Page 30 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

She didn’t want to choose. It was there in the hollows of her cheeks, in the sharp line of her jaw. Every bit of her resisted the very thought of it—and he didn’t think it was because every lady she’d entertained these last few days had proved herself utterly incompatible.

“Miss Applegate is lovely,” Kate admitted begrudgingly, looking for all the world as if she had had to force the words from her throat. “She would suit you.”

Elliot swallowed down a laugh. If Kate’s expression had not already been sour enough, then the words certainly had. So Kate had found no eliminating flaw in Miss Applegate’s character or manner. Perhaps she had even found much to admire. But she did not like it.

“Miss Applegate it is to be, then,” Elliot said cheerfully, nudging her shoulder. “I’ll ask her as soon as this set concludes. What would I do without you, Kate?”

“Probably,” Kate muttered sulkily as she clasped her hands before her, “you would end up married to Lady Harriet.”

Elliot made a valiant effort to swallow back the laugh that rolled up his throat, but it emerged anyway, in an inelegant snort that seized Kate’s attention once again—for only a moment or two, until Rebecca snatched it away once again with a hand placed upon her shoulder.

“Kate,” she said, with a delicate gesture of her free hand to a gentleman at her side—a man of perhaps thirty years, impeccably dressed and groomed. “May I present Lord Shaw? He has come to request a dance of you.”

“A dance?” Kate repeated, her face falling into lines of horror as she stiffened up like a corpse. “Of me? But—”

“I suggested a reel,” Rebecca interjected lightly, and Kate’s shoulders sank with visible relief. “They are your favorite, are they not?”

“Oh,” Kate said, her breath shuddering out of her lungs. “Yes. Yes, thank you, a reel would be delightful.” Slowly she extended her hand, and with it the dance card tied about her wrist.

As Lord Shaw penciled his name in upon Kate’s dance card for the next reel, Elliot flexed his hands at his sides and reminded himself silently that it was simply not done to plow one’s fist into another’s face in a crowded ballroom. That Kate deserved to dance, to experience for herself the Season she ought always to have had. That he had wanted her to enjoy her time in London; to find it not quite so intimidating as she might have expected. To find her own place here amongst the people in his social circle.

Rebecca had done well to suggest a reel—at which Kate excelled—rather than a waltz, which she had surely grown to dread over these last few days. So Elliot held his tongue, knowing that if he opened his mouth to speak, any words that would emerge would be rendered in the selfsame sulky, faintly resentful tone in which Kate had earlier rendered her opinions to him.

The point of an elbow jabbed him in the ribs. “Careful,” Richard warned beneath his breath. “You’re scowling.”

Was he? Elliot scraped one hand over his jaw, felt the strained tightness that lingered even after Lord Shaw had taken his leave of them. Christ. He was.

Subtlety was proving itself more difficult than he had expected.

Chapter Twelve

The dance had been pleasant enough, Kate supposed. A reel did not leave much opportunity for conversation during the dance itself, but it was spritely and invigorating nonetheless, and she had enjoyed herself for the duration.

Before and after, however, had been something less than pleasant. In those few minutes, as Lord Shaw had led her to and from the floor, she had learned that he was the elder brother of Miss Applegate, and had felt it his brotherly duty to extoll his sister’s many virtues for Kate’s consideration.

The words of a loving brother, which she had felt obliged to commit to memory so that she might jot them down within her notebook later, but which had made her heart burn in her chest with some raw bit of anger that Kate had found exceptionally confusing. The worst of it was that Kate could not bring herself to dislike Miss Applegate, whom she had found to be an amiable lady. No, that wasn’t quite true; the worst of it was that she had wanted to dislike Miss Applegate, though the woman had done nothing to merit it. It made her feel small and petty and cruel.

Still, she had done her damnedest to enjoy the dance—right up until the moment she had encountered Miss Applegate in the midst of the weaving rhythm of the dance, and nearly lost her step entirely. As she had suggested, Elliot had partnered Miss Applegate for the dance, and the two of them had looked...just lovely together.

The perfect couple. Elliot so tall and fair; Miss Applegate slender and delicate, with her stunning chestnut curls. She was not quite serious, as Elliot had requested of the woman who would be his wife, but she was sensible, clever, kind, and just a bit sly. She loved the countryside, read a great deal, and could sit a horse capably. She liked children, and had a dog of her own—a little spaniel she had named Captain, and of whom she had spoken with much enthusiasm and fondness.

Miss Applegate embodied nearly everything Elliot wanted in his future wife, and she exceeded Kate’s own conditions besides. She was worthy of every bit of praise which Lord Shaw had conveyed to Kate’s ears, though she hadn’t required them to have reached a similar conclusion herself.

Miss Applegate was horribly, dreadfully, completely perfect. She would make any gentleman a wonderful wife, but Elliot especially. And still, beneath the thin fabric of her evening gloves, Kate’s fingers itched to fish in her reticule for her pencil and scratch the woman’s name straight out of her notebook. It wasn’t fair of her, she supposed, but if Elliot had not already settled upon Miss Applegate, then there was the possibility that he would—as he had in regard to Lady Harriet—defer to Kate’s better judgment.

But was her judgment better? With just a scratch of her pencil, with just a few careful words, she could erase Miss Applegate from the competition...and possibly Elliot’s chances of the love match he wanted. And really, he could do so much worse. He’d asked for her help in this, had prevailed upon their longstanding friendship to help him where it most mattered. What sort of friend would she truly be if she were to strike out a woman who might well turn out to be the love of his life?

Kate drew in a lungful of cool night air, relishing the relief it provided from the sweltering heat of the ballroom. Lord Shaw had returned her promptly to Rebecca’s side, as was only proper. But Elliot had chosen a more circuitous path to return Miss Applegate to her own family, and between the relentless heat and the outrageous and baffling spark of anger that had flared in her chest at seeing their heads bent together, Kate had found herself in desperate need of a reprieve.

Luckily there had been a convenient exterior door which led out to the garden. Full of blooming roses and tall, neatly-pruned hedgerows, it had offered a welcome respite. From the heat; from the worst of the noise. But not, notably, from the irritating tangle of her thoughts. Those seemed to have redoubled in the quiet of the night, knotting themselves tighter and staunchly resisting further examination.

At least there was a breeze, and even if the stars were not so bright here in London as they were in the countryside, the sweet scent of roses was a lovely alternative to the heavy stench of coal smoke and refuse that seemed to permeate the city streets.

“What are you doing out here?”

Kate startled to the unexpected intrusion, swinging around abruptly. Her reticule, propelled by the swift, alarmed motion, connected solidly with the interloper; a faceless shadow in the darkness of the night.

There was a soft grunt of pain, and then a grumbled, “Ouch,” rendered in a familiar voice as the man pulled back a step into the faint light pouring through the nearest window. Elliot scowled as he rubbed at the shoulder she had accidentally struck with the full weight of her reticule. “Rude.”