eyes lit up again. "But what if…"
Here he lost her next statement because the child with the bread caused a ruckus.
But he heard the maid's reply. "That does sound simpler, miss."
And he found himself more curious than he ought to be about what, in fact, sounded simpler.
"It does, doesn't it?" The woman sat back, flushed and bright-eyed and slightly breathless from her own happiness. "So I tell him the facts. And then I wait. And then he—" Her face softened. An expression crossed her pretty, innocent features, and it was so unguarded that Kit had to look away for a moment, as if he'd accidentally read someone's private correspondence. "Well," she said softly. "Then he'll know."
Kit forgot all about his arithmetic. In fact, for a second there, he might have forgotten his own name. That was how taken he was by this woman with the bright eyes and the cheerful smile.
To be clear, Kit had seen beautiful women before. As the heir to a dukedom, beautiful women were paraded before him on a regular basis. He'd met charming women, and elegant women, and women who calculated every glance and measured every laugh.
This girl wasn't performing for anyone. She didn't even know she had an audience. She was simply happy, and it was spilling out of her like sunshine.
He stared at her with rapt attention. Yes, her brown hair was lovely, in that shiny, healthy way. And her dark eyes were no doubt clear and bright. And her features were perhaps not striking or beautiful, but they were pretty. And yet, it wasn't any of that which had him enthralled.
It was her demeanor. It was the way she spoke, and that brilliant smile, and?—
And it occurred to him that he had never in his life been that unguarded about anything.
