Page 26 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

Mrs. Littlefield cleared her throat, patting daintily at her mouth with her napkin. “Kate, darling,” she said.

“Hm,” Kate responded again, with the sort of bland, monotone sound that one made when one wished to convey that one was listening, despite the fact that she was most certainly not.

Elliot swallowed back a snicker and disguised his amusement with another bite of fish. Mrs. Norris had outdone herself this evening, despite the fact that the house was understaffed. The cod was tender and so faultlessly poached that he could have cut it with a spoon, and seasoned to perfection with fresh dill and lemon. Flaky and soft, it melted in the mouth. Kate, in all likelihood, had not noticed, given that she had taken each bite with absent attention at best.

“Kate,” Mrs. Littlefield said again, the hint of a growl only just restrained behind her polite smile.

The fine hairs at the nape of Elliot’s nape lifted. It was a tone of voice he hadn’t heard from Mrs. Littlefield in a good, long time. Not since he and Kate had been children, on the rare occasions that Kate had been into some bit of mischief that had merited calling out. Generally it had been employed with the use of Kate’s full name—Katherine Mary Littlefield. But the distinctive tone was still capable, it seemed, of putting the fear of God into him.

And into Kate. Her pencil stilled abruptly and her shoulders pinched as she lifted her gaze at last. “Yes, Mama?”

“Lord Elliot has been kind enough to grace us with his presence for dinner,” Mrs. Littlefield said, a touch too sweetly. “It is the least we can do to be pleasant dinner companions and to make conversation.”

“Do you know,” Elliot said reflectively, “I cannot recall the last time anyone considered themselves graced by my presence.”

Kate made a strangled sound beneath her breath, like a laugh had caught in her throat—but at last she laid down her pencil and closed the notebook. “I’m terribly sorry, Mama,” she said as she settled back in her chair and picked up her fork once again. “I wanted to get my thoughts down while they were still fresh.”

Elliot tore into a fluffy roll and slathered the bit of bread with butter. “What were they, then?”

“I beg your pardon?” Kate asked, blinking at him, her fork—tines piercing a bit of cod—suspended before her lips.

“Your thoughts.” Elliot inclined his head to indicate the notebook resting by her elbow. “You’ve been scribbling away for nearly half an hour. You must have a great deal to impart.”

Kate hesitated, her gaze sliding to the notebook almost guiltily. “Well,” she hedged, shifting in her seat, “it would hardly be fair to make a judgment so early on, would it?”

“I’m not asking you to render a judgment entire,” Elliot said as he popped another bit of bread into his mouth. “Just a first impression, as it were. You’ll have the opportunity to revise it, most likely.” More likely than not, he thought. Probably one—or all—of the ladies they’d encountered today would call upon Kate at some point or another, if only out of curiosity.

“I thought Miss Watson was lovely,” Mrs. Littlefield said. “Such a pleasant voice, and so kind and welcoming.”

“Yes; she’s always been most pleasant on the occasions we have met,” Elliot said. “Very agreeable.” He lifted his glass of wine, took a reflective sip. “Possibly even too agreeable.”

Kate drew back in her seat, a quizzical frown pleating her brow. “Too agreeable?” she repeated, baffled. “What the devil does that mean?”

“Kate!” Mrs. Littlefield chided.

“Well, it does grow wearying, does it not?” Elliot cast an innocent glance across the table.

Kate’s dark eyes sharpened, her hand fisting around her fork. “How,” she inquired, in a voice infused with menace, “does agreeability grow wearying?”

“Oh, you know.” Elliot gave a vague wave of his glass as he searched for an answer. “The occasional difference of opinions can be most stimulating.” And entertaining. Like he was now entertained, as Kate stared at him as if he had suddenly grown an extra head. “One doesn’t wish one’s spouse to always be agreeable, elsewise what is the purpose of conversation?”

“One would think the purpose would be to speak with one another,” Kate said, her voice inflected with scathing sarcasm.

“To what effect? That is to say, what is the purpose in soliciting my wife’s opinion of anything, when I know it will only echo my own? Furthermore, it does make one wonder if said agreeability is genuine, or if it is merely affected for the purpose of—of—”

“Being agreeable,” Kate supplied as she stabbed a fresh bite of cod, chewing off the word as if it had become stuck between her teeth.

“Exactly.” Elliot beamed, enjoying the surly downward dip of her brows as she silently stewed in growing agitation.

With jerky little movements, Kate set her fork down upon her plate, drew open the cover of the notebook, and lifted her pencil. “Must not be too agreeable,” she muttered as she wrote with painstaking precision.

Mrs. Littlefield cleared her throat, the lenses of her spectacles shining in the candlelight. “Is Miss Watson stricken from consideration, then?” she inquired lightly as she prepared another bite for herself.

The question had held some small trace of amusement lingering within it, though Elliot doubted that Kate had noticed, as intent upon her notebook as she was once more. “Not necessarily,” he said. “We’ll put it to Kate to judge Miss Watson’s agreeability, and determine whether or not she proves herself less so upon further acquaintance.”

“I see.” The corners of Mrs. Littlefield’s eyes crinkled as Kate’s mouth pitched toward a scowl. “I thought Lady Eloise was perfectly congenial. It was very kind of her to offer us an invitation to her family’s ball.”

“Oh, yes,” Elliot agreed readily. “She’s quite popular, really. Her mother is renowned as an excellent hostess; no doubt Lady Eloise comes by her kindness through her.” He used the tines of his fork to push his food about his plate in a manner that would have earned him a scolding from Mrs. Norris, had she been present for it. “However…”